The Danish King assayed to flee, the Duke he held him back: “Stay! prove that knightly courage, at least, thou dost not lack!
That boisterous foe that storms below successfully withstand,
And thine shall be the Saxon throne, and thine the Saxon land!”
And hotter, ever hotter, it became in that wide hall,
And louder, ever louder the crashing fragments fall,
And brighter, ever brighter, the red reflection glared,
And through the portals, half-consumed, the fiery torrent flared.
Then all the gallant Saxons fell down on bended knee: “Lord, mercy on the souls of those who thus have made them free!”
The Duke looked calmly at the flames on wind-swift pinions borne,
The Danish King sank on the ground, he dragged him up in scorn.
“Look here, thou haughty conqueror, and tremble, craven heart! ’Tis thus we break thine iron bonds, and heal oppression’s smart!”
He spoke, the wild flames seized him,—one loud and fearful yell,—
And down on that devoted band the crumbling mansion fell.
A. D.
SKETCHES AT BRIGHTON.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “HELIONDÈ,” “THE MEMOIRS OF A STOMACH,” &c.
NO. IV. A BOARDING-HOUSE.
I dare be sworn there are many admirably conducted establishments of the boarding-house description at Brighton, and all over England, where ladies and gentlemen congregate for the purpose of exchanging the amenities of life and of enjoying a polite and refined intercourse: but I regret to say the Royal Shingle Boarding-house, Sunset Street, West Cliff, was not one of those; and in respect to its dinners I at once declare (humbly acknowledging my dainty and fastidious tastes) I would rather than dine there again, share fortune de pot with the Felinæ at the Zoological Gardens. I can quite comprehend the enjoyment of taking your mid-day meal with an Irish navvy on a heap of pre-Adamite stones about to be Scottish-ised; you would pull out your clasped-knife, slice away at your hunch of bread and meat, take frequent pulls at your little barrel of cider, and smoke a short black pipe, feeling quite at home and very much at your ease, while Daniel O’Donnel, having finished his dinner, makes a pillow of his pickaxe and coat, lays himself tranquilly down on the lap of Mother Earth, and goes to sleep dreaming of a pig at his hearth and “aisy times of it in Connemara;” but what to do when you dine with the habitués of a boarding-house is quite another affair, and I must say the al fresco meal has the better of
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