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THE KING'S SABBATH.

Once idly in his hall king Olave sat Pondering, and with his dagger whittled chips; And one drew near to him with austere lips, Saying, "To-morrow is Monday," and at that The king said nothing, but held forth his flat Broad palm, and bending on his mighty hips, Took up and mutely laid thereon the slips Of scattered wood, as on a hearth, and gat From off the embers near, a burning brand.

Kindling the pile with this, the dreaming Dane Sat silent with his eyes set and his bland Proud mouth, tight-woven, smiling, drawn with pain, Watching the fierce fire flare, and wax, and wane, Hiss and burn down upon his shrivelled hand.

THE LITTLE HANDMAIDEN.

The King's son walks in the garden fair-- _Oh, the maiden's heart is merry!_ He little knows for his toil and care, That the bride is gone and the bower is bare.

_Put on garments of white, my maidens!_

The sun shines bright through the casement high-- _Oh, the maiden's heart is merry!_ The little handmaid, with a laughing eye, Looks down on the king's son, strolling by.

_Put on garments of white, my maidens!_

"He little knows that the bride is gone, And the Earl knows little as he; She is fled with her lover afar last night, And the King's son is left to me."

And back to her chamber with velvety step The little handmaid did glide, And a gold key took from her bosom sweet, And opened the great chests wide.

She bound her hair with a band of blue, And a garland of lilies sweet; And put on her delicate silken shoes, With roses on both her feet.

She clad her body in spotless white, With a girdle as red as blood.

The glad white raiment her beauty bound, As the sepels bind the bud:

And round and round her white neck she flung A necklace of sapphires blue; On one white finger of either hand A shining ring she drew.

And down the stairway and out of the door She glided, as soft and light, As an airy tuft of a thistle seed Might glide through the grasses bright.

And into the garden sweet she stole-- The little birds carolled loud-- Her beauty shone as a star might shine In the rift of a morning cloud.

The King's son walked in the garden fair, And the little handmaiden came, Through the midst of a shimmer of roses red, Like a sunbeam through a flame.

The King's son marvelled, his heart leaped up, "And art thou my bride?" said he, "For, North or South, I have never beheld A lovelier maid than thee."

"And dost thou love me?" the little maid cried, "A fine King's son, I wis!"

And the King's son took her with both his hands, And her ruddy lips did kiss.

And the little maid laughed till the beaded tears, Ran down in a silver rain.

"O foolish King's son!" and she clapped her hands, Till the gold rings rang again.

"O King's son, foolish and fooled art thou, For a goodly game is played: Thy bride is away with her lover last night, And I am her little handmaid."

And the King's son sware a great oath, said he,-- _Oh, the maiden's heart is merry!_ "If the Earl's fair daughter a traitress be, The little handmaid is enough for me."

_Put on garments of white, my maidens!_

The King's son walks in the garden fair-- _Oh, the maiden's heart is merry!_ And the little handmaiden walketh there, But the old Earl pulleth his beard for care.

_Put on garments of white, my maidens!_

ABU MIDJAN.

Underneath a tree at noontide Abu Midjan sits distressed, Fetters on his wrists and ancles, And his chin upon his breast;

For the Emir's guard had taken, As they passed from line to line, Reeling in the camp at midnight, Abu Midjan drunk with wine.

Now he sits and rolls uneasy, Very fretful, for he hears, Near at hand, the shout of battle, And the din of driving spears.

Both his heels in wrath are digging Trenches in the grassy soil, And his fingers clutch and loosen, Dreaming of the Persian spoil.

To the garden, over-weary Of the sound of hoof and sword, Came the Emir's gentle lady, Anxious for her fighting lord.

Very sadly, Abu Midjan, Hanging down his head for shame, Spake in words of soft appealing To the tender-hearted dame:

"Lady, while the doubtful battle Ebbs and flows upon the plains, Here in sorrow, meek and idle, Abu Midjan sits in chains.

"Surely Saad would be safer For the strength of even me; Give me then his armour, Lady, And his horse, and set me free.

"When the day of fight is over, With the spoil that he may earn, To his chains, if he is living, Abu Midjan will return."

She, in wonder and compassion, Had not heart to say him nay; So, with Saad's horse and armour, Abu Midjan rode away.

Happy from the fight at even, Saad told his wife at meat, How the army had been succoured In the fiercest battle-heat,

By a stranger horseman, coming When their hands were most in need, And he bore the arms of Saad, And was mounted on his steed;

How the faithful battled forward, Mighty where the stranger trod, Till they deemed him more than mortal, And an angel sent from God.

Then the lady told her master How she gave the horse and mail To the drunkard, and had taken Abu Midjan's word for bail.

To the garden went the Emir, Running to the tree, and found Torn with many wounds and bleeding, Abu Midjan meek and bound.

And the Emir loosed him, saying, As he gave his hand for sign, "Never more shall Saad's fetters Chafe thee for a draught of wine."

Three times to the ground in silence Abu Midjan bent his head; Then with glowing eyes uplifted, To the Emir spake and said:

"While an earthly lord controlled me, All things for the wine I bore; Now, since God alone shall judge me, Abu Midjan drinks no more."

THE WEAVER.

All day, all day, round the clacking net The weaver's fingers fly: Gray dreams like frozen mists are set In the hush of the weaver's eye; A voice from the dusk is calling yet, "Oh, come away, or we die!"

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