Brought the best of her provisions,
Brought the mead and beer of barley,
Set for him a toothsome dinner,
Wherewithal to still his hunger,
Quench the thirst of Lemminkainen.
When the hero's feast had ended,
Straightway was a magic vessel
Given by the kindly hostess
To the weary Kaukomieli,
Bark of beauty, new and hardy,
Wherewithal to aid the stranger
In his journey to his home land,
To the cottage of his mother.

Quickly sailed wild Lemminkainen
On the blue back of the ocean;
Sailed he days and nights unceasing,
Till at last he reached the borders
Of his own loved home and country;
There beheld he scenes familiar,
Saw the islands, capes, and rivers,
Saw his former shipping stations,
Saw he many ancient landmarks,
Saw the mountains with their fir trees,
Saw the pine trees on the hilltops,
Saw the willows in the lowlands;
Did not see his father's cottage,
Nor the dwellings of his mother.
Where a mansion once had risen,
There the alder trees were growing,
Shrubs were growing on the homestead,
Junipers within the courtyard.
Spake the reckless Lemminkainen:
"In this glen I played and wandered,
On these stones I rocked for ages,
On this lawn I rolled and tumbled,
Frolicked on these woodland borders,
When a child of little stature.
Where then is my mother's dwelling,
Where the castles of my father?
Fire, I fear, has found the hamlet,
And the winds dispersed the ashes."
Then he fell to bitter weeping,
Wept one day, and then a second,
Wept the third day without ceasing;
Did not mourn the ancient homestead,
Nor the dwellings of his father;

Wept he for his darling mother,
Wept he for the dear departed,
For the loved ones of the island.

Then he saw the bird of heaven,
Saw an eagle flying near him,
And he asked the bird this question:
"Mighty eagle, bird majestic,
Grant to me the information,

Where my mother may have wandered,
Whither I may go and find her!"

But the eagle knew but little,

Only knew that Ahti's people
Long ago together perished;
And the raven also answered

That his people had been scattered
By the swords, and spears, and arrows,
Of his enemies from Pohya.
Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: -
"Faithful mother, dear departed,
Thou who nursed me in my childhood,
Art thou dead and turned to ashes,
Didst thou perish for my follies,
O'er thy head are willows weeping,
Junipers above thy body,

Alders watching o'er thy slumbers?
This my punishment for evil,

This the recompense of folly!
Fool was I, a son unworthy,

That I measured swords in Northland
With the landlord of Pohyola.
To my tribe came fell destruction,
And the death of my dear mother,
Through my crimes and misdemeanors.

Then the minstrel looked about him,

Anxious, looked in all directions,
And beheld some gentle footprints,
Saw a pathway lightly trodden

Where the heather had been beaten.
Quick as thought the path he followed,

Through the meadows, through the brambles,
O'er the hills, and through the valleys,
To a forest, vast and cheerless;
Traveled far and traveled farther,
Still a greater distance traveled,
To a dense and hidden glenwood,

In the middle of the island;
Found therein a sheltered cabin,
Found a small and darksome dwelling
Built between the rocky ledges,
In the midst of triple pine trees;
And within he spied his mother,
Found his gray-haired mother weeping.
Lemminkainen loud rejoices,

Cries in tones of joyful greetings,
These the words that Ahti utters:
"Faithful mother, well-beloved,
Thou that gavest me existence,
Happy I, that thou art living,
That thou hast not yet departed
To the kingdom of Tuoni,

To the islands of the blessed.

I had thought that thou hadst perished,
Hadst been murdered by my foemen,
Hadst been slain with bows and arrows.
Heavy are mine eyes from weeping,
And my cheeks are white with sorrow,
Since I thought my mother slaughtered
For the sins I had committed!"
Lemminkainen's mother answered: -
"Long, indeed, hast thou been absent,
Long, my son, hast thou been living
In thy father's Isle of Refuge,
Roaming on the secret island,
Living at the doors of strangers,
Living in a nameless country,

Refuge from the Northland foeman."
Spake the hero, Lemminkainen:
"Charming is that spot for living,
Beautiful the magic island,
Rainbow-colored was the forest,
Blue the glimmer of the meadows,
Silvered were the pine-tree branches,
Golden were the heather blossoms;
All the woodlands dripped with honey,
Eggs in every rock and crevice,
Honey flowed from birch and sorb tree,
Milk in streams from fir and aspen,
Beer foam dripping from the willows,
Charming there to live and linger,
All their edibles delicious.

This their only source of trouble:
Great the fear for all the maidens,
All the heroes filled with envy,
Feared the coming of the stranger;
Thought that all the island maidens,
Thought that all the wives and daughters,
All the good, and all the evil,

Gave thy son too much attention;

Thought the stranger, Lemminkainen,
Saw the island maids too often;

Yet the virgins I avoided,

Shunned the good and shunned the evil,
Shunned the host of charming daughters,
As the black wolf shuns the sheepfold,
As the hawk neglects the chickens."

THE CID.1

BY CORNEILLE.

[PIERRE CORNEILLE, the great French dramatist, was born at Rouen, June 6, 1606. He practiced law for a time at Rouen, but the success of his first comedy, "Mélite," induced him to enter upon a literary career. After producing a series of comedies, he began writing tragedies, and brought out in rapid succession "Médée"; "Le Cid," which established his fame; "Horace" "; "Cinna "Polyeucte," frequently regarded as his greatest work; "La Mort de Pompée (Death of Pompey); "Théodore"; Rodogune." "Le Menteur" (The Liar) entitles him to be called the father of French comedy as well as of tragedy. There was a distinct decline in the quality of Corneille's later works, and during the closing years of his life he was overshadowed by his younger contemporary, Racine. Corneille became a member of the French Academy in 1647. He died in Paris, October 1, 1684.]

Chimène

66

What! Rodrigo! In broad daylight! Whence comes this audacity? Go, thou art ruining my honor; retire, I beseech thee.

Don Rodrigo-I go to die, dear lady, and I come to bid you in this place, before the mortal blow, a last adieu. This unchangeable love, which binds me beneath your laws, dares not to accept my death without paying to you homage for it. Chimène Thou art going to death!

1 Copyright, 1896, by Hinds and Noble, and used by their permission.

Don Rodrigo-1 speed to those happy moments which will deliver my life from your resentment.

Chimène Thou art going to death! Is Don Sancho, then, so formidable that he can inspire terror in this invincible heart? What has rendered thee so weak? or what renders him so strong? Does Rodrigo go to fight, and believe himself already slain? He who has not feared the Moors nor my father, goes to fight Don Sancho, and already despairs? Thus, then, thy courage lowers itself in the hour of need.

Don Rodrigo-I speed to my punishment, and not to the combat; and, since you seek my death, my faithful ardor will readily deprive me of the desire of defending my life. I have always the same courage, but I have not the arm, when it is needed, to preserve that which does not please you; and already this night would have been fatal to me, if I had fought for my own private wrong; but, defending my king, his people, and my country, by carelessly defending myself, I should have betrayed them. My highborn spirit does not hate life so much as to wish to depart from it by perfidy, now that it regards my interests only. You demand my death-I accept its decree. Your resentment chose the hand of another; I was unworthy to die by yours. They shall not see me repel its blows; I owe more respect to him who fights for you; and delighted to think that it is from you these blows proceed - since it is your honor that his arms sustain-I shall present to him my unprotected breast, worshiping through his hand thine that destroys

me.

Chimène-If the just vehemence of a sad sense of duty, which causes me, in spite of myself, to follow after thy valiant life, prescribes to thy love a law so severe that it surrenders thee without defense to him who combats for me, in this infatuation, lose not the recollection that, with thy life, thine honor is tarnished, and that, in whatever renown Rodrigo may have lived, when men shall know him to be dead, they will believe him conquered. Thine honor is dearer to thee than I am dear, since it steeps thine hands in the blood of my father, and causes thee to renounce, in spite of thy love, the sweet hope of gaining me. I see thee, however, pay such little regard to it that, without fighting, thou wishest to be overcome. What inconsistency mars thy valor! Why hast thou it no more? or why didst thou possess it formerly? What! art thou valiant only to do me an injury? Unless it be to offend me, hast thou no