The thousand crowns; a pleasant load, And Nassau's Duke the favorite took Into his deer-park's centre, To share a field with other pets Where deer-slayer cannot enter. There, whilst thou cropp'st thy flowery food, Each hand shall pat thee kind, And man shall never spill thy blood, Wiesbaden's gentle hind. Thomas Campbell. Windeck, the Castle. THE LADY OF CASTLE WINDECK. EIN in thy snorting charger! REIN That stag but cheats thy sight; He is luring thee on to Windeck, With his seeming fear and flight. Now, where the mouldering turrets Of the outer gate arise, The knight gazed over the ruins Where the stag was lost to his eyes. The sun shone hot above him ; The castle was still as death; He wiped the sweat from his forehead, With a deep and weary breath. "Who now will bring me a beaker The careless words had scarcely He saw the glorious maiden In her snow-white drapery stand, He quaffed that rich old vintage, A fire with the grateful draught. Her eyes' unfathomed brightness! She gave him a look of pity, And quickly as he had seen her She passed from his sight again. And ever from that moment Ghost-like and pale he wandered, 'Tis said that the lady met him, IT Winterthal. THE DESERTED MILL. T stands in the lonely Winterthal, It stands as though it fain would fall, Its engines, coated with moss and mould, Its mildewed walls and windows old Are crumbling to decay. So through the daylight's lingering hours But soon as the sunset's gorgeous bowers The long-dead millers leave their lairs, And the miller's men, they too awake, And the cry is, "Grist here, ho!" And ever as night wears more and more Huge sacks are barrowed from floor to floor; The hoppers clatter, the engines roar, But with the morning's pearly sheen And the moon-dim face of a woman is seen Through the meal-dulled window-panes. She opens the sash, and her words resound "Come hither, good folks, the corn is ground; Thereon strange hazy lights appear A-flitting all through the pile, And a deep, melodious, choral cheer Ascends through the roof the while. For suddenly all again is dark, It stands in the desolate Winterthal, It stands as though it would rather fall, Its engines, coated with moss and mould, And its mildewed walls and windows old August Schnezler. Tr. J. C. Mangan. |