THE OPEN WINDOW. THE old house by the lindens And on the gravelled pathway The light and shadow played. The large Newfoundland house-dog He looked for his little playmates, They walked not under the lindens, They played not in the hall; But shadow, and silence, and sadness Were hanging over all. The birds sang in the branches, But the voices of the children Will be heard in dreams alone! And the boy that walked beside me, He could not understand Why closer in mine, ah! closer, I pressed his warm, soft hand! KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. WITLAF, a king of the Saxons, To the merry monks of Croyland His drinking-horn bequeathed, That, whenever they sat at their revels, They might remember the donor, So sat they once at Christmas, In their beards the red wine glistened They drank to the soul of Witlaf, They drank to Christ the Lord, And to each of the Twelve Apostles, Who had preached his holy word. They drank to the Saints and Martyrs Of the dismal days of yore, And as soon as the horn was empty They remembered one Saint more. And the reader droned from the pulpit, And Saint Basil's homilies; Till the great bells of the convent, From their prison in the tower, Guthlac and Bartholomæus, Proclaimed the midnight hour. And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, And the flamelets flapped and flickered, Yet still in his pallid fingers He clutched the golden bowl, In which, like a pearl dissolving, But not for this their revels The jovial monks forbore, For they cried, "Fill high the goblet! We must drink to one Saint more!" |