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are-"Ernest, Duke of Suabia," a tragedy; "Louis the Bavarian," a drama; "Dramatic Poems;" "Walter of the Vogelweid," &c. His poenis were first published in a collected form in 1815, since when they have gone through many editions. He was some time a member of the Würtemberg parliament, in which he occasionally spoke. Died 1862.]

A GOLDSMITH stood where shone around

His pearls and diamonds clear;
"The brightest gem I ever found
Art thou, my pet, my Helena,
My little daughter dear!"

A dainty knight just then came in,
"Good day, my pretty maid:
Good day, my brave old goldsmith, too,
I need a rich set garland

My sweet bride's locks to braid."

Now when the finished garland shone,
And sparkled all so bright,

And Helen could be quite alone,
Upon her arm she hung it,
And saddened at the sight.

"Ah! happy, sure, the bride will be
Who wears this pretty toy:
Ah! if the dear knight would give me
A simple wreath of roses,

O, I should die for joy!"

Ere long the knight came in again,
And close the garland eyed:

"My good old goldsmith, make me, then
A little ring of diamonds

For my sweet little bride."

And when the finished circlet shone

With precious diamonds bright,

And Helen could be quite alone,
She drew it on her finger
And saddened at the sight.

"Ah! happy, sure, the bride will be
Who wears this pretty toy,
Ah! if the dear knight would give me
A little lock of hair, only,

O, I should die for joy!"

Ere long the knight came in again,
And close the ringlet eyed :
"I see, my good old goldsmith, then,
Thou mak'st quite beautifully
The gifts for my sweet bride."

But that their fitness I may see.
Come, pretty maiden, now,
And let me try at once on the
The jewels for my dearest,
For she is fair as thou."

'Twas early on a Sunday morn;
And so the maiden fair

Had put her very best dress on,
And decked herself for service,
With neat and comely care.

In pretty shame, with cheek on fire,
Before him did she stand:

He placed on her the golden tire,
The ringlet on her finger,

And pressed her little hand.

"My Helen sweet! my Helen dear!

The jest is over now;

What bride shall claim the pretty gear,

The jewelled gold-bright garland,
And little ring, but thou?

"With gold, and pearl, and precious gem,

Hast thou grown up to be

As, sweet! thou should'st have learnt from them--
The sharer of high honour,

In after days, with me."

THE SICILIAN VESPERS.

J. G. WHITTIER.

[Mr. Whittier is an American poet of some standing; still living.]

SILENCE o'er sea and earth
With the veil of evening fell,

Till the convent tower sent deeply forth

The chime of its vesper bell.

One moment, and that solemn sound

Fell heavily on the ear;

But a sterner echo pass'd around;

Which the boldest shook to hear.

The startled monks throng'd up,
In the torchlight cold and dim;
And the priest let fall his incense cup,
And the virgin hush'd her hymn;

For a boding clash, and a clanging tramp,
And a summoning voice were heard,
And fretted wall, and tombstone damp,
To the fearful echo stirr❜d.

The peasant heard the sound,

As he sat beside his hearth;

And the song and the dance were hush'd around,
With the fireside tale of mirth.

The chieftain shook in his banner'd hall,
As the sound of war drew nigh;

And the warder shrank from the castle wall,
As the gleam of spears went by.

Woe, woe, to the stranger, then;
At the feast and flow of wine,
In the red array of mailed men,
Or bow'd at the holy shrine;

For the waken'd pride of an injured land
Had burst its iron thrall:

From the plumed chief to the pilgrim band;
Woe, woe, to the sons of Gaul!

Proud beings tell that hour,

With the young and passing fair,

And the flame went up from dome and tower,
The avenger's arm was there!

The stranger priest at the altar stood,
And clasp'd his beads in prayer,

But the holy shrine grew dim with blood;

The avenger found him there!

Woe, woe, to the sons of Gaul;
To the serf and mailed lord;

They were gathered darkly, one and all,
To the harvest of the sword;
And the morning sun, with a quiet smile,
Shone out o'er hill and glen,

On ruin'd temple and mouldering pile,
And the ghastly forms of men.

Ay, the sunshine sweetly smiled,
As its early glance came forth;
It had no sympathy with the wild
And terrible things of earth;

And the man of blood that day might read,
In a language freely given,

How ill his dark and midnight deed

Became the light of heaven.

THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN.

MRS. HEMANS.

"were

[Felicia Dorothea Hemans was born at Liverpool, Sept. 25, 1793, but was removed with her family before she had attained the age of seven to Gwrych, in Derbyshire. In this romantic region she wrote some very creditable verse while yet in her twelfth year. In 1809 the family removed to St. Asaph, in Flintshire, and in 1812 her "Domestic Affections and other Poems published. In the summer of this year she was married to Captain Hemans, who, in 1818, left her with five children, "to try the effect of a southern climate," but his wife never saw him again, there can be little doubt that it was this painful separation which tinged much of her subsequent compositions. with that melancholy feeling that rendered it so touching, and occasionally, so monotonously pathetic. She may claim to be the first English writer who made the poetry of the home affections adapted to the purposes of song; she beautified and purified musical ballad literature, and had hundreds of imitators -the best proof of the originality of her genius. She died at Dublin, May 16, 1835.1

THE wine-month shone in its golden prime,
And the red grapes clustering hung,

But a deeper sound, through the Switzer's clime,
Than the vintage-music, rung.

A sound, through vaulted cave,
A sound, through echoing glen,
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave;
'Twas the tread of steel-girt men.

And a trumpet, pealing wild and far,
'Midst the ancient rocks was blown,
Till the Alps replied to that voice of war
With a thousand of their own.

And through the forest-glooms
Flash'd helmets to the day,

And the winds were tossing knightly plumes,
Like the larch-boughs in their play.

In Hasli's wilds there was gleaming steel,
As the host of the Austrian pass'd;

And the Schreckhorn's rocks, with a savage peal,
Made mirth of his clarion's blast.

Up 'midst the Righi snows

The stormy march was heard,

With the charger's tramp, whence fire-sparks rose,
And the leader's gathering word.

But a band, the noblest band of all,
Through the rude Morgarten strait,
With blazon'd streamers, and lances tall,
Moved onwards in princely state.

They came with heavy chains, For the race despised so longBut amidst his Alp-domains,

The herdsman's arm is strong!

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn
When they entered the rock defile,
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn
Their bugles rung the while.
But on the misty height,

Where the mountain people stood,

There was stillness, as of night,

When storms at distance brood.

There was stillness, as of deep dead night,
And a pause-but not of fear,

While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might
Of the hostile shield and spear.

On wound those columns bright

Between the lake and wood,

But they look'd not to the misty height
Where the mountain-people stood.

The pass was fill'd with their serried power,
All helm'd and mail-array'd,

And their steps had sounds like a thunder-showe
In the rustling forest-shade.

There were prince and crested knight,
Hemm'd in by cliff and flood,

When a shout arose from the misty height
Where the mountain-people stood.

And the mighty rocks came bounding down,
Their startled foes among,

With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown-
-Oh! the herdsman's arm is strong!

They came like lauwine hurl'd

From Alp to Alp in play,

When the echoes shout through the snowy

And the pines are borne away.

The fir-woods crash'd on the mountain-side,
And the Switzers rush'd from high,

world

With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride
Of the Austrian chivalry:

Like hunters of the deer,

They storm'd the narrow dell,

And first in the shock, with Uri's spear,

Was the arm of William Tell.

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