* * * * *


THE NECK.[7]

A SWEDISH TRADITION.

_(For the Mirror.)_


His cheek was blanch'd, but beautiful and soft, each curling tress
Wav'd round the harp, o'er which he bent with zephyrine caress;
And as that lyrist sat all lorn, upon the silv'ry stream,
The music of his harp was as the music of a dream,
Most mournfully delicious, like those tones that wound the heart,
Yet soothe it, when it cherishes the griefs that ne'er depart.

"O Neck! O water-spirit! demon, delicate, and fair!"
The young twain cried, who heard his lay, "_why_ art thou harping there?
Thine airy form is drooping, Neck! thy cheek is pale with dree,
And torrents shouldst thou weep, poor fay, _no Saviour lives for thee!_"
All mournful look'd the elflet then, and sobbing, cast aside
His harp, and with a piteous wail, sunk fathoms in the tide.

Keen sorrow seiz'd those gentle youths, who'd given cureless pain--
In haste they sought their priestly sire, in haste return'd again;
Return'd to view the elf enthron'd in waters as before,
Whose music now was sighs, whose tears gush'd e'en from his heart's core.
"Why weeping, Neck? look up, and clear those tearful eyes of blue--