and gloomy character which belongs to the legends of the
North. It is, in fact, one of the numerous embodiments of the idea of humanity being changed by evil influences into bestial form ; but it wants the
brightness of such a rendering as is familiar to ns in the tale of "Beauty and the Beast." If right triumphs in the end, it is only as it triumphs in the story of Orestes. The poem opens with the departure of the war-ships to seek a bride for the widowed Bring, King of Seamless. Such a bride they find in an enchanted garden in the far North, a scene described by Mr. Ranking with great force. The young wife wearies of her husband, and loves the gallant young knight, Bjorn. He scorns her, and she casts her enchantments upon him, and on Bera, to whom his love has been given. The sequel of the tale must be sought in Mr. Ranking's volume, which, we can confidently say, will repay perusal. It is seldom, indeed, that we have read a story told in verse with such vigour and freshness. It is no exaggeration to say that no man since the days of Sir Walter Scott has essayed to write in this style with more complete success. The verse flows on with singular freedom,—though sometimes, indeed, ftuit luculentus. We may find, for instance, such a blemish as,— " There never yet was merry day, Since good Queen Drifa at rest did lay;"
but about the good effect produced by the whole there can be no doubt. We quote, as a specimen, a passage from the description of the magic garden :—
"All manner of delight WRR there
Whereon the weary eye, That tires of branches black and bare, And sullen snow-fraught sky,
May rest with gazing, and grow fain
To know that on the earth again The summer hath set noiseless foot.
There bent the boughs with golden fruit, Half hidden by thick creamy buds That promised more the bloom that rods The apple boughs at Eastertide Vied with the apples at its side, Which could show redder; nothing lacked Of spring or summer—squirrels cracked And chattered in the hazel trees
That bent with autumn store, the breeze
Shed rose-leaves all about the sward, And stirred the primrose 'neath its leaves, All seasons joined in quaint accord,
The hours of bud, and bloom, and sheaves."
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