Idyls of Norway and other poems

Said Brier-Rose's mother to the naughty Brier-Rose:
“What will become of you, my child, the Lord Almighty knows.
You will not scrub the kettles, and you will not touch the broom;
You never sit a minute still at spinning-wheel or loom.”

Thus grumbled in the morning, and grumbled late at eve,
The good-wife as she bustled with pot and tray and sieve;
But Brier-Rose, she laughed and she cocked her dainty head:
“Why, I shall marry, Mother dear,” full merrily she said.

“You marry, saucy Brier-Rose! The man, he is not found
To marry such a worthless wench, these seven leagues around.”
But Brier-Rose, she laughed and she trilled a merry lay:
“Perhaps he'll come, my Mother dear, from eight leagues away.”

The good-wife with a “humph” and a sigh forsook the battle,
And flung her pots and pails about with much vindictive rattle:
“O Lord, what sin did I commit in youthful days, and wild,
That thou hast punished me in age with such a wayward child?”

Up stole the girl on tiptoe, so that none her step could hear,
And laughing pressed an airy kiss behind the goodwife's ear.

And she, as e'er relenting, sighed: “Oh, Heaven only knows
Whatever will become of you, my naughty Brier-Rose!”

The sun was high and summer sounds were teeming in the air;
The clank of scythes, the cricket's whir, and swelling wood-notes rare,
From field and copse and meadow; and through the open door
Sweet, fragrant whiffs of new-mown hay the idle breezes bore.

The Brier-Rose grew pensive, like a bird of thoughtful mien,
Whose little life has problems among the branches green.
She heard the river brawling where the tide was swift and strong,
She heard the summer singing its strange, alluring song.

And out she skipped the meadows o'er and gazed into the sky;
Her heart o'erbrimmed with gladness, she scarce herself knew why,
And to a merry tune she hummed, “Oh, Heaven only knows
Whatever will become of the naughty Brier-Rose!”

Whene'er a thrifty matron this idle maid espied,
She shook her head in warning, and scarce her wrath could hide;
For girls were made for housewives, for spinning-wheel and loom,
And not to drink the sunshine and wild-flower's sweet perfume.

And oft the maidens cried, when the Brier-Rose went by:
“You cannot knit a stocking, and you cannot make a pie.”

But Brier-Rose, as was her wont, she cocked her curly head:
“But I can sing a pretty song,” full merrily she said.

And oft the young lads shouted, when they saw the maid at play:
“Ho, good-for-nothing Brier-Rose, how do you do to-day?”
Then she shook her tiny fist; to her cheeks the color flew:
“However much you coax me, I'll never dance with you!”

II.

Thus flew the years light-wingéd over Brier-Rose's head,
Till she was twenty summers old and yet remained unwed.
And all the parish wondered: “The Lord Almighty knows
Whatever will become of that naughty Brier-Rose!”

And while they wondered came the Spring a-dancing o'er the hills;
Her breath was warmer than of yore, and all the mountain rills,
With their tinkling and their rippling and their rushing, filled the air,
And the misty sounds of water forth-welling everywhere.

And in the valley's depth, like a lusty beast of prey,
The river leaped and roared aloud and tossed its mane of spray;
Then hushed again its voice to a softly plashing croon,
As dark it rolled beneath the sun and white beneath the moon.

It was a merry sight to see the lumber as it whirled
Adown the tawny eddies that hissed and seethed and swirled,
Now shooting through the rapids and, with a reeling swing,
Into the foam-crests diving like an animated thing.

But in the narrows of the rocks, where o'er a steep incline
The waters plunged, and wreathed in foam the boughs of birch and pine,
The lads kept watch with shout and song, and sent each straggling beam
A-spinning down the rapids, lest it should lock the stream.

III.

And yet—methinks I hear it now—wild voices in the night,
A rush of feet, a dog's harsh bark, a torch's flaring light,
And wandering gusts of dampness, and 'round us far and nigh,
A throbbing boom of water like a pulse-beat in the sky.

The dawn just pierced the pallid east with spears of gold and red,
As we, with boat-hooks in our hands, toward the narrows sped.

And terror smote us: for we heard the mighty tree-tops sway,
And thunder, as of chariots, and hissing showers of spray.

“Now, lads,” the sheriff shouted, “you are strong, like Norway's rock:
A hundred crowns I give to him who breaks the lumber-lock!
For if another hour go by, the angry waters' spoil
Our homes will be, and fields, and our weary years of toil.”

We looked each at the other; each hoped his neighbor would
Brave death and danger for his home, as valiant Norsemen should.
But at our feet the brawling tide expanded like a lake,
And whirling beams came shooting on, and made the firm rock quake.

“Two hundred crowns!” the sheriff cried, and breathless stood the crowd.
“Two hundred crowns, my bonny lads!” in anxious tones and loud.
But not a man came forward, and no one spoke or stirred,
And nothing save the thunder of the cataract was heard.

But as with trembling hands and with fainting hearts we stood,
We spied a little curly head emerging from the wood.
We heard a little snatch of a merry little song,
And saw the dainty Brier-Rose come dancing through the throng.

An angry murmur rose from the people 'round about.
“Fling her into the river!” we heard the matrons shout;

“Chase her away, the silly thing; for God himself scarce knows
Why ever he created that worthless Brier-Rose.”

Sweet Brier-Rose, she heard their cries; a little pensive smile
Across her visage flitted that might a stone beguile;
And then she gave her pretty head a roguish little cock:
“Hand me a boat-hook, lads,” she said; “I think I'll break the lock.”

Derisive shouts of laughter broke from throats of young and old:
“Ho! good-for-nothing Brier-Rose, your tongue was ever bold.”
And, mockingly, a boat-hook into her hands was flung,
When, lo! into the river's midst with daring leaps she sprung!

We saw her dimly through a mist of dense and blinding spray;
From beam to beam she skipped, like a water-sprite at play.
And now and then faint gleams we caught of color through the mist:
A crimson waist, a golden head, a little dainty wrist.

In terror pressed the people to the margin of the hill,
A hundred breaths were bated, a hundred hearts stood still.
For, hark! from out the rapids came a strange and creaking sound,
And then a crash of thunder which shook the very ground.

The waters hurled the lumber mass down o'er the rocky steep.
We heard a muffled rumbling and a rolling in the deep;

We saw a tiny form which the torrent swiftly bore
And flung into the wild abyss, where it was seen no more.

Ah, little naughty Brier-Rose, thou couldst nor weave nor spin;
Yet thou couldst do a nobler deed than all thy mocking kin;
For thou hadst courage e'en to die, and by thy death to save
A thousand farms and lives from the fury of the wave.

And yet the adage lives, in the valley of thy birth,
When wayward children spend their days in heedless play and mirth,
Their mothers say, half smiling, half sighing, “Heaven knows
Whatever will become of the naughty Brier-Rose!”

HILDA'S LITTLE HOOD.

In sooth I have forgotten, for it is long ago,
And winters twelve have hid it beneath their shrouds of snow;
And 'tisn't well, the parson says, o'er bygone things to brood,
But, sure, it was the strangest tale, this tale of Hilda's hood.

For Hilda was a merry maid, and wild as wild could be,
Among the parish maidens was none so fair as she;
Her eyes they shone with wilful mirth, and like a golden flood
Her sunny hair rolled downward from her little scarlet hood.

I once was out a-fishing, and, though sturdy at the oar,
My arms were growing weaker, and I was far from shore;
And angry squalls swept thickly from out the lurid skies,
And every landmark that I knew was hidden from mine eyes.

The gull's shrill shriek above me, the sea's strong bass beneath,
The numbness grew upon me with its chilling touch of death,—
And blackness gathered round me; then through the night's dark shroud
A clear young voice came swiftly as an arrow cleaves the cloud.

It was a voice so mellow, so bright and warm and round,
As if a beam of sunshine had been melted into sound;

It fell upon my frozen nerves and thawed the springs of life;
I grasped the oar and strove afresh; it was a bitter strife.

The breakers roared about me, but the song took bolder flight,
And rose above the darkness like a beacon in the night;
And swift I steered and safely, struck shore, and by God's rood,
Through gloom and spray I caught the gleam of Hilda's scarlet hood.

The moon athwart the darkness broke a broad and misty way,
The dawn grew red beyond the sea and sent abroad the day;
And loud I prayed to God above to help me, if He could,
For deep into my soul had pierced that gleam from Hilda's hood.

I sought her in the forest, I sought her on the strand,
The pine-trees spread their dusky roof, bleak lay the glittering sand,
Until one Sabbath morning at the parish church I stood,
And saw, amid a throng of maids, the little scarlet hood.

Then straight my heart ran riot, and wild my pulses flew;
I strove in vain my flutter and my blushes to subdue;
“Why, Eric!” laughed a roguish maid, “your cheeks are red as blood;”
“It is the shine,” another cried, “from Hilda's scarlet hood.”

I answered not, for 'tis not safe to banter with a girl;
The trees, the church, the belfry danced about me in a whirl;

I was as dizzy as a moth that flutters round the flame;
I turned about, and twirled my cap, but could not speak for shame.

But that same Sabbath ev'ning, as I sauntered o'er the beach
And cursed that foolish heart of mine for choking up my speech,
I spied, half wrapped in shadow at the margin of the wood,
The wavy mass of sunshine that broke from Hilda's hood.

With quickened breath on tiptoe across the sand I stepped;
Her face was hidden in her lap, as though she mused or slept;
The hood had glided backward o'er the hair that downward rolled,
Like some large petal of a flower upon a stream of gold.

“Fair Hilda,” so I whispered, as I bended to her ear;
She started up and smiled at me without surprise or fear.
“I love you, Hilda,” said I; then in whispers more subdued:
“Love me again, or wear no more that little scarlet hood.”

“Why, Eric,” cried she, laughing, “how can you talk so wild?
I was confirmed last Easter, half maid and half a child,
But since you are so stubborn—no, no; I never could—
Unless you guess what's written in my little scarlet hood.”

“I cannot, fairest Hilda,” quoth I with mournful mien,
While with my hand I gently, and by the maid unseen,

Snatched from the clustering wavelets the brightly flaming thing,
And saw naught there but stitches small, crosswise meandering.

“There's nothing in your hood, love,” I cried with heedless mirth.
“Well,” laughed she, “out of nothing God made both heaven and earth;
But since the earth to you and me as heritage was given,
I'll only try to make for you a little bit of heaven.”

THORALF AND SYNNÖV.

O, have you been in Gudbrand's dale, where Laagen's mighty flood
Chants evermore its wild refrain unto the listening wood?
And have you seen the evening sun on those bright glaciers glow,
When valleyward it shoots and darts like shafts from elfin bow?

Have you beheld the maidens when the sæter path they tread
With ribbons in their sunny hair and milk-pails on their head?
And have you heard the fiddles when they strike the lusty dance?
Then you have heard of Synnöv Houg, and of myself perchance.

For Synnöv Houg is lissome as the limber willow spray,
And when you think you hold her fast, and she is yours for aye,
Then like the airy blowball that dances o'er the lea,
She gently through your fingers slips and lightly floateth free.

Then it was last St. John's Eve,—I remember it so well,—
We lads had lit a bonfire in a grass-grown little dell;
And all the pretty maidens were seated in a ring,
And some were telling stories, while the rest were listening;

Till up sprang little Synnöv, and she sang a stave as clear
As the skylark's earliest greeting in the morning of the year;
And I—I hardly knew myself, but up they saw me dart,
For every note of Synnöv's stave went straight unto my heart.

And like the rushing currents that from the glaciers flow,
And down into the sunny bays their icy waters throw,
So streamed my heavy bass-notes through the forests far and wide,
And Synnöv's treble rocked like a feather on the tide.

“My little Synnöv,” sang I, “thou art good and very fair.”
“And little Thoralf,” sang she, “of what you say, beware!”
“My fairest Synnöv,” quoth I, “my heart was ever thine,
My homestead and my goodly farm, my herds of lowing kine.”

“O Thoralf, dearest Thoralf, if that your meaning be—
If your big heart can hold such a little thing as me,
Then I shall truly tell you if e'er I want a man,
And—you are free to catch me, handsome Thoralf—if you can!”

And down the hillside ran she, where the tangled thicket weaves
A closely latticed bower with its intertwining leaves,
And through the copse she bounded, light-footed as a hare,
And with her merry laughter rang the forest far and near.

Whenever I beheld little Synnöv, all that year,
She fled from my sight as from hunter's shaft the deer;
I lay awake full half the nights and knew not what to do,
For I loved the little Synnöv so tenderly and true.

Then 'twas a summer even up in the birchen glen,
I sat listening to the cuckoo and the twitter of the wren,
When suddenly above me rang out a silver voice;
It rose above the twittering birds and o'er the river's noise.

There sat my little maid, where the rocks had made a seat;
And tiny crimson flowers grew all around her feet,
And on her yellow locks clung a tiny roguish hood;
Its edge was made of swan's-down, but the cloth was red as blood.

And noiselessly behind her I had stolen through the copse.
I cursed the restless birch-trees for rustling in their tops;
How merrily my heart beat! And forth I leapt in haste,
And flung a slender birch-bough around the maiden's waist.

She blushed and she fluttered,—then turned away to run,
But straight into my sturdy arms I caught the little one.
I put her gently down on the heather at my side,
Where tiny crimson flowers the rocky ledges hide.

And as the prisoned birdling, when he knows his cage full well,
Pours forth his notes full blithely, and naught his mirth can quell,
To little Synnöv, striving in vain my hold to flee,
Turned quick on me her roguish eyes and laughed full heartily.

“My little Synnöv,” said I, “if I remember right,
'Twas something that you promised me a year ago to-night.”
Then straight she stayed her laughter and serious she grew,
And whispered: “Dearest Thoralf, you promised something too.”

The sæter is the region in highlands where the Norwegian peasants spend the greater part of the summer, pasturing their cattle.

LITTLE SIGRID.

Little Sigrid, fresh and rosy, was a bonny maid indeed,
Like a blossom fair and fragile, peeping from the dewy mead.

Little Sigrid, fresh and rosy, stood before her father bold;
Blue her eyes were as the heavens, bright her hair as marigold:

“Father dear, 'tis drear and lonely for a maid as fair as I,
Here, unsought by gallant wooers, as a maid to live and die.

“Saddle then thy fleetest chargers, whether good or ill betide,
For a twelvemonth I must leave thee, and in haste to court will ride.”

So they saddled steed and palfrey; glad in heart young Sigrid rode,
By her merry train attended, to the gallant king's abode.

“Little Sigrid,” so the king spake, “here by Christ the white I swear,
Never yet mine eyes have rested on a maid so wondrous fair.”

Little Sigrid, laughing gaily at the young king as he swore,
Blushed the while a deeper crimson than she e'er had blushed before.

Flushed with joy each day ascended from the sea and westward waned,
And in little Sigrid's bosom happiness and gladness reigned;

For she rode with knights and ladies to the chase at peep of morn,
While the merry woods resounded with the blare of fife and horn.

And the night was bright with splendor, music, dance, and feast and play,
Like a golden trail that follows in the wake of parting day.

Quoth the king to little Sigrid,—hot was he with wine and glee:
“I do love thee, little Sigrid; thou must e'er abide with me.”

And the foolish little Sigrid to the king made answer so:
“I'll abide with thee and love thee, share thy joy and share thy woe.”

“And the day,” the gay king whispered, “that to thee I break my troth,
May'st thou claim my soul, my life-blood, to appease God's righteous wrath.”

And long days, from eastward rising, sank in blood beneath the west,
And the maid, once merry-hearted, bore a secret 'neath her breast.

“Hast not heard the merry tidings—how the king, whom weal betide,
Rode abroad through seven kingdoms, rode abroad to seek a bride?—

“How in baking and in brewing they more malt and meal have spent,
Than from Michaelmas to Christmas well might feed a continent?”

Sigrid heard the merry tidings; with a tearless, dimmed amaze
She beheld the young bride coming, saw the halls with lights ablaze,

And with hurried steps and breathless to the riverbank she sped,
Leaped into the silent billows, closing dumbly o'er her head.

Winter blew his icy breath and silvered all the earth with frost:
Spring arose warm-checked and blushing, followed by his flowery host,

And Sir Alfred, Sigrid's brother, straight bestrode his charger gray,—
Harp in hand, wild ditties singing, rode he to the court away.

Far and wide renowned that harp was for its strength and rich design;
It was wrought with strange devices from the earth and air and brine.

But the seventh night the weary charger at the river's side
Stumbled, and the harp fell moaning down upon the darkling tide.

And the soul of little Sigrid, wandering homeless, seeking rest,
Slipped into its hollow chamber, hiding in its sounding breast.

But Sir Alfred clasped it fiercely, and its tone rose on the breeze
Like the voice of one that vainly would his wakeful woe appease.

And the king, with court assembled, heard the weird lamenting tone:
“Summon swift that goodly harper to the threshold of my throne.”

Then they summoned young Sir Alfred; fair to see and tall was he,
As he stood with head uplifted in that gallant company.

And he touched the harp with cunning; gently rose its tuneful breath.
But the king sat mute and shivered, and his cheeks were pale as death.

Alfred smote the harp with fervor; wildly rang its wail of grief—
On his throne the young king quivered,—quivered like an aspen leaf.

As the third time o'er the metal with a wary touch he sped
Snapt each string with loud resounding—on his throne the king lay dead.

Through the courtiers' ranks a shuddering, terror-haunted whisper stole:
“It is little Sigrid coming back to claim his faithless soul.”

It is a very prevalent superstition in Norway, and in many other countries, that the soul continues to haunt the place where the body rests, unless it is buried in consecrated ground.

MARIT AND I.

Marit at the brook-side sitting, rosy, dimpled, merry-eyed,
Saw her lovely visage trembling in the mirror of the tide,
While between her pretty teeth a golden coil of hair she held;
Like a shining snake it quivered in the tide, and shrunk and swelled.

And she dipped her dainty fingers deftly in the chilly brook;
Scarce she minded how her image with the ripples curved and shook;
Stooping, with a tiny shudder dashed the water in her face;
O'er her brow and cheeks the dew-drops glistening rolled and fell apace.

Breathless sat I, safely hidden in the tree-top dense and green;
For a maid is ne'er so sweet as when she thinks herself unseen;
And I saw her with a scarlet ribbon tie her braid of hair,
And I swore a silent oath I ne'er had seen a thing more fair.

Now, if you will never breathe it, I will tell you something queer—
Only step a little nearer; let me whisper in your ear:
If you think it was the first time that in this sequestered dell
I beheld the little Marit—well, 'tis scarcely fair to tell.

There within my leafy bower sat I, happy as a king,
And two anxious wrens were flitting round about me twittering,

While I gazed at Marit's image framed in heaven's eternal blue,
While the clouds were drifting past it, and the birds across it flew.

But anon the smile that hovered in the water stole away,
Though the sunshine through the birch-leaves flung of light its shimmering spray,
And a breath came floating upward as if some one gently sighed,
And at just the self-same moment sighed the image in the tide.

Then I heard a mournful whisper: “O thou poor, thou pretty face,
Without gold what will avail thee bloom of beauty, youth, and grace?
For a maid who has no dower—” and her curly head she shook:
It was little Marit speaking to her image in the brook.

More I heard not, for the whisper in a shivering sigh expired,
And the image in the water looked so sad and sweet and tired.
Full of love and full of pity, down I stooped her plaint to hear:
I could almost touch the ringlets curling archly round her ear.

Nearer, still a little nearer, forth I crept along the bough.
Tremblingly her lips were moving, and a cloud rose on her brow.
“Precious darling,” thought I, “grieve not that thou hast no lover found—”
Crash the branch went, and, bewildered, down I tumbled on the ground.

Up then sprang the little Marit with a cry of wild alarm,
And she gazed as if she dreaded I had come to do her harm.

Swift she darted through the bushes, and with stupid wonder mute
Stood I staring blankly after, ere I started in pursuit.

And a merry chase I gave her through the underbrush and copse;
Over fallen trunks and bowlders, on she fled with skips and hops,
Glancing sharply o'er her shoulder when she heard my footsteps' sound,
Dashing on with reckless terror like a deer before the hound.

Hot with zeal I broke my pathway where the clustered boughs were dense,
For I wanted to assure her I intended no offence;
And at last, exhausted, fell she on the greensward quivering,
Sobbing, panting, pleading, weeping, like a wild unreasoning thing.

“Marit,” said I, stooping down, “I hardly see why you should cry:
There is scarce in all the parish such a harmless lad as I;
And you know I always liked you”—here my voice was soft and low.
“No, indeed,” she sobbed, in answer—“no, indeed, I do not know.”

But methought that in her voice there was a touch of petulance;
Through the glistening tears I caught a little shy and furtive glance.
Growing bolder then, I clasped her dainty hand full tenderly,
Though it made a mock exertion, struggling faintly to be free.

“Little Marit,” said I, gently, “tell me what has grieved you so,
For I heard you sighing sorely at the brook a while ago.”

“Oh,” she said, her sobs subduing, with an air demure and meek—
“Oh, it was that naughty kitten; he had scratched me on the cheek.”

“Nothing worse?” I answered, gayly, while I strove her glance to catch.
“Let me look; my kiss is healing. May I cure the kitten's scratch?”
And I kissed the burning blushes on her cheeks in heedless glee,
Though the marks of Pussy's scratches were invisible to me.

“O thou poor, thou pretty darling,” cried I, frantic with delight,
While she gazed upon me smiling, yet with eyes that tears made bright,
“Let thy beauty be thy dower, and be mine to have and hold;
For a face as sweet as thou hast needs, in sooth, no frame of gold.”

THORA.

I.

Trim and graceful, like a clipper, Thora was from top to toe,
Though her dress was very scanty and perhaps not comme il faut.
Bare and brown her little feet were, and her cheeks were sun-burnt too;
But her lips were very rosy and her eyes were very blue.

One black skirt with red embroidery and a snowy white chemise
Were her wonted dress on week-days, when she felt herself at ease.
Hats she only wore in winter, when with snow the air was dim,
But her eyes peeped forth full brightly 'neath the big sou'wester's brim.

For who thinks that a sou'wester, e'en if e'er and e'er so wide,
From the boys' admiring glances could a pretty maiden hide?
And 'tis known how such attention every pretty maid annoys;
And it was a thousand pities, Thora did not like the boys.

They were either rude and noisy, or too bashful and confused.
As for loving them! No, thank you; she would rather be excused!
And, besides, there were so many, stout and slender, short and tall;
How could she her choice determine, since she could not love them all?

Thus she spoke unto her mother, sitting in the evening's glow
In the shadow of the fish-nets, which were drooping, row on row,

From their stakes; while to the westward hung the sun so huge and red,
Tinged with flame the white-winged sea-birds, drifting idly o'er her head.

“Sooth to say, thy words are canny,” said the goodwife with a sigh,
Glancing seaward to conceal the merry twinkle in her eye.
“Yet 'tis right young girls should marry; childless age brings no maid boon;
Beauty gone, in vain they hanker, fretting idly for the moon.

“Therefore I will tell thee, daughter, what 'tis wise for thee to do;
One maid, e'en if e'er so canny, never knows as much as two.
We will call the girls together from the valley's every part;
They shall choose among thy wooers him who is to own thy heart.”

“O, what sport!” cried pretty Thora; “thanks to thee, my mother dear;
O, how gayly we shall chatter when no prying men are near.
Loved and cherished shall my name be by the maidens round about;
I shall cause no cheeks to wither and no pretty lips to pout.”

II.

While the mountain-tops were rosy and with dew the grass was wet,
Thora hastened to the boat-house to repair the fishing-net.
Skipping, jumping, wild and wanton, danced she o'er the fields away,
Tossing to the sportive echoes many a bright and careless lay.

When the lads who boats were bailing heard the pretty Thora sing,
Joining hands they ran to meet her, throwing round the maid a ring.

“Now,” they cried, with boist'rous laughter, “now we've surely caught thee, Miss:
Thou canst only buy thy freedom if thou give us each a kiss.”

Come and take it, lads,” said Thora; “here's my mouth and here's my hand.
Kiss, indeed! Why don't you take it? Modest, sooth, is your demand.”
And when one stepped briskly forward, half emboldened by her speech,
With a slap she sent him spinning, like a top, upon the beach.

With a peal of mocking laughter off she bounded like a hind,
And her loosened yellow tresses fluttered wildly in the wind;
While the lad, abashed, bewildered, strolled away, with burning ears,
To compose his wounded feelings and avoid his comrades' jeers.

Now a gallant lad was Halvor, who in storm and billows' roar
Oft had steered his skiff securely close beneath the rocky shore;
And the thought within him rankled with a dull and gnawing pain,
That a little maid had smote him whom he could not smite again.

And the roguish face of Thora haunted him by night and day;
Half he feared that he must love her; for his wrath had flown away.
Yet he could have cursed his folly, had not cursing been a sin;
Why should he thus love a maiden who was neither kith nor kin?

Strange to say, the little Thora, when her anger was at rest,
Found some queer, soft thoughts awaking dimly in her troubled breast.

Had she not too harshly punished an offence not rudely meant?
Could she hope for God's forgiveness who could rashly thus resent?

As for kissing, that was foolish—that's, of course, before a throng;
Yet, in Scripture, people did it, so it scarcely could be wrong.
Had he only been discreeter—met her 'neath the sinking sun—
Well—in sooth—there is no knowing what she might not then have done.

Thus with doubt and passion battling, and by vague regrets distraught,
Shyly nursing tender yearnings which she dared not frame in thought,
On the beach alone she wandered, where in whispered pulses beat,
Drunk with sleep, the mighty ocean, heaving darkly at her feet.

Then it seemed—what odd illusion!—that her footsteps on the sand
Broke into a double rhythm, sharply echoing o'er the strand,
And she felt a shadowy presence in the moonlight, gaunt and dread,
Moving stealthily behind her, and she dared not turn her head.

Swiftly, wildly, on she hurried, and the cloud and moon and star
With a dumb phantasmal ardor sped along th' horizon's bar;
Till exhausted, panting, sobbing, and bewildered with alarm,
Prone she fell, but up was lifted lightly on her lover's arm.

“Thora,” said he, stooping o'er her, “pardon if I caused thee fright;
But my heart was full to bursting—speak I must and speak to-night.

Silence, Thora, is so heavy, like a load upon the breast.
Sooth, I think thou hast bewitched me—I can find nor peace nor rest.”

Thora half-way stayed her weeping, and the moon, who peeped askance
From behind her cloud, revealed the tearful brightness of her glance.
“Oh, thou wouldst not love me,” sobbed she, “if thou knew'st how bad I am.
Once—I hung—a great live lobster—on the tail of—Hans—our ram.”

Scarce I know how he consoled her, but ere long her tears were dried,
And 'twas rumored in the parish, though again it was denied,
That while all the moon was hidden—all except the golden tips—
There was heard a sound mysterious, as of softly meeting lips.

For the good-wife, mildly grumbling at the idle spinning-wheel,
Rose at length and trudged sedately, anxious for the daughter's weal,
Over stone and sand and tangle, where the frightened plovers flew
Screaming seaward, and majestic skyward soared the silent mew.

And 'twas she who with amazement heard the soft, mysterious sound,
And 'tis said she shook and tottered, almost fainting on the ground.
Scarce her reason she recovered, if the wild report be true,
For she saw a queer-shaped figure which proved later to be two.

“Daughter,” said she, not ungently, “I have sought thee in alarm,
Fearing, in the treacherous moonlight, thou perchance hadst come to harm;

Yet I hoped that I should find thee, though the night be dark and drear,
Knowing that thou lov'st to wander where no prying men are near.”

Dumb, abashed stood little Thora, and her cheeks were flaming red;
Nervously she twirled her apron, and she hung her pretty head;
Till at length she gathered courage and she whispered breathlessly:
“Mother dear—I love him—truly, and he says—that he loves me.”

“Lord ha' mercy on us, daughter!” solemnly the dame replied.
“I who have the maids invited that thy choice they might decide;
For of men there are so many, stout and slender, short and tall—
How's a maid to choose among them, since she cannot love them all?”

Now, the moon, who had been hiding in a veil of misty lace,
Wishing to embarrass no one by the shining of her face,
Peeped again, in modest wonder, ere her cloud she gently broke,
And she saw the good-wife smiling as to Thora thus she spoke:

“Since thou now hast chosen, daughter—every bird must try his wings—
Tell me, how didst thou discover that thy heart to Halvor clings?”
“Well,” she said, in sweet confusion, while her eyes grew big with tears,
“Thou wouldst scarcely—understand it—mother dear—I boxed his ears,”

University of Virginia Library

IDYLS OF NORWAY.

BRIER-ROSE.

I.

II.