THE CASTLE OF VAUTSBERG ON THE RHINE.
PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE standing on the terrace at evening. The sound of bells heard in the distance.
E are alone. The wedding guests
Ride down the hill, with plumes and cloaks,
And the descending dark invests
The Niederwald, and all the nests
Among its hoar and haunted oaks.
What bells are those, that ring so slow, So mellow, musical, and low?
They are the bells of Geisenheim, That with their melancholy chime Ring out the curfew of the sun.
PRINCE HENRY.
They are done!
Dear Elsie! many years ago
Those same soft bells at eventide Rang in the ears of Charlemagne, As, seated by Fastrada's side
At Ingelheim, in all his pride
He heard their sound with secret pain.
Their voices only speak to me Of peace and deep tranquillity, And endless confidence in thee!
Thou knowest the story of her ring, How, when the court went back to Aix, Fastrada died; and how the king Sat watching by her night and day, Till into one of the blue lakes, Which water that delicious land, They cast the ring drawn from her hand; And the great monarch sat serene
And sad beside the fated shore,
Nor left the land for ever more.
Wilt thou as fond and faithful be?
Wilt thou so love me after death?
In life's delight, in death's dismay, In storm and sunshine, night and day, In health, in sickness, in decay, Here and hereafter, I am thine! Thou hast Fastrada's ring. Beneath The calm, blue waters of thine eyes Deep in thy steadfast soul it lies, And, undisturbed by this world's breath, With magic light its jewels shine! This golden ring, which thou hast worn Upon thy finger since the morn, Is but a symbol and a semblance, An outward fashion, a remembrance, Of what thou wearest within unseen, O my Fastrada, O my queen! Behold! the hill-tops all aglow With purple and with amethyst; While the whole valley deep below Is filled, and seems to overflow,
With a fast-rising tide of mist.
The evening air grows damp and chill; Let us go in.
Ah, not so soon.
See yonder fire! It is the moon Slow rising o'er the eastern hill.
It glimmers on the forest tips, And through the dewy foliage drips In little rivulets of light,
And makes the heart in love with night.
Oft on this terrace, when the day Was closing, have I stood and gazed, And seen the landscape fade away, And the white vapors rise and drown Hamlet and vineyard, tower and town, While far above the hill-tops blazed. But then another hand than thine Was gently held and clasped in mine; Another head upon my breast
Was laid, as thine is now, at rest, Why dost thou lift those tender eyes With so much sorrow and surprise? A minstrel's, not a maiden's hand, Was that which in my own was pressed. A manly form usurped thy place, A beautiful, but bearded face, That now is in the Holy Land, Yet in my memory from afar Is shining on us like a star. But linger not. For while I speak, A sheeted spectre white and tall, The cold mist climbs the castle wall, And lays his hand upon thy cheek! They go in.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
THE SORROW OF THE GERMAN WEAVER BOY.
RÜBEZAHL, familiar to English readers as Number-nid, had his haunts among the Riesengebirge in Silesia, and was the especial friend and patron of the poor. The Legend of Rübezahl is one of the most touching and beautiful of the German popular stories.
REEN grow the budding blackberry hedges;
What joy! a violet meets my quest; The blackbird seeks the last year's sedges, The merry chaffinch builds her nest; The snow has from each vale receded, It only clothes the mountain's brow. I from my home have stolen unheeded; This is the place; I'll venture now:
Rübezahl "Hears he my call? I'll boldly face him:
He is not bad. Upon this stone My pack of linen I will place him; It is a right good, heavy one, And fine: yes, I'll uphold it ever, I' th' dale no better's wove at all. He shows himself to mortal never; So courage, heart! once more I call:
"No sound! Adown the wood I hasted, That he might help us, hard bestead. My mother's face, so wan and wasted; Within the house no crumb of bread.
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