If not the very best of all the ballads, at least the most characteristic of the poet’s ethical bent, is ‘The Singer’s Curse.’ With this we may fitly conclude our specimens, as it is a declaration of the greatness and holiness of the poet’s mission, and a prophecy of the annihilation of all earthly pomp that is founded on injustice and wrong, which it is the poet’s highest duty to raise his voice against. It might also be entitled ‘The Martyr-Minstrel.’ THE SINGER’S CURSE. In days of old a castle stood, it stood so haught and high, Wide o’er the lands it shone to where the blue sea met the sky; All round it lush flower-gardens a perfumed girdle made, Wherein with radiance rainbow-arched reviving fountains played. Sat there a proud king rich in spoil of war and rich in land, Upon his ancient throne he sat so gaunt and grimly grand; For all he thinks is Terror, and all he looks is Hate, And all he speaks is Scourging, and all he writes is Fate. Once did a noble minstrel pair up to this castle go, The one with golden ringlets, the other with locks of snow; The old man with the harp he sat on a goodly steed astride, The while his blooming comrade tript gaily at his side. Spake to the youth the old man, “My son, be strong to-day; Our deepest songs remember, attune thy fullest lay; Knit all the nerves of music, the joy, the pain, in one; Our task it is to-day to touch the tyrant’s heart of stone.” Now stand the singers twain within the lofty pillared house, And high upon his throne the king sits with his royal spouse; The king so fiercely splendid, like blood-red northern light, But sweet and mild the queen as looks the full moon on the night. Then smote the strings the old man right wondrously and well, That full and fuller on the ear the tides of music swell; And then angelically clear the young man’s voice did flow In the elder’s pauses, like a choir of spirits, weird and low. They sing of spring and true love, of an age of golden youth, Of freedom and of manhood, of holiness and truth; They sing of every sweetness that makes man’s bosom soft, They sing of every greatness that bears man’s heart aloft. Forthwith the courtier circle unlearns the courtly sneer, The king’s disdainful warriors bow down to God and fear. Then, as her soul with tender pain and rapture overflows, The queen before the singers from her bosom flings the rose. “Ye have beguiled my people—will ye bring my wife to shame?” So cries the king in fury, quivering through all his frame; He hurls his sword, that flashing strikes through the stripling’s heart; Now from the source of golden songs a blood-jet high doth start. Strewn as by sudden tempest is all the listening swarm, The youth hath sobbed his life out upon his master’s arm; Upon his horse he sets him, wound in his mantle’s fold, And fastly binds him upright, and quits with him the hold.