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pty that shroud and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" Oh, pale grew the cheek of the chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen! Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn-- 'Twas the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn: "I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her grief, I dreamed that her lord was a barbarous chief; On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem:-- Glenara! Glenara! now read me MY dream!" In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne; Now joy to the house of the fair Ellen of Lorn! A FABLE FOR MUSICIANS. BY CLARA DOTY BATES. He grew as a red-headed thistle Might grow, a mere vagabond weed-- Little Frieder--as gay with his whistle As water-wagtail on a reed-- Blithe that was indeed! He had a little old fiddle, A shabby and wonderful thing, Patched at end, patched and glued in the middle Oft lacking a key or a string, But, oh, it could sing! Barber's 'prentice was Frieder, but having No sense of the true barber's art, He cut every face in the shaving, Pulled hair, and left gashes and smart, Getting blows for his part. Blows he liked not, and so off he started One morning, his fortune to seek, Comb and fiddle his all, yet light-hearted As long as his fiddle could squeak, Be it ever so weak. Ran away! Highway rutted or dusty Seemed velvety grass to his feet; Sang the birds; his own stout legs were trusty; To his hunger a black crust was sweet, And life seemed complete. Towards twilight he came to a meadow Where a lovely green water, outlaid Like a looking-glass, held in clear shadow Low iris-grown shores--every blade Its double had made. Neck, the Nixie, lived under this water, In a palace of glass, far below Where fishes might swim, or the
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