Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, Christ save us all from a death like this, THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. [The tradition upon which this ballad is founded, and the "shards of the Luck of Edenhall," still exist in England. The goblet is in the possession of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall, Cumberland; and is not so entirely shattered as the ballad leaves it.] OF Edenhall, the youthful Lord And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, "Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!" The butler hears the words with pain, Takes slow from its silken cloth again Then said the Lord: "This glass to praise, Fill with red wine from Portugal!" The graybeard with trembling hand obeys; A purple light shines over all, It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light, ""T was right a goblet the Fate should be Of the joyous race of Edenhall! Deep draughts drink we right willingly; First rings it deep, and full, and mild, Then like the roar of a torrent wild; Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall, The glorious Luck of Edenhall. "For its keeper takes a race of might, The fragile goblet of crystal tall; It has lasted longer than is right; Kling! klang! — with a harder blow than all Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!" As the goblet ringing flies apart, Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall; And through the rift, the wild flames start; In storms the foe, with fire and sword; On the morrow the butler gropes alone, He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton, The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. |