Take a message and a token to some distant

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head

friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen-at Bingen on the When the troops come marching home again Rhine.

with glad and gallant tread, But to look upon them proudly with a calm. and steadfast eye,

"Tell my brothers and companions, when For her brother was a soldier too, and not they meet and crowd around

To hear my mournful story in the pleasant

afraid to die;

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name

shame,

vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when To listen to him kindly, without regret or the day was done Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine)

the setting sun ;

And 'mid the dead and dying were some

grown old in wars

The death-wound on their gallant breasts the

last of many scars

For the honor of old Bingen-dear Bingen on the Rhine.

And some were young and suddenly beheld "There's another—not a sister; in the happy life's morn decline,

days gone by

And one had come from Bingen-fair Bingen You'd have known her by the merriment

dreamed I stood with her and saw the yellow sunlight shine

And when he died and left us to divide his On the vine-clad hills of Bingen-fair Bingen

To rest how long the town had stood.

And down the pleasant river and up the | And asked of one who sat him down
slanting hill
The echoing chorus sounded through the He roused himself; 'twas but to say,

evening calm and still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me as we

passed with friendly talk

"The town has stood for many a day,
And will be here for ever and aye.”

Down many a path beloved of yore, and A thousand years went by, and then

well-remembered walk;

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly,

in mine;

But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved

Bingen on the Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse,

his grasp was childish weak, His eyes put on a dying look, he sighed and ceased to speak;

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had filed:

I went the selfsame road again.

No vestige of that town I traced,

But one poor swain his horn employed,
His sheep unconscious browsed and grazed.
I asked, "When was that town destroyed?"
He spoke, nor would his horn lay by:
But I know nothing of towns—not I."
"One thing may grow and another die,

A thousand years went by, and then

The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land I passed the selfsame place again

is dead.

she looked down

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly There, in the deep of waters cast
His nets one lonely fisherman,
On the red sand of the battlefield with bloody And as he drew them up at last
corses strewn ;
I asked him how that lake began.
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale He looked at me, and laughed to say,
"The waters spring for ever and aye,

light seemed to shine,

As it shone on distant Bingen-fair Bingen And fish are plenty every day." on the Rhine.

CHI

CAROLINE E. NORTON.

CHIDHAR THE PROPHET.

FROM THE GERMAN OF RÜCKERT.

HIDHAR, the prophet ever young,
Thus loosed the bridle of his tongue :

I journeyed through a noble town
With many a mansion fair and good,

A thousand years went by, and then

I went the selfsame road again.

I found a country wild and rude,
And, axe in hand, beside a tree,
The hermit of that solitude.

I asked how old that wood might be.
He spoke: "I count not time at all;
A tree may rise, a tree may fall;
The forest overlives us all.”

A thousand years went on, and then

I passed the selfsame place again.

And there a glorious city stood,

And 'mid tumultuous market-cry

The nerve of that strong arm which used to cleave

The proudest foeman like the sapling spray Oh, friends, the dimness of the grave doth steal

I asked, "When rose the town, where wood, Over those eyes that as the eagle dared

!

The noontide sunbeam. Let me hear your

voice

Once more-once more!

"In vain! The ear is sealed

Which caught the rustle of the lightest leaf

Where the close ambush lay. Come back, come back!

Hear my last bidding, friends: Lay not my

bones

Near any white man's bones. Let not his hand

Hence, hence! Ye shall not see me when I Touch my clay pillow, nor his hateful voice

die,

If die I must. I would not that the men
Whom I have led to battle saw me yield

To any conqueror. Shall warriors hear

my

Sing burial-hymns for me. Rather than
dwell

In Paradise with him, my soul would choose
Eternal darkness and the undying worm.

From this undaunted breast the gasp or Ho! heed my words, or else my wandering

groan

As when a woman dies?

shade

Shall haunt ye with its curse!"

How cold the dew

And so he died, Starts o'er my temples! Wipe it not That pagan chief, the last strong banner

Shame on your tears! Leave me alone with Of the poor Senecas. No more the flash
Death,
Of his wild eloquence shall fire their ranks
For I will meet him as a brave man should, To mortal combat. His distorted brow,
And hurl defiance at him.
And the stern grapple when he sank in

"What is this?
Ha! He hath smote the lion! Was it well
To steal upon me in my unarmed bed,
Most potent enemy? How hast thou cut

death,

Sadly they grave upon their orphan hearts
As to their rude homes in the forest-glade
Mournful they turned.

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.