Page:The New Monthly Magazine - Volume 096.djvu/430



midnight from the farthest Thule, to isles the South Sea laves.

To exercise themselves awhile the dead forsake their graves;

But when it is the Christmas time they stay much longer out,

And may in the churchyard be seen, then, wandering about;

And as they dance their merry rounds, the rattling of their bones

Produces, 'midst the wintry blasts, somewhat unearthly tones.

Poor things! For them there's neither wine, nor punch, nor supper there,

The icicles are all they have, and a mouthful of fresh air.

When shines the moon strange forms are seen, tall spectral giants some:

Such sights as these might even strike a chattering Frenchman dumb.

Scoff not at my poor hero, then, though once in a sad fright—

He is a most discreet young man, and Morten Langè hight.

One Christmas night the fates ordained a journey he must make,

So, for despatch, 'twas his resolve a horse and sledge to take.

Dark was the hour, and in the skies the ranks of stars looked pale,

While from a tower near hooted owls, as in a German tale.

And Morten Langè, by-the-by, was not unlearned, for

About Molboerne's exploits —also the Trojan war,

"Octavianus," Nisses, Trolls, Hobgoblins well he knew,

And all about "the spectre white," whose story is so true.

Too soon the sleigh stood at the door, with many a jingling bell;

But ah! these sounds to his sad cars seemed like his funeral knell.

Yet, though the snow-flakes fell around, of them he took no heed,

But like a British runaway pair, he started at full speed.

He passed a regiment of old trees, whitened from top to toe,

And goon he gained an open plain, where nought he saw but snow.

Like Matthison's "Gedichte," 'twas very, very cold,

But still our hero tried to think that he was warm and bold.

He did not care to gaze about, and so half-closed his eyes;

Yet, spite of this precaution—lo! a curious sight he spies:

A muster of the Elfin-folk enjoying a gay spree,

The men were just five inches high, the women only three:

And though 'twas at the chill Yule-time, when cold reigns over all,

In clothes of flimsy cobwebs made they capered at their ball; The ancient dames, however, wore some more substantial gear,

For of bats' wings their shawls were formed—but, softly—what comes here?

Twelve harnessed mice, with trappings grand, fit for a monarch's own,

They draw a car of fairy work, where a lady sits alone.