"Thy silver hairs I see,
So still, so sadly bright!
And father, father! but for me,

They had not been so white!

I bore thee down, high heart! at last:
No longer couldst thou strive.
Oh! for one moment of the past,
To kneel and say—' forgive!'

"Thou wert the noblest king
On royal throne e'er seen;
And thou didst wear in knightly ring,
Of all, the stateliest mien ;

And thou didst prove, where spears are proved,
In war, the bravest heart:
Oh! ever the renowned and loved
Thou wert-and there thou art!

"Thou that my boyhood's guide
Didst take fond joy to be !-
The times I've sported at thy side,
And climbed thy parent knee!
And there before the blessed shrine,
My sire! I see thee lie,-

How will that sad still face of thine

Look on me till I die!'

THE VASSAL'S LAMENT FOR THE FALLEN TREE.

["Here (at Brereton, in Cheshire) is one thing incredibly strange, but attested, as I myself have heard, by many persons, and commonly believed. Before any heir of this family dies, there are seen, in a lake adjoining, the bodies of trees swimming on the water for several days."-CAMDEN's Brittania.]

YES! I have seen the ancient oak

On the dark deep water cast,

And it was not felled by the woodman's stroke,

Or the rush of the sweeping blast;

For the axe might never touch that tree,

And the air was still as a summer sea.

I saw it fall, as falls a chief

By an arrow in the fight,

And the old woods shook to their loftiest leaf,

At the crashing of its might;

And the startled deer to their coverts drew,

And the spray of the lake as a fountain's flew !

'Tis fallen! But think thou not I weep
For the forest's pride o'erthrown-
An old man's tears lie far too deep
To be poured for this alone;

But by that sign too well I know,
That a youthful head must soon be low!

A youthful head, with its shining hair,
And its bright quick-flashing eye-
Well may I weep! for the boy is fair,
Too fair a thing to die!

But on his brow the mark is set

Oh! could my life redeem him yet!

He bounded by me as I gazed
Alone on the fatal sign,

And it seemed like sunshine when he raised

His joyous glance to mine.

With a stag's fleet step he bounded by,
So full of life--but he must die!

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 flung?

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 seemed 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 had fallen, and the flower must die.
Say not 'tis vain! I tell thee, some
Are warned by a meteor's light,
Or a pale bird, flitting, calls them home,
Or a voice on the winds by night;
And they must go! And he too, he !-
Woe 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 confidently asserted, that the sound of his phantom horses and hounds was heard by the Duke of Baden before the commencement of the last war in Germany.]

THY 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 passed,
And the roar of the stormy chase went by
Through the dark unquiet sky!

The stag sprung up from his mossy bed
When he caught the piercing sounds,

And the oak-boughs crashed to his antlered head,
As he flew from the viewless hounds;
And the falcon soared 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 rolled
With the din of the trampling race;

And the glens were filled 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 triumphant chord;
And the Minnesinger's1 thrilling lay
In the hall died fast away.

The convent's chanted rite was stayed,
And the hermit dropped his beads,

And a trembling ran through the forest-shade,
At the neigh of the phantom steeds,

And the church-bells pealed to the rocking blast
As the Wild Night-Huntsman passed.

The storm hath swept with the chase away,
There is stillness in the sky;

But the mother looks on her son to-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 the clash of spears our hills among,

And a trumpet from afar ;

And the brave on a bloody turf must lie—
For the Huntsman hath gone by!

BRANDENBURG 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.

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

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

Now send we far around
Our harvest lay !—
Alas! a heavier sound

Comes o'er the day!

Earth shrouds with burial sod
Her soft eyes blue,--
Now o'er the gifts of God
Fall tears like dew!

On every breeze a knell

The hamlets pour :

We know its cause too well-
She is no more!

THE SHADE OF THESEUS.

AN 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 trampling march of foes

Had crushed our vines and flowers,
When jewelled 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 crowned,
And armed for Greece that day;
But the falchions made no sound
On his gleaming war-array.
In 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 caught 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 swelled the rolling blast,

And his steps fell hushed like snows'Twas the Shade of Theseus passed!

When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

Far sweeping through the foe,
With a fiery charge he bore;
And the Mede left many a bow
On 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 passed!

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 passed 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 flute-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 from my own bright land!