As the goblet ringing flies apart, Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall; And through the rift, the wild flames start; The guests in dust are scattered all, With the breaking Luck of Edenhall. In storms the foe, with fire and sword; He in the night had scaled the wall, Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord, But holds in his hand the crystal tall, The shattered Luck of Edenhall. On the morrow the butler gropes alone, The gray-bird in the desert hall, He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton, He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. "The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall aside, Down must the stately columns fall; Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride; In athoms shall fall this earthly ball One day like the Luck of Edenhall!" THE ELECTED KNIGHT. FROM THE DANISH. [The following strange and somewhat mystical ballad is from Nyerup and Rahbek's _Danske Viser_ of the Middle Ages. It seems to refer to the first preaching of Christianity in the North, and to the institution of Knight-Errantry. The three maidens I suppose to be Faith, Hope, and Charity. The irregularities of the original have been carefully preserved in the translation.] Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain, Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide, But never, ah never can meet with the man A tilt with him dare ride. He saw under the hill-side A Knight full well equipped; His steed was black, his helm was barred; He was riding at full speed. He wore upon his spurs Twelve little golden birds; Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, And there sat all the birds and sang. He wore upon his mail Twelve little golden wheels; Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, And round and round the wheels they flew. He wore before his breast A lance that was poised in rest, And it was sharper than diamond stone, It made Sir Oluf's heart to groan. He wore upon his helm A wreath of ruddy gold; And that gave him the Maidens Three, The youngest was fair to behold. Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon If he were come from heaven down; "Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth he; "So will I yield me unto thee." "I am not Christ the Great, Thou shallt not yield thee yet; I am an Unknown Knight, Three modest Maidens have me bedight." "Art thou a Knight elected, And have three Maidens thee bedight; So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, For all the maidens' honor!" The first tilt they together rode, They put their steeds to the test; The second tilt they together rode, They proved their manhood best. The third tilt they together rode, Neither of them would yield; The fourth tilt they together rode, The both fell on the field. Now lie the lords upon the plains, And their blood runs unto death; Now sit the Maidens in the high tower, The youngest sorrows till death.