24. "Nay, Ethelred, my steed is spent, Then came he to that portal tall, And, doffing low his sable plume, "Hail to thee, Royal Mother mine, Our brother hath a goodly mien, 27. "Now thanks, now thanks, Lord King," she cries, "All goeth well with me,— God grant, in all things, Ethelred 28. "But stay not thus before my gate, From horse, I pray, descend, That I, unto the banquet-hall, Your Highness may attend." 29. "Not so, fair Queen," young Edward cries, "It grieveth me, that I May not alight from off my steed, But soon away must hie. 30. "But, though I cannot tarry now, In banquet-hall to dine, Still will I drink, to quench my thirst, 31. Straightway the lady turneth her Unto the menial band; One, at her bidding, bringeth quick 32. A goblet of the yellow gold, All carved curiously, Within was pour'd the richest wine Of sunny Malvoisie. 33. Then rearing high her comely arm, 34. He standeth by the monarch's steed-- And with its trappings meddles he, 35. He is a stalwart man, and tall, That eye steals to his lady's face, Ah me! that bard should ever live, 37. The gentle monarch bendeth low, Unto that wicked dame, and takes Then striketh firm that Traitor vile, 39. The Queen's fierce joy, young Edward sees, That danceth in her eyes ; While he, for whom that blow was struck, Before her senseless lies: 40. And feeling now, alas! full well, 41. On, onward speeds the snowy steed, Faint, and more faint he waxeth now; 43. Fainter, yet fainter waxeth he; He keeps his seat no more:Sideward he falls,-while yet the horse Goes on as heretofore. 44. Ah me! ah me! a piteous sight! One foot is fixed fast Is dragged on to the last. 45. Thus died our Saxon martyr king, Were sadder than the truth. Now ruin'd stands Corfe Castle fair, Whereat this deed was done; As black a deed as e'er, I ween, Was wrought beneath the sun. J. M. W ART. IV. THE ORCO: A TRADITION OF THE AUSTRIAN RULE IN VENICE. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH. ACCORDING to our usual custom, we were sitting under the Veranda ; the evening was stormy, the sky covered with black clouds, which emitted frequent gleams of lightning. We were all sitting in such melancholy silence, that one would have thought the heaviness of the atmosphere had taken possession of our hearts, and in reality we felt almost tearfully inclined. Beppa too, usually the gayest of the gay, seemed quite given up to sad thoughts. In vain did the Abbé, who appeared himself to be much oppressed by the sadness of the company, endeavour by all means in his power, to reanimate the spirits of our friend. Neither his questions, sarcasms, nor entreaties, could rouse her from her reverie; her eyes were fixed on the sky, and her fingers strayed at hazard over the chords of her guitar; she seemed to be totally unconscious of anything passing around her, and given up to listening to the plaintive tones of her instrument, and watching the capricious wanderings of the clouds. The good Abbé Panorio, discouraged by the ill success of his efforts, turned to me, saying: "Come, dear Zorzi, now try your power over the capricious beauty. There exists between you two, a kind of magnetic sympathy, which is stronger than all my reasoning, and the sound of your voice will often wake her from the most mournful dreams." "The magnetic sympathy which you notice, my dear Abbé, proceeds from the entire identity of our sentiments. We have, through life, suffered and thought alike, and our mutual knowledge of each other's ideas informs us, what exterior circumstances have awakened their power. I will wager that I can divine, if not the exact subject, at least the nature of her reverie." And turning to Beppa: "Carissima," said I, "to which of our sisters are your sad thoughts dedicated ?" "To the most beautiful," said she without turning round, " to the noblest, to the most unhappy." "When died she?" said I, already really interested for one who occupied so large a space in the memory of my noble-minded friend, and wishing to associate my regrets also with a destiny, of which I imagined I could not be entirely ignorant. "She died the end of last winter, the same masqued ball was given at the Servilio Palace. sorrows, she had overcome many dangers, she evening on which the She had borne many had passed through And what a And her life! terrible emotions without blenching, and she disappeared from our sight, leaving not a trace behind, as though she had been stricken by a thunderbolt. Every one in Venice knew her more or less, but I better than any, for none loved her so much; and in order to understand her, the inspiration of perfect love was necessary. Many do not believe in her death, though she has never reappeared since the evening I alluded to. They say she has often disappeared before, and may yet return; but I know that she will return no more, and that her career is ended. Could I still doubt, I would, but she contrived to inform me of the fatal truth, by him who was the unhappy cause of it. death! The greatest sorrow of this age of sorrows! what a life! So full of beauty and contrast, so mysterious, so brilliant, so sad, so splendid, so enthusiastic, so austere, so voluptuous, so complete in all points of resemblance with all human things! No! No life and no death have ever resembled hers. She alone, in this prosaic age, has been enabled to suppress all the common realities of life, and to leave nothing but its poetry. Faithful to the old customs of the national aristocracy, she never appeared until dusk; masqued, but without attendants. There is not an inhabitant of the city who has not met her, wandering through the squares or streets, or who has not perceived her gondola stationary in some canal; but no one ever yet saw her leave or enter it; and although no one was left in charge of it, no one ever attempted to rob it. It was painted and equipped just like all other gondolas, and yet every one recognized it, even the children all knew 'the gondola of the Masque. As to its destinations, or where its mistress came from in the evening, or returned at morning, no one could even form a conjecture." The Custom-house officers often saw a black shadow gliding through the Lagunes, and, mistaking it for a smuggler's bark, pursued it into the open sea; but when daylight broke, nothing offered itself to their view, which resembled the object of their pursuit, and at last they became so accustomed to its appearance, that they contented themselves with saying: "There is the gondola of the Masque again." Every night this mysterious masque traversed the town, seeking no one knew what. Now it was seen in the large open squares, then in the obscurest streets, now on the bridges, then under the piazzas of the noblest palaces, in the most frequented and in the most desert places. Sometimes its pace was slow, sometimes fast; it went-it cameapparently heedless alike of crowds or solitude. It never stopped. It appeared to contemplate with an impassioned admiration, the houses, the monuments, the canals, and the blue sky, and even to inhale the |