But not to gaze on these appeared the peers. 
  Stern looked the king, and, when the court was met,—­
  The lady and her lover in the midst,—­
  Spoke to his lords, demanding them of this: 
  “What merits he, the servant of the king,
  Forgetful of his place, his trust, his oath,
  Who, for his own bad end, to hide his fault,
  Makes use of her, a Princess of the realm,
  As of a mule,—­a beast of burden!—­borne
  Upon her shoulders through the winter’s night
  And wind and snow?” “Death!” said the angry lords;
  And knight and squire and minion murmured, “Death!”
  Not one discordant voice.  But Charlemaign—­
  Though to his foes a circulating sword,
  Yet, as a king, mild, gracious, exorable,
  Blest in his children too, with but one born
  To vex his flesh like an ingrowing nail—­
  Looked kindly on the trembling pair, and said: 
  “Yes, Eginardus, well hast thou deserved
  Death for this thing; for, hadst thou loved her so,
  Thou shouldst have sought her Father’s will in this,—­
  Protector and disposer of his child,—­
  And asked her hand of him, her lord and thine. 
  Thy life is forfeit here; but take it, thou!—­
  Take even two lives for this forfeit one;
  And thy fair portress—­wed her; honor God,
  Love one another, and obey the king.”

  Thus far the legend; but of Rhotrude’s smile,
  Or of the lords’ applause, as truly they
  Would have applauded their first judgment too,
  We nothing learn:  yet still the story lives,
  Shines like a light across those dark old days,
  Wonderful glimpse of woman’s wit and love,
  And worthy to be chronicled with hers
  Who to her lover dear threw down her hair,
  When all the garden glanced with angry blades;
  Or like a picture framed in battle-pikes
  And bristling swords, it hangs before our view,—­
  The palace-court white with the fallen snow,
  The good king leaning out into the night,
  And Rhotrude bearing Eginard on her back.

GREEK LINES.

[Concluded.]

“As when a ship, by skilful steersman wrought Nigh river’s mouth or foreland, where the wind Veers oft, as oft so steers, and shifts her sail,—­ So varied he, and of his tortuous train Curl’d many a wanton wreath in sight of Eve To lure her eye.”

And Eve, alas! yielded to the blandishments of the wily serpent, as we moderns, in our Art, have yielded to the licentious, specious life-curve of Hogarth.  When I say Art, I mean that spirit of Art which has made us rather imitative than creative, has made us hold a too faithful mirror up to Nature, and has been content to let the great Ideal remain petrified in the marbles of Greece.