The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, He called for his candle, his bell, and his book!

In holy anger, and pious grief,

He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;

From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head; 70

He cursed him in sleeping, that every night

He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright;

He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,

He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;

He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;

He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying,

He cursed him living, he cursed him dying!

Never was heard such a terrible curse;

But, what gave rise to no little surprise, Nobody seemed one penny the worse! 80

Where the first thing they saw, midst the sticks and the straw,

Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw! 100

Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book,

And off that terrible curse he took;

The mute expression served in lieu of confession,

And, being thus coupled with full restitution,

The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!

When those words were heard, that poor little bird

Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd:

He grew sleek and fat,-in addition to that,

A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!

His tail waggled more even than before;

But no longer it wagged with an impudent

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

[This poem was suggested to Longfellow by the discovery of an ancient skeleton in armor, unearthed at Fall River, Massachusetts, in 1839, in connection with the "Round Tower" at Newport (see line 134), which was supposed to be a relic of early Norse settlements in America.]

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armor dressed,

Comest to daunt me!
Wrapped not in eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,
Why dost thou haunt me?"

"She was a prince's child, I but a Viking wild,

And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded!

Should not the dove so white

Follow the sea-mew's flight?
Why did they leave that night
Her nest unguarded?

"Scarce had I put to sea,
Bearing the maid with me,—
Fairest of all was she

Among the Norsemen !-
When on the white sea-strand,
Waving his armed hand,
Saw we old Hildebrand,

With twenty horsemen.

"Then launched they to the blast,
Bent like a reed each mast,
Yet we were gaining fast,

When the wind failed us;
And with a sudden flaw
Came round the gusty Skaw,*
So that our foe we saw
Laugh as he hailed us.

"And as to catch the gale
Round veered the flapping sail,
'Death!' was the helmsman's hail,
'Death without quarter!'
Midships with iron keel

Struck we her ribs of steel;
Down her black hulk did reel

Through the black water!

"As with his wings aslant,
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,
With his prey laden,

So toward the open main,
Beating to sea again,

Through the wild hurricane,

Bore I the maiden.

At

[Macaulay supposes this poem to be a popular ballad among the Romans, written about 390 B.C., but dealing with events of about 510 B.C. that period Rome was a city ruling but a few square miles of territory, and the Etruscan dominions of Lars Porsena were of much greater extent. The Tarquin kings had been expelled from Rome after Sextus, the son of Tarquinius Superbus, had insulted and assaulted the matron Lucretia; Lars Porsena then gathered an army with the intention of forcing the Tarquins upon the city again.]

Lars Porsena of Clusium

By the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it,

And named a trysting day,

And bade his messengers ride forth, East and west and south and north, To summon his array.

Shame on the false Etruscan

Who lingers in his home, When Porsena of Clusium

Is on the march for Rome.

The horsemen and the footmen
Are pouring in amain
From many a stately market-place,
From many a fruitful plain;
From many a lonely hamlet,

Which, hid by beech and pine,

Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest Of purple Apennine;

From lordly Volaterræ,

Where scowls the far-famed hold

Piled by the hands of giants

For godlike kings of old;

From seagirt Populonia,

Whose sentinels descry
Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops
Fringing the southern sky;

From the proud mart of Pisa,
Queen of the western waves,
Where ride Massilia's triremes
Heavy with fair-haired slaves;
From where sweet Clanis wanders

Through corn and vines and flowers; From where Cortona lifts to heaven Her diadem of towers.

Tall are the oaks whose acorns
Drop in Dark Auser's rill;

Fat are the stags that champ the boughs
Of the Ciminian hill;
Beyond all streams Clitumnus

Is to the herdsman dear;
Best of all pools the fowler loves
The great Volsinian mere.

But now no stroke of woodman

Is heard by Auser's rill;

No hunter tracks the stag's green path Up the Ciminian hill;

Unwatched along Clitumnus

Grazes the milk-white steer;

Unharmed the water-fowl may dip
In the Volsinian mere.

The harvests of Arretium

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