And the youthful knight thereafter At the court of the King abode, Like a prince did he go appareled, And the snow-white steed he rode. And the King’s own suit of armor He wore when a man he grew— Helmet, and shield, and coat of mail, And the good King’s broad-sword, too. And so valiant was he in warfare, And so wise alway, that his fame Afar did ring, And the foes of the King Trembled to hear his name. Now, once to the royal city The people by thousands came (For that day did he wed the princess, She who pleaded his claim); And there were six stalwart brothers In the gay and festive throng, And low did they make obeisance As grandly he rode along; But sudden, amazed and awe-struck Were they when the warrior bold— In his bright and dazzling armor, With his flowing locks of gold— Halted to give them greeting; Sudden they blanched with shame, For, behold, their long-lost brother Was the Knight of the Golden Mane! And none of all this had happened, And the castle, so grim and gray, Might have been the home of robbers Unto this very day; And the poor young lad imprisoned, Bound by the iron chain, Had clambered the lonely mountain And tried for the prize in vain, But for the giant’s knocking. And from this and from that you see, When the fairy asked help of Jungenthor, Just the way it would be— Oh, oh, Jungenthor, Such a mighty one was he! [Illustration: When the fairy had finished speaking, The giant stood up and knocked.—PAGE 201.] LITTLE FLORENCE. O Florence, little Florence, With your face so bonny-bright, With your hair so full of sunshine, With your eyes so full of light, With your head so full of frolic, With your heart so full of love, If you could only tell me, Could tell me, pretty dove! Do the little laughing cherubs Slide down the moonbeams white, And whisper funny stories, And talk to you all night?— The funny bits of ballads You babble now and then, In a sweeter, softer language Than other mortals ken. Do they joke and jest so gleeful, From set of sun till dawn, That you lie and crow and giggle Long after they are gone? Do they always bring two dewy, Fresh pieces of the sky, And lift your lashes softly And slip them under sly? Do they pinch your cheeks a trifle, To make the roses blow? Do they punch your chubby fingers, To make the dimples grow? Do they show you sights of mischief, All sorts of things to do (Just to keep a body busy, And the world from getting “blue”)? Do they tickle you at table, And tempt you to a spree (Just to shake the mental cobwebs) When the Parson’s in to tea?