All are scattered now, and fled,―― Some are married, some are dead: And when I ask, with throbs of pain, “Ah!” when shall they all meet again? As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply, “Forever――never! Never――forever!” Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care And death, and time shall disappear,―― Forever there, but never here! The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly, “Forever――never! Never――forever!” * * * * * THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. The writing of this famous ballad was suggested to Mr. Longfellow by the digging up of a mail-clad skeleton at Fall-River, Massachusetts――a circumstance which the poet linked with the traditions about the Round Tower at Newport, thus giving to it the spirit of a Norse Viking song of war and of the sea. It is written in the swift leaping meter employed by Drayton in his “Ode to the Cambro Britons on their Harp.” SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Comest to daunt me! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretch’d, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me?” Then, from those cavernous eyes Pale flashes seemed to rise, As when the Northern skies Gleam in December; And, like the water’s flow Under December’s snow, Came a dull voice of woe From the heart’s chamber. “I was a Viking old! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee! Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man’s curse! For this I sought thee. “Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic’s strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the ger-falcon; And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimm’d the half-frozen Sound, That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on. “Oft to his frozen lair Track’d I the grizzly bear, While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow; Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf’s bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow. “But when I older grew, Joining a corsair’s crew, O’er the dark sea I flew With the marauders. Wild was the life we led; Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders. “Many a wassail-bout Wore the long winter out; Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk’s tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail, Fill’d to o’erflowing.