bursts upon my view;
Though the word be hard to utter,
I must bid thee, love, adieu!"

Up his mighty limbs he gather'd,
Took the coffin on his back,
To the church-yard straight he hasten'd
By the well-known, beaten, track.

Up then rose the sweet Eliza;
Tear-drops on her features stood,
While her lover she attended
Through the dark and dreary wood.

When they reach'd the lone enclosure,
(Last, sad, refuge of the dead)--
From the cheeks of good Sir Aager
All the lovely colour fled:

"Listen, now, my sweet Eliza,
If my peace be dear to thee:
Never, then, from this time forward,
Shed a single tear for me.

"Turn thy lovely eyes to heaven,
Where the stars are beaming pale;
Thou canst tell me, then, for certain,
If the night begins to fail."

When she turn'd her eyes to heaven,
All with stars besprinkled o'er,
In the earth the dead man glided,
And she never saw him more.

Homeward went the sweet Eliza;
Oh, her heart was chill and cold:--
Wo is me! the Monday after,
Dead she lay beneath the mould!

SAINT OLUF.
FROM THE OLD DANISH.

St. Oluf was a mighty king,
Who rul'd the Northern land;
The holy Christian faith he preach'd,
And taught it, sword in hand.

St. Oluf built a lofty ship,
With sails of silk so fair;
"To Hornelummer I must go,
And see what's passing there."

"O do not go," the seamen said,
"To yonder fatal ground,
Where savage Jutts, {f:5} and wicked elves,
And demon sprites, abound."

St. Oluf climb'd the vessel's side;
His courage nought could tame!
"Heave up, heave up the anchor straight;
Let's go in Jesu's name.

"The cross shall be my faulchion now--
The book of God my shield;
And, arm'd with them, I hope and trust
To make the demons yield."

And swift, as eagle cleaves the sky,
The gallant vessel flew;
Direct for Hornelummer's rock,
Through ocean's wavy blue.

'T was early in the morning tide
When she cast anchor there;
And, lo! the Jutt stood on the cliff,
To breathe the morning air:

His eyes were like the burning beal--
His mouth was all awry;
The truth I tell, and say he stood
Full twenty cubits high:

His beard was like a horse's mane,
And down his bosom roll'd;
The claws that fenc'd his finger ends
Were frightful to behold.

"I never yet have seen," he cried,
"A ship come near my strand,
That here to shore I could not drag,
By putting out my hand."

The good St. Oluf smil'd thereat,
And thus address'd his crew:
"Now hold your tongues, and