To market, cursing, went my father;
Might he but there a buyer meet !
With Rübezahl I'll venture rather;

Him for the third time I entreat:

"For he so kindly helped a many,
My grandmother oft to me has told;
Yes, gave poor folks a good luck-penny,
Whose woe was undeserved, of old.
So here I am my heart beats lightly,
My goods are justly measured all,
I will not beg, will sell uprightly.

O that he would come!

Rübezahl!

Rübezahıl!

Rübezahl!

Suppose these goods should suit his taste,
And he should order more to come:

We could his wish fulfil with haste,
We've plenty more as fine at home.
Suppose he took them, every piece;
Ah! would his choice on them might fall!
What's pawned I would myself release:
That would be glorious! Rübezahl!

Rübezahl!

"I'd enter then our small room gayly,
And cry, Here, father, 's gold in store!'
He would not curse; that he wove daily

A hunger-web, would say no more.
Then, then again would smile my mother
And serve a plenteous meal to all;
Then would rejoice each little brother —
O that he would come! Rübezahl!

Rübezahl!"

Thus spake the little weaver lonely,
Thus stood and cried he, weak and pale.
In vain ;
the casual raven only

Flew o'er the old gnome-haunted dale.
Thus stood he while the hours passed slowly,
Till the night-shadows dimmed the glen,
And with white quivering lips said lowly,
Amid his tears, yet once again,

"Rübezahl!

Then softly from the greenwood turning,
He trembled, sighed, took up his pack,
And to the unassuagéd mourning

Of his poor home went slowly back.
Oft paused he by the way, heart-aching,
Feeble, and by his burden bowed.
Methinks the famished father's making
For that poor youth, even now, a shroud.

Rübezahl!

Ferdinand Freiligrath. Tr. M. Howitt.

Rudesheim.

A RHINE LEGEND.

BY the Rhine, the emerald river,

How softly glows the night!

The vine-clad hills are lying
In the moonbeams' golden light.

And on the hillside walketh
A kingly shadow down,
With sword and purple mantle,
And heavy golden crown.

'Tis Charlemagne, the emperor,
Who, with a powerful hand,
For many a hundred years

Hath ruled in German land.

From out his grave in Aachen
He hath arisen there,

To bless once more his vineyards,
And breathe their fragrant air.

By Rudesheim, on the water,

The moon doth brightly shine, And buildeth a bridge of gold Across the emerald Rhine.

The emperor walketh over,
And all along the tide
Bestows his benediction

On the vineyards far and wide.

Then turns he back to Aachen
In his grave-sleep to remain,
Till the New Year's fragrant clusters
Shall call him forth again.

Then let us fill our glasses,

And drink, with the golden wine,

The German hero-spirit,

And its hero-strength divine.

Emanuel Geibel. Tr. W. W. Caldwell.

Rügen, the Island.

VINETA.

EALING from the ocean's deep foundations,
Faint and hollow sound the evening bells,
And its strange and wondrous revelations
Of the fair old wonder-city tells.

Deep beneath the gleaming surface sunken,
Ruins of that city still remain,

On its turrets sparks of golden splendor
From the mirror glimmer back again.

And the mariner, to whom appeareth
In the evening light its magic glow,
To the selfsame spot forever steereth,
Though the rocks lie threatening below.

From the heart's deep, deep foundations swelling,
Bells are sounding mournfully and low,
Ah! I hear them, wondrous tales revealing,
Of the love it knew so long ago.

Sunken there a world of beauty lieth;
Far below, its ruins still remain,
Golden gleams from heaven are thence reflected
In the mirror of my dreams again.

Then, into the fair reflection falling,
Would I sink within those silent deeps,

And I seem to hear an angel calling
Down to where that wonder-city sleeps.

Wilhelm Müller. Tr. W. W. Story.

St. Goar.

A JEWISH FAMILY.

IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR, UPON THE RHINE.

YENIUS of Raphael! if thy wings

G

Might bear thee to this glen,

With faithful memory left of things

To pencil dear and pen,

Thou wouldst forego the neighboring Rhine,

And all his majesty,

A studious forehead to incline

O'er this poor family.

The mother, her thou must have seen,

In spirit, ere she came

To dwell those rifted rocks between,

Or found on earth a name;

An image, too, of that sweet boy,
Thy inspirations give,-

Of playfulness and love and joy,
Predestined here to live.

Downcast, or shooting glances far,
How beautiful his eyes,
That blend the nature of the star
With that of summer skies!

I speak as if of sense beguiled;
Uncounted months are gone,