. Songs without music, rhymes and recitations. 219 WINFREDS HAIR. WINFRED, waking in the morning,Locks dishevelled, sighed, Alas IBroken is the Venice-bodkin That you gave me —twas of my auburn hair, henceforward, Shall be given to the wind.—Ere the evening came, anothersNet of pearls her hair confined. Fragile as the Venice-bauble I had thrust in Winfreds the pearl-net snapped asunder Other hands had fastened there ;Ere the moons wide-blossomed petals On the breast of night had died,(Net and bodkin both discarded,) Winfreds glittering hair flowed wide ! Silver comb and sil
. Songs without music, rhymes and recitations. 219 WINFREDS HAIR. WINFRED, waking in the morning,Locks dishevelled, sighed, Alas IBroken is the Venice-bodkin That you gave me —twas of my auburn hair, henceforward, Shall be given to the wind.—Ere the evening came, anothersNet of pearls her hair confined. Fragile as the Venice-bauble I had thrust in Winfreds the pearl-net snapped asunder Other hands had fastened there ;Ere the moons wide-blossomed petals On the breast of night had died,(Net and bodkin both discarded,) Winfreds glittering hair flowed wide ! Silver comb and silken fillet Next, in turn, the wild hair bound. Till, at length, the crown of wifehoodClasped itself that hair around. 220 WIN FREDS HAIR. Golden crown of Love ! displacingGirlhoods vain adornments there Winfred never more shall alter,Now, the fashion of her 221 A SCANDINAVIAN LEGEND. A LITTLE water-spirit all day long?^^ Sat singing on the stream. The fisher heardAnd smiled to hear that sweet voice, as it stirredThe reeds and rushes with its trustful song. I hope, O I hope, that burthen ever grew, That the Redeemer of mankind will save me too ! A stern, hard priest who rode along that way,Wrapt in a mantle of self-righteous his wrath kindle at the soft appeal. That formed the burthen of that trustful lay. I hope, O I hope, burst from those lips anew, That the Redeemer of mankind will save me too ! There sat the little Spirit on the the priest turning on his saddle, cried, Cease, cease that clamour, the Redeemer died The souls of men—not such as thee—to save. As soon shall blossoms this bare twig unfold As thou, Salvation, impious sprite, behold! With that same twig, his lazy mule he the poor Spirits cry of sharp despair 222 A SCANDINAVIAN LEGEND. At those fell words rang on the silent air,As he sank down
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