Soe come, my lyttel chylde, and lie upon my breast to-night, For yonder fares an angell, yclad in raimaunt white, And yonder sings that angell, as onely angells may, And hys songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye. ALASKAN BALLADRY. Krinken was a little child-- It was summer when he smiled; Oft the hoary sea and grim Stretched its white arms out to him, Calling: "Sun-Child, come to me, Let me warm my heart with thee"-- But the child heard not the sea Calling, yearning evermore For the summer on the shore. Krinken on the beach one day Saw a maiden Nis at play-- On the pebbly beach she played In the summer Krinken made. Fair and very fair was she-- Just a little child was he. "Krinken," said the maiden Nis "Let me have a little kiss-- Just a kiss and go with me To the summer lands that be Down within the silver sea!" Krinken was a little child-- By the maiden Nis beguiled, Hand in hand with her went he-- And 'twas summer in the sea! And the hoary sea and grim To its bosom folded him-- Clasped and kissed the little form, And the ocean's heart was warm. But upon the misty shore Winter brooded evermore. With that winter in my heart, Oft in dead of night I start-- Start and lift me up and weep, For those visions in my sleep Mind me of the yonder deep! 'Tis _his_ face lifts from the sea-- 'Tis _his_ voice calls out to me-- _Thus_ the winter bides with me. Krinken was the little child By the maiden Nis beguiled; Oft the hoary sea and grim Reached its longing arms to him, Calling: "Sun-Child, come to me, Let me warm my heart with thee!" But the sea calls out no more And 'tis winter on the shore-- Summer in the silver sea Where with maiden Nis went he-- And the winter bides with me! ARMENIAN FOLK-SONG--THE STORK. Welcome, O truant stork! And where have you been so long? And do you bring that grace of spring That filleth my heart with song? Descend upon my roof-- Bide on this ash content; I would have you know what cruel woe Befell me when you went. All up in the moody sky (A shifting threat o'er head!) They were breaking the snow and bidding it go Cover the beautiful dead. Came snow on garden spot, Came snow on mere and wold, Came the withering breath of white robed death, And the once warm earth was cold. Stork, the tender rose tree, That bloometh when you are here, Trembled and sighed like a waiting bride-- Then drooped on a virgin bier. But the brook that hath seen you come Leaps forth with a hearty shout, And the crocus peeps from the bed where it sleeps To know what the noise is about. Welcome, O honest friend! And bide on my roof content; For my heart would sing of the grace of spring, When the winter of woe is spent. THE VISION OF THE HOLY GRAIL.