ellings but poorly are furnish'd;
So choose ye there rather, and bring to your father,
Keen sabres and bucklers high-burnish'd.

But bring home, above all, Laskian {33} girls to our hall,
More sprightly than fawns in fine weather;
The hues of the morning their cheeks are adorning,
Their eyes are like stars of the ether.

Half a century ago, when my young blood did glow,
A wife from their region I bore me;
Death tore us asunder, yet ne'er I look yonder,
But memory straight brings her before me."

Now advis'd them he hath, so he blesseth their path,
And away they high-spirited rattle;
Grim winter comes chiding--of them there's no tiding;
Says Budrys: they've fallen in battle.

With an avalanche's might to the gate spurs a knight,
And beneath his wide mantle he's laden:
"Hast there Russian money--the roubles so bonny?"
"No, no! I've a Laskian maiden."

Like an avalanche in might riding comes an arm'd knight,
And beneath his wide mantle he's laden:
"From the German, brave fellow, bring'st amber so yellow?"
"No, no! here's a Laskian maiden."

Like an avalanche of snow the third up rideth now,
Nor has he, as it seemeth, been idle;
As the booty he showeth, old Budrys hallooeth
To bid guests for the brave triple bridal.

THE BANNING OF THE PEST.

From the Finnish.

The plague is solemnly conjured to leave the country, and the speaker
offers to find a suitable conveyance, namely a demon-horse summoned from
one of those mountains in Norway supposed to be inhabited by evil spirits
and goblins.

Hie away, thou horrid monster!
Hie away, our country's ruin!
Hie thee from our plains and valleys!
I will find thee fit conveyance,
Find a horse for thee to ride on,
One whose feet nor slip nor stumble
On the ice or on the mountain;
Get thee gone, I do conjure thee;
Take thee from the hill a courser,
From the Goblin's Burg a stallion
For thy dreary homeward journey;
If thou ask me for conveyance,
If thou ask me for a courser,
I will raise thee one full quickly,
On whose back though mayest gallop
To thy home accurst in Norway,
To the flint-hard hill in Norway.
When the Goblin's Burg thou reachest
Burst with might its breast asunder;
Plunge thee past its sand-born witches
Down into the gulf eternal;
Never be thou seen or heard of
From that dismal gulf eternal.
Get thee gone, I do conjure thee,
Into Lapland's thickest forest,
To the North's extremest region;
Get thee gone, I do command thee,
To the No