reat portion of the lot of man. I will prize the spirit
which elevates every condition of humanity; which animates the dying
hero to praise, not himself, but God, and die; and which to the lonely
one, who wanders through the night of life towards his unnoticed grave,
imparts a strength, a peace, and enables him in his darkness to triumph
over all the powers of darkness. Ah! I who deeply feel myself to be one
of the weak ones in the earth, who possess no single drop of Northern
heroic blood; I rejoice that we can live and die in a manner which is
noble, which is beautiful, which requires not the Berserker-mood, and of
which the strongest spirit need not be ashamed. Do you remember, my
brother, 'The old poet' of Rein? This poem perfectly expresses the tone
of mind which I would wish to possess in my last hour."

Harald recollected but faintly "The old poet," and both he and Mrs.
Astrid begged Alette to make them better acquainted with him. Alette
could not remember the whole of the poem, but gave an account of the
most essential of its contents in these words--

"It is spring. The aged poet wanders through wood and mead, in the
country where he once sung, where he had once been happy, amongst those
whom he had made glad. His voice is now broken; his strength, his fire,
are over. Like a shadow of that which once he was, he goes about in the
young world still fresh with life. The birds of spring gather around
him, welcome him with joy, and implore him to take his harp and sing to
it of the new-born year, of the smiling spring. He answers--

O ye dear little singer quire,
No more can I strike the harp with fire;
No more in youth is renewed my spring;
No more the old poet can gaily sing;
And yet I am so blest--
In my heart is heavenly rest.[12]

"He wanders farther through wood and meadow. The brook murmuring between
green banks, whispers to him its joy over its loosed bands, and greets
the singer as the messenger of spring and freedom:

Thy harp, my fleet stream fondly haileth--
It leaps, it exults, it bewaileth;
Let it sound then--O make no delay!--
Like me the days hasten away.

"The aged singer replies:

O spring! which dost leap in thy sheen,
No more am I what I have been.
The name of the past I hear alone--
A feeble echo of days that are flown.
And yet I am so blest;
In my heart is heavenly rest.

"He wanders farther. The Dryads surround him in their dance; the Flowers
pres