ing steel, brightly gleaming like the meteor visions of the northern skies.

His valiant companions followed him to the crowded shore; there he dispensed bracelets of gold and gems, the spoils of his might, and filled with money-gifts the hands of, the brave. His banner floated on the ocean winds, from the tall mast of his war-ship, stored with the weapons of Hilda, with the glittering apparel of heroes, and precious vessels of fine gold and silver.

The white-bosomed maiden of Rothgar had often viewed with delight the noble form of Valdrwulf, and listened in her father's chamber of shields to the song of the Scalds, as, from the harp, came the sweet sound of song to the praise of his gallant exploits.

But Valdrwulf vowed to Odin, to the father of spells, never to know the joys of love, till he had won rule and power in the white Isle of the West.

The maiden of Rothgar forsook her father's bannered halls; she was no longer a cupbearer in the gilded chamber of Thegns, nor witnessed its joyous games, or listened to the music that wandered

from the harp of the Scald :--she fled in sorrow, no one knew the place of her abode.

There came to Valdrwulf, as he mounted the deck, a lovely youth in the habiliments of the field; his white buckler, without device, hung on his arm, which showed he yet had won no trophies in fight; his seaxant glittered by his side, but his eyes of diamond fire, outshone the lustre of his brand; while his hair flowed over the rings of his mail in dark clusters, rich as the tresses of Freya, the goddess of love and beauty.

"I swear to follow Valdrwulf," cried the youth, over the field of pirates, the stormy path of the merchant, to the white land in the west, which lies beyond the mists of the hazy ocean, to be his loving brother in arms, and if he fall, to perish by his side."

Valdrwulf, the giver of bracelets, was charmed with the noble beauty and boldness of the youth. They vowed eternal friendship in each other's arms; they pierced their veins, they tasted each other's

+ Saxon sword.

blood mingled with wine, from a golden cup, the pledge of truth and constancy; and poured forth the remainder to Odin, king of battles.

The sea-winds are filling the lifted sails of the kingly war-ship of Valdrwulf. She tilts the white surge from her prów, and mounts gallantly the wide-rolling billows. The waves of ocean are turned to gold, and the heavens glow like the choicest ruby; the purple cloud throne of the sun, the king of splendours, rests on the ocean's sapphire verge; sea and sky are enshrined in glory, while afar off, the dim vessel appears like a shadowy spot on the bright orb of the moon.

Ella sits thoughtful on the dais, retired from the place of combat, the meeting of the armed.

He sits gloomy and sad, at the feast of warriors in his lofty pavilion, hung with gleaming web, and pictured, cloth of purple and gold, in the midst of his camp, near the walls of Caer-Andred. Hard fought had been the battle of the day, for the Britons stood firm on their bulwarks of strength. Saxon blood drenched the mounds that encompass the hill city of the Cymry, and many places are empty at the banquet, wont to be filled with the dark-browed warriors of renown.

But it is not the battle alone that thins the ranks of weaponed men in the host of the war king of the south. The giant fiend of the moor, a monster demon that delights in murder, enters the camp, when deep sleep falls on the Theghs, and dyes his iron club in their gore.t

How he enters undiscovered, or how he returns, sated with hot blood, none can tell.

But now the mead-cup circles joyously round the lord of his kinsmen in that tent of shields, and the Scald, of the feast strikes his harp to valiant deeds of other years.

A shout rings through the camp Ella starts from bis high seat, and the British watchmen sound the loud trump of alarm, snatching their weapons from the walls of their fortress.

A messenger informed King Ella that Valdrwulf Etheling of the Isles, and his valiant-looking bands, were arrived at the camp from their wave journey over the deep waters of the loud sounding ocean. Joyously were they welcomed to the pavilion of the princely son of Odin. Now came forth Elgitha the queen, to the banquet of the men of strength; her robes of

* Saxo. Gram. lib. 1.

+ This incident is borrowed from the Saxon poem of BEOWULF in the British Museum.

needle-work were wrought with figures of gold and crimson; on her head and arms were bands of starry jewels, and her white veil flowed down her shoulders, like the mantling foam of the rock-o'erleaping torrent. Her eye was bright with pleasure, and her voice like music that comes over the moonlight waters of summer. She gave the hydromel cup to the illustrious strangers of battle, and filled the horn of hospitality to its golden brim.

Then was told by King Ella, sitting on his stool of power, the strange tale of the Fiend of the Moor, the Thyrse of the black valley. Valdrwulf vowed to encounter him alone. The paleness of fear came over the cheek of his youthful friend, like the white cloud passing athwart the gloryful moon; but the warriors marked not the change which fell on him, pondering deep on the nightly visitation of the bloodquaffing Fiend of the Moor.

The hour of rest came on; Ella and his queen, with her damsels, beautiful as the shining elves, withdrew to the bright web-hung tent of repose. The warders prepared the couch of sleep for the strangers; they took the mail of gleaming rings, the cap of steel with its eagle plumes, from the weary Etheling of the Isles; he sunk with his chiefs on the rushy couch, and his spirit wandered in the fairy land of dreams.

There was a mournful sound in the black valley; the winds of midnight came forth, shaking its hundred groves of oak. The dark fiend of the moor arose; he forsook his gloomy solitude: the dim cloud of the mountain was his robe, and the red meteor of the fen cast its wavering light on his hideous visage.

Onward he strode through the camp of the Saxons; he thirsted for noble blood, he sought the royal pavilion. Sleep went before him; death was at his side; the warders saw not his coming. He stood in the tent door-dreadful as Loke the evil one, fiercely savage as the wolf who shall destroy the spouse of Erigga, when the twilight of the gods shall cover all things!

He saw the beautiful form of Valdrwulf's friend, and savagely laughed aloud with joy. He aimed his club at the head of the fair youth, whose darkly flowing locks became red with gushing blood!

Shrieks rang through the pavilion.

Valdrwulf awoke, and saw the ghastly fiend standing over his dying friend, shouting with joy! He snatched his magic

Ring armour was worn by the Saxons, whatever may be said to the contrary; the confirmation of this is to be found in their poems.

anlace from his pillow, he rushed, like an evening lion seeking his prey, on the hideous monster,

Terrible are their blows! flames flash from the eyes of the grim demon,-but he cannot prevail against the sword of Valdrwulf. He flies from the strong arm of the Etheling, yelling like the mighty torrent in its headlong course through the valleys of winter, and escapes to the boggy moor of the desart.

Valdrwulf kuelt by his friend, his brother, he called for the leech, but it was in vain! He raised the youth in his arms, who hung over his shoulder with gory brow and blood-streaming locks, like a lovely flower smote down by the

northern blast!

"Valdrwulf, I go to my narrow house, and thou shalt see me no more for ever! Thou hast loved me as thy companion in war, and though thou didst scorn Helga in her father's halls, she left her home and friends to follow thee o'er sea and land; she has won thy love, she dies in thy arms, and she dies happy and blest! Yes, dearest Valdrwulf, I glory in my fate! for now shall I meet thee in the halls of Valhalla, where we shall dwell together in the fellowship of the gods; for this blood, flowing from my veins, shall win my entrance to the refulgent palace of Odin.* Farewell, Valdrwulf, till we meet in glory at the banquet of skulls.

"I see the shining maids of war on their white steeds, waiting to bear me to the feast of warriors. Lay me on the blazing pile, raise high my tomb in the land of strangers, that it may tell distant ages where Helga's ashes rest in peace.

"Mourn not for me, but lift the mead cup high in revelry, and banquet round my hillock of death, for I shall be joyous in the paradise of the brave, before the thunder-veiled throne of the King of Spells. Ah, Valdrwulf!"

Her lips moved, but no sound came from them, her last sob was breathed on the bosom of Valdrwulf.

heard that the fiend of the moor had been put to flight; and he presented the hero of the Isles with a splendid garment of steel, and a helmet of costly workmanship.

That day was another battle fought under the walls of Caer Andrea. But ere the fight began, a British captive was selected, of noble height and daring, with whom Valdrwulf was chosen, amid the shouts of the assembled host, to wage single combat, that the fate of the general conflict might be known.

Valdrwulf was sad and heavy of heart, for the loss of his beloved Helga; but his spirit rose with the battle, and her death added fury to his soul. He rushed on the Briton in combat, as the storm swollen river rolls against the dark rocks in the valley of Restormal. They met like two foaming surges of the ocean, dashed against each other by the raging tempest. But the crooked seaxen of Valdrwulf clove in twain the helmet of the Briton, and he fell divided on the bloody plain. A thousand shouts echoed through the forest of Andreswald, and the Saxons rushed on to the battle, proud in the assurance of victory.

The Britons came forth from the city of their strength to meet them, the banners moved forward like a thousand meteors flashing over the skies of the north.

As the torrents of winter rush down the rocky steeps of Snowdon, so descended from their hill-city the Britons to battle. As the sturdy oaks, the children of ages, in the forest of Malvern, scorn the coming of the tempest, so the illustrious Saxons met the arrow storms of the Britons.

Like the sound of a thousand thunders echoing round the heights of Penmaenmawr. Like the roar of a thousand billows dashing on the rocky cliffs of Guithor. So loud and fierce was the onset, so met the sons of the sword in the shock of bucklers.

Ella the destroyer of kings, was a raging pillar of fire! Valdrwulf outshone himself in arms, his anlace clove the echoing shields asunder, he drove the Britons before him like herds of

be attributed with any probability to Alfred, as a memorial of his victories over the Danes. To the white horse of the Saxon god SUANTOVITE, which no one was permitted to groom but the priests, the Saxons sought for presages and the future events of battle. There is still, near Cerne, in Dorsetshire, an immense white figure of a giant on a hill, supposed by some antiquarians to be that of a Saxon god,-perhaps the god Thor; for, if I remember rightly, he holds a great club in his hand-the maul or mace of that deity.

frighted deer, when the howling of wolves comes on the blast, that shakes the leafless oaks of Ardenn.

That day were the Cymry defeated, they retired to their hill-fortress wearied and sad, help was far away, and none of their tribe came to their relief; yet the Saxons took not their defences that day. The sun went down on the gory field, on the dead bodies of the slain, the evening food of the wolf, amid the red shields of battle. The banners no longer glanced brightly, the spears sent forth no gleams, the croaking of the raven was heard, the howl of the wolf hastening to his prey, and the Saxons retired to their camp on the plain, loaded with the spoils of the foe.

Again there was much joy in their tents. The pavilion of the king was illuminated with blazing lights, the mead banquet was prepared, the warriors sat on high stools covered with golden web, the silver horns of plenty overflowed with wine and the blood of mulberries. The queen and her damsels of beauty poured forth the hydromel liberally, and Etheling, Eorl, and Thegn, rejoiced in their smiles. The scalds of the king awoke the songs of Odin, a hundred voices joined the melodious tones of the harp.

All was joyous but Valdrwulf, sad was his heart for the loss of Helga, and the tear of silent sorrow fell on the gilded brim of his mantling wine cup.

The King sought to soothe his grief; he commanded that a splendid banner should reward his valour in tent and field, he waved his hand, and six noble steeds were led into the pavilion, and presented to the chief of the Isles; they were covered with rich mantlings of needlework, and their saddle bows shone with gems and gold.

Then rose the queen Elgitha, from amidst the fair maidens, and presented him with her armlets, curiously sparkling with precious jewels.

King of Eorls, helmet of thy people," said Valdrwulf, my deservings equal not thy liberal gifts, but my short lived day of fame draws to a close. Helga, my beloved Helga, soon must the struggling flames consume thy lovely form. I have sworn, as thy friend and companion in war, not to survive thee. Grant then, great Odin, father of gods, that my renown, like the sun, when the tempests of noon have passed away, may set in transcendent glory.

"Give me, O king of shields, the no

Called morat, sweetened with honey.

+ Some of the northmen were buried alive with their friends' dead bodies.

blest of these war-steeds, and I will go forth and seek this night, in the black valley, the fiend of the moor, the demon who has destroyed thy people, and slain my own true Helga. I will revenge her death or fall in the conflict. I will bring the head of the monster at my saddle bow, or never again appear in thy tent. Amid the stormy mists of the moor, the dark-rolling clouds of the desert, I shall glory to wrestle with the fiend!"

The warriors shout applause, he leaps on the gallant steed, he rushes forth through the starless night to seek the foul destroyer, the blood-drinking Thyrse of the black valley.

town,

A damsel bright and pure as morning dew; Her cheek surpass'd the moss-rose newly blown,

Her eye excell'd the violet's lovely hue, And dimm'd the jewels in her sparkling zone.

Full many a motley train of gallants came

In broider'd hose and furbish'd gear bedight, Full many a lance was couch'd on battle plain, To win the hand of this same lady bright; But she, alas! from each gay wooer turn'd, And laugh'd to scorn each love-emburden'd tale:

Her heart of steel no spark of love inurn'd,

They might as well ha' sigh'd unto the gale As to that breast from whence 'twas ne'er re

turn'd.

It chanced one summer eve, the sapphire sky Was spangled o'er with hosts of stars, it seem'd

Those bright patches of grass often visible in the meadows, are said to be the rings wherein the fairies hold their midnight gambols.

She gazed, and smiling from the waters rose; The stranger youth for whom she long had sigh'd,

Resolved to put a period to her woes,

She headlong plung'd beneath the dimpling tide.

The moon that moment hid her pallid crest
Beneath the western horizon, the maid
Beheld the spectre's face, so lately drest
In gayest smiles, turn dark as midnight's
shade;

His eyes flash'd fire upon the boiling flood:
In vain she shriek'd for help, the Goblin
curl'd

Around her slender form, drank deep her blood, And fled, exulting, 'neath his watery world. T. F.

LONDON AT FOUR P.M. For the Olio.

MANY writers have directed their talents to the "lively portraiture" of this gay metropolis, and depicted it at various pe riods; but none that I am aware of have chosen the hour which heads my sketch.

Leigh Hunt has selected "the peep o' day as a fertile subject, and drawn it month's magazine contained an account with all the rich tints of a poet : last of the mighty city," somewhat later, eight o'clock perhaps, and an afternoon phrase of a newspaper criticism on paintportrait, "both admirable," to use the ings. Others have no doubt employed themselves on the same theme, and with perhaps equal ability, but I have no knowledge of London 4 P. M." having met with a biographer; rather therefore than that hour should remain unrecorded, poor as are my abilities, my pen should become its chronicler, and obtain it a " cityation" (altho' a humble one) among its more fortunate acquaintance.

the liberty-loving gentlemen immured Four o'clock P. M. is an hour dear to within the walls of the Bank, the India House, and the South Sea House, for then their chains are broken, and once more, Cheapside, Leadenhall street, and the short stages, assume a lively appearance, and short gentlemen with gingham