made,
Below the black earth the fair lily they laid.

To the gate of the castle proud Mettelil came,
Dame Ingeborg stood there, and leaned on the same.

"Proud Ingeborg, hear what I say unto thee:
What hast done with my daughter? declare that to me!"

"But yesterday 'twas that with sorrowful mind,
Her corse to the arms of the grave we consign'd."

"Proud Ingeborg, hush thee, nor talk in this guise,
But show me the grave where my dear daughter lies."

As soon as Dame Mettelil o'er the place trod,
Proud Lyborg she screamed underneath the green sod.

"Whoever will gold and will silver obtain,
Let him help me to dig now with might and with main."

They took up proud Lyborg, all there as she lay,
Her mother flung o'er her the scarlet array.

"Now tell to me, Lyborg, thou child of my heart,
Since restored to the arms of thy mother thou art,

"What death to thy thinking should Ingeborg thole,
For placing thee living in horrid grave-hole?"

"To destroy my young life it is true, she was bent,
But let her live, mother, and let her repent."

"That she go unpunished I cannot permit,
I'll teach her what 'tis on a fire to sit."

To two of her servants proud Mettelil spake:
"Do ye quickly a fire on the open field make.

"Do ye cut down the oak and the bonny ash-tree,
That the fire by them fed may burn brilliant and free."

Dame Ingeborg forth from the house they convey'd,
And they burnt her to dust on the fire they had made.

Sir Volmor came home from the red field of strife,
Then tidings assailed him, with dolour so rife.

Then tidings assailed him, with dolour so rife,
Burnt, burnt was his mother, and flown was his wife.

He bade for proud Lyborg of red gold a store,
But he could the lily obtain nevermore.

THE FAITHFUL KING OF THULE

A king so true and steady
In Thule lived of old;
To him his dying lady
A goblet gave of gold.

He drank thereout so often,
For all his love it gained;
To tears his eyes would soften
Whene'er its juice he drained.

When death drew nigh, his spirit
His riches o'er he told
To him who should inherit--
But not that cup of gold.

By all his knights surrounded
One day he sat at dine,
In hall of fortress, founded
By ocean's roaring brine.

The ancient hero rallies
With one more draught his blood,
Then casts the sacred chalice
Below him in the flood.

Deep, deep within the billows
He watched it as it sank;
Then, sinking on h