And snapped the cord which to the mane Had bound my neck in lieu of rein,

And, writhing half my form about,

Howled back my curse; but 'midst the tread
The thunder of my courser's speed,
Perchance they did not hear nor heed:
It vexes me, for I would fain

Have paid their insult back again

They played me then a bitter prank, When, with the wild horse for my guide, They bound me to his foaming flank: At length I played them one as frank.

We rustled through the leaves like wind,
Left shrubs and trees and wolves behind.
By night I heard them on the track,
Their troop came hard upon our back,
With their long gallop, which can tire
The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire.
Where'er we flew they followed on,
Nor left us with the morning sun;
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood,
At daybreak winding through the wood,
And through the night had heard their feet
Their stealing, rustling step repeat.

Oh! how I wished for spear or sword,

At least to die amidst the horde

When first my courser's race begun,
I wished the goal already won;

But now I doubted strength and speed.
Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed
Had nerved him like the mountain roe.

Onward we went, then slack and slow: His savage force at length o'erspent, The drooping courser, faint and low, All feebly foaming went. . . .

And then, while reeling on our way,
Methought I heard a courser neigh,
From out a tuft of blackening firs.
Is it the wind those branches stirs?
No, no! from out the forest prance
A trampling troop - I see them come !
In one vast squadron they advance.

I strove to cry, my lips were dumb.
The steeds rush on in plunging pride -
A thousand horse, and none to ride!
With flowing tail and flying mane,
Wide nostrils never touched by pain,
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein,
And feet that iron never shod,
And flanks unscarred by spur or rod,
A thousand horse, the wild, the free,
Like waves that follow o'er the sea,

Came thickly thundering on,
As if our faint approach to meet.

The sight re-nerved my courser's feet;
A moment staggering, feebly fleet,
A moment, with a faint low neigh,
He answered and then fell;
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay,

And reeking limbs immovable --
His first and last career was done!

On came the troop- they saw him stoop,
They saw me strangely bound along
His back with many a bloody thong.
They stop

they start- they sniff the air,
Gallop a moment here and there
Approach, retire, wheel round and round,
Then plunging back with sudden bound,
They left me there to my despair
And there from morn till twilight bound
I felt the heavy hours toil round,
With just enough of life to see
My last of suns go down on me.

They found me senseless on the plain,
They bore me to the nearest hut,
They brought me into life again,

Me-one day o'er their realm to reign.

66

- From Tales Chiefly Oriental," by Lord Byron.

HOW THE MASTER SMITH RODE WOOING LMARINEN, Master of Smiths, surely needed a washing. Grimy with soot and gray with ashes, he stepped into the bathhouse. Out of doors the sun was shining; by the window a cuckoo was calling; in the air sweet voices were sounding. He looked, he listened, his heart throbbed with joy as he disrobed himself and poured the water slowly upon the redhot bath-stones. Soon the house was filled with a mighty steam; the Smith was lost to view in the dense hot vapor.

An hour passed by, the sun went down, and at length Ilmarinen came forth from his bathing. Who would have known him? Who would have thought that a bath could work such wonders? His hair was of a golden yellow; his cheeks were as ruddy as cranberries in the late days of autumn; his eyes sparkled like two full moons when the sky is clear and the winds are at rest.

And he was clothed, oh, so beautifully! His coat was of linen dyed yellow and prettily embroidered by his mother. His trousers were of soft flannel, scarletcolored. His vest was of crimson silk. His stockings, too, were silken and very long. His shoes were made of softest leather leather tanned from the skin of a reindeer. Over his shoulders he wore a sky-blue shawl, thick and soft. Around his waist was a magic girdle fastened with gold buckles. His hands were incased in reindeer gloves of wondrous warmth and beauty; and on his head was the finest cap that had ever been seen — the cap which his father and grandfather had worn in their youth when they went wooing. His mother threw her arms around his neck and wept for very pride and happiness.

"O my beautiful boy!" she cried.

"Never was

your father so handsomely dressed. Never was any bridegroom more fitly arrayed. Good luck to you! Good luck to you!"

Ilmarinen put her away gently, kissing her on the cheek and thanking her.