“An eddying gulf ran up the hither bank, Close by the paper-mill, and there the flood Gave back its booty; there we found them laid, Covered with floating leaves and twigs of trees, Not many feet apart: so Love’s last clasp Held lingeringly, until the cruel ice Battered its fastenings. On a rustic bier, Made of loose boughs and strewn with winter ferns, We placed them, side by side, and bore them home. The old man walked behind them, by himself, And wrung his hands and bowed his head in tears.” So Gilbert told his story; I, meanwhile, Followed his finger’s pointing, as it marked Each spot he mentioned, like a teacher’s wand. But now the sun hung low; from many a field The loitering kine went home with tinkling bells. Slow-turning, toward the farm we made our way, And met a host of maidens, merry-eyed, Whom I knew not, yet caught a frequent glance I seemed to know, that half-way brought to mind Sweet eyes I loved to watch in school-boy days,— Sweet sister-eyes to those that glistened now. THE SLEIGH-RIDE. Hark! the jingle Of the sleigh-bells’ song! Earth and air in snowy sheen commingle; Swiftly throng Norseland fancies, as we sail along. Like the maiden Of some fairy-tale, Lying, spell-bound, in her diamond-laden Bridal veil, Sleeps the Earth beneath a garment pale. High above us Gleams the ancient moon, Gleam the eyes of shining ones that love us: Could their tune Only fill our ears at heaven’s noon, You and I, love, With a wild delight, Hearing that seraphic strain would die, love, This same night, Straight to join them in their starry height! Closer nestle, Dearest, to my side. What enchantment, in our magic vessel Thus to glide, Making music, on a silver tide! Jingle! jingle! How the fields go by! Earth and air in snowy sheen commingle, Far and nigh; Is the ground beneath us, or the sky? Heavenward yonder, In the lurid north, From Valhalla’s gates that roll asunder, Red and wroth, Balder’s funeral flames are blazing forth. O, what splendor! How the hues expire! All the elves of light their tribute render To the pyre, Clad in robes of gold and crimson fire. Jingle! jingle! Let the Earth go by! With a wilder thrill our pulses tingle; You and I Will shout our loves, but aye forget to sigh! THE BALLAD OF LAGER BIER. In fallow college days, Tom Harland, We both have known the ways of Yale, And talked of many a nigh and far land, O’er many a famous tap of ale. There still they sing their Gaudeamus, And see the road to glory clear; But taps, that in our day were famous, Have given place to Lager Bier.