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54

LAYS OF MANY LANDS.

He must, he must! in that deep dell,

By that dark water's side,
'Tis known that ne'er a proud tree fell,

But an heir of his fathers died,
And he there's laughter in his eye,
Joy in his voice-yet he must die?
I've borne him in these arms, that now

Are nerveless and unstrung ;
And must I see, on that fair brow,

The dust untimely fung?
I must !-yon green oak, branch and crest,
Lies floating on the dark lake's breast!
The noble boy !-how proudly sprung

The falcon from his hand !
It seem'd like youth to see him young,

A flower in his father's land !
But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh,
For the tree hath fall'n, and the flower must die.
Say not 'tis vain !-- I tell thee, some

Are warn'd by a meteor's light,
Or a pale bird Aitting calls them home,

Or a voice on the winds by night;
And they must go and he too, he-
--Wo for the fall of the glorious Tree!

THE WILD HUNTSMAN.

It is a popular belief in the Odenwald, that the passing of the Wild Huntsman announces the approach of war.

He is supposed to issue with his train from the ruined castle of Rodenstein, and traverse the air to the opposite castle of Schnellerts. It is conddently asserted that the sound of his phantom horses and hounds was heard by the Duke of Baden before the commeucement of the last war in Germany.

Tay rest was deep at the slumberer's hour

If thou didst not hear the blast
Of the savage horn, from the mountain-tower,

As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass'd.
And the roar of the stormy chase went by,

Through the dark unquiet sky!

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LAYS OF MANY LANDS.

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The stag sprung up from his mossy bed

When he caughi the piercing sounds,
And the oak-boughs crash'd to his antler'd head

As be flew from the viewless hounds;
And the falcon soar'd from her craggy height,

Away through the rushing night!
The banner shook on its ancient hold,

And the pine in its desert-place,
As the cloud and tempest onward rollid

With the din of the trampling race;
And the glens were fill'd with the laugh and shout,

And the bugle, ringing out !
From the chieftain's hand the wine-cup fell,

At the castle's festive board,
And a sudden pause came o'er the swell

Of the harp's triumphal chord;
And the Minnesinger's* thrilling lay

In the hall died fast away.
The convent's chanted rite was stay'd,

And the hermit dropp'd his beads,
And a trembling ran through the forest-shade,

At the neigh of the phantom steeds,
And the church-belis peal'd to the rocking blast

As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass’d.
I'he storm hath swept with the chase away,

There is stillness in the sky,
But the mother looks on her son 10 day,

With a troubled heart and eye,
And the maiden's brow hath a shade of care

'Midst the gleam of her golden hair!
The Rhine flows bright, but its waves ere long

Must hear a voice of war,
And a clash of spears our bills among,

And a trumpet roin afar ;
And the brave on a bloody turf must lie,

For the Huntsman hath gone by !

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* Minnesinger, love-singer; the wandering minstrels of Germany were so called in the middle ages.

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LAYS OF MANY LANDS.

BRANDENBURGH HARVEST-SONG.*

FROM THE GERMAN OF LA MOTTE FOUQUE.

The corn, in golden light,
Waves o'er

the plain ;
The sickle's gleam is bright;

Full swells the grain.
Now send we far around

Our harvest lay!
---Alas! a heavier sound

Comes o'er the day!
On every breeze a knell

The hamlets pour,
-We know its cause too well,

She is no more!
Earth shrouds with burial sod

Her soft eye's blue,-
--Now o'er the gifts of God

Fall tears like dew!

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* For the year of the Queen of Prussia's death.

LAYS OF MANY LANDS.

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THE SHADE OF THESEUS.

ANCIENT GREEK TRADITION.

Know ye not when our dead

From sleep to battle sprung? -When the Persian charger's tread

On their covering greensward rung!
When the trainpling march of foes

Had crush'd our vines and flowers,
When jewell'd crests arose
Through the holy laurel-bowers,

When banners caught the breeze,

When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,

And spears on Marathon.
There was one, a leader crown'd,

And arm'd for Greece that day;
But the falchions made no sound
On his gleaming war-array.

the battle's front he stood,
With his tall and shadowy crest;
But the arrows drew no blood
Though their path was through his breast.

When banners canght the breeze,

When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,

And spears on Marathon.
His sword was seen to flash

Where the boldest deeds were done; But it smote without a clash;

The stroke was heard by none ! His voice was not of those

That swell'd the rolling blast, And his steps fell hush'd like snows'Twas the Shade of Theseus pass'd!

When banners caught the breeze,

When helms in sunlight shone,
When inasts were on the seas,

And spears on Marathon.

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LAYS OF MANY LANDS.

Far sweeping through the foe,

With a fiery charge he bore;
And the Mede left many a brow

Oo the sounding ocean-shore.
And the foaming waves grew red,
And the sails

were crowded fast,
When the sons of Asia fled,
As the Shade of Theseus pass'd!

When banners caught the breeze,

When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,

And spears on Marathon.

ANCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE.

Where is the summer, with her golden sun?

-That festal glory hath not pass'd from earth :
For me alone the laughing day is done !
Where is the summer with her voice of mirth ?

-Far in my own bright land!
Where are the Fauns, whose fute-notes breathe and die

On the green hills?-the founts, from sparry caves
Through the wild places bearing melody?
The reeds, low whispering o'er the river waves ?

-Far in my own bright land !
Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining,

The virgin-dances, and the choral strains ?
Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining
The Spring's first roses for their sylvan fanes?

-Far in my own bright land !
Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs,

The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades?
The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs,
And the pine forests, and the olive shades?

-Far in my own bright land!
Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers,

The Dryad's footsteps, and the minstrel's dreams?
--Oh! that my life were as a southern flower's!
I might not languish then by these chill streams,

Far froin my own bright land !

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