IN days of old, when barons bold

Went forth to chase or battle, And many a raid and foray made

On other people's cattle;

When Graf and lord, with steel-clad horde,

Weak neighbours loved to plunder; When law and right to force and might

Submissively knock'd under;

When scarce a knight could read or write,

But scrawl'd a cross as his mark,
Yet thought himself as cute an elf
As any future Bismarck,-

In those old days, which poets' lays
Gild with a ray of glory,
We, reader kind, perhaps may find
The epoch of my story.
The date exact-most folks, in fact,
For dates don't care a 'farden,'
Then why should we? So let it be ;
The place-not far from Baden.
Baden! that name may surely claim
A moment's brief digression,
Nor need I task my brain to ask

A reader's intercession.

Enchanting scene, of spas the queen,

How well I know and love thee! Thy castled hill, thy tiny rill,

The tow'ring firs above thee!

O'er bygone days my fancy strays (To call them back unable),

When but a few, good friends and true, We met at Ziegler's† table.

*The water-spirit.

How there we sat, absorb'd in chat,

Till Time, that naught-respecter, Cut short the jest that gave new zest To amber-colour'd nectar.

Then came a stroll by wooded knoll,
A mild post-prandian labour,
Till, vision bright, appear'd in sight
The café of Frau Weber.

There Kellners ran with coffee-can,

And many a foaming canette Quaff'd to the air of 'Miserere,'

Or sparkling Noces de Jeannette;

There bearded rooks with conqu'ring looks,

And pigeons grown with wine bold, Laugh'd loud ha-ha's! and lit cigars, Or cigarettes of Rheinboldt;

And many a fair, with piled-up hair
Of yellow-ochry flaxen,
Shot glances round, and Baden found
More chic than Ems or Saxon.

Till, peu-à-peu, groups thinner grew, Rooks, pigeons, counts, and ladies Fill'd ev'ry chair au tapis rert, Which Thackeray calls Hades.

There, stiff and prim, a croupier grim
(Sure ne'er was mortal thinner),
Gravely raked in the loser's tin,
And gravely paid the winner;

There, if you threw on number two,
The number came beside it;
The martingale that couldn't fail
Ne'er did-until you tried it.

Peasant and peer were equal here, In blouse or in gants glacés ;

A princess fair leant o'er the chair

Where grinn'd Mamsell Cruche-cassée.

Notes changed for gold in rouleaux roll'd,

Pass'd swiftly o'er the table,
And still raked in the croupier thin,
As fast as he was able.

Such Baden was: here let us pause;
Alas for rook and roué,
Rien ne va plus is but too true,
Le dernier coup est joué !

Now to my tale. O'er hill and dale,
Far, far from passe and zéro,
Our flight we'll take towards a lake,
A lovely spot, davvero!

E'en to this day the Mummel-See

May charm the passing stranger; Though long the ride, his only guide Some lonely forest ranger.

So calm, so still, a wooded hill

Its deep blue waters shading, Save where doth stray some ling'ring

ray

Of daylight slowly fading.

In such a scene 'twere strange, I ween,
To fancy aught uncanny;
Still as the grave, such calm might have
Converted e'en Giovanni.

But, reader, what chanced on this spot
Must yet remain a myst❜ry;
You shall know more, trust me, before
I close this famous hist'ry.

Allons meanwhile some half a mile
Through briar, brake, and bramble
(Though truly we shall scarcely be
Repaid for such a scramble);

To where once crown'd the rising ground
A Schloss, which trav'llers weary
Shunn'd as if 'twere a robbers' lair,
It look'd so very dreary.

Its height or length, its breadth or strength,

To-day we can but fancy,

For not one trace of such a place

The sharpest eyesight can see;

But there it stood, high over wood,

Hill, dale, and plain, no better Look-out for lord of lawless horde, Like Graf von Donnerwetter.

For far and wide, on ev'ry side,

His glance the country sweeping, Spied cow and ox, and sheep in flocks, And corn just fit for reaping.

Short work 'twas then to arm his men,
And sally forth to plunder,
His voice a growl, his cry a howl,
Like Mr. Honeythunder.

His Gräfin-well, we mustn't tell
Home-truths of sex so charming,
But really she was thought to be
An object quite alarming:

Grim, gaunt, and thin, all bone and skin,

Complexion pale as tallow,

Eyes (folks would hint) inclined to squint,

Teeth like boar's tusks, and yellow;

Devout was she, or said to be

(I judge the dame mayhap ill), Strict vigils kept, and ne'er o'erslept The matutinal chapel.

With ros'ry, chain, and châtelaine
Girt, as became her station,
This spectre thin came rattling in,
And scared the congregation;

Her eyes she roll'd, her beads she told,
And pray'd to Saint Clotilda,
In accents faint, O grant me, saint,
A husband for my Hilda !'

Now Hilda, fair, with golden hair

(Unlike both sire and mother), Sole heiress was to lands and Schloss, Sans sister and sans brother;

Her eyes were blue, of that deep hue
So dear to Arsène Houssaye;
Her figure neat, her smile most sweet,
Her petit nez retroussé.

She loved a knight renown'd in fight,
But very poor in rental;

What we should style in town slang vile, A thorough' detrimental.'

AA

Hugo his name, well known to fame,
As chronicles will tell you;
Supple and slim, and light of limb;
In short, a pretty fellow.

He loved her, O, he loved her so
Outrageously, that soon he
Became what men will now and then
Characterise as 'spoony.'

And she, O, yes, but more or less,

Just as the fancy took her, Like those who long for Patti's song.

And next day rush to Lucca.

Love in a cot her dream was not, And, her defects to wind up, From her high state to derogate

She couldn't make her mind up.

Besides, her sire, with threat'ning ire
And oaths (with him no new go),
Swore he would disinherit Miss,
If e'er she married Hugo.

Raging red hot, he warn'd her not

That little game to try on, For Freiherr Fritz von Brüsselspitz He long had set his eye on.

She wept he swore worse than before,

Poor Hilda's tears dropp'd faster; 'Shut up!' he roar'd, ' as I'm a lord, Ich will es! damit basta !

From Hilda's bower, in twilight hour,

The luckless Hugo wander'd, And on each word he just had heard With thoughts despairing ponder'd.

His way to take towards the lake

Chance led him, sans y songer;

The world to him seem'd dark and dim

Since he'd received his congé.

As on he stray'd, the leafy glade

With cruel words seem'd ringing, When o'er his soul soft music stole

Of some one faintly singing,—

One voice alone, whose thrilling tone
In mid air fain would linger:
So sweet a note no mortal throat,
No Paganini's finger

Could ever touch, the charm was such E'en Hugo to bewilder,

Who stopp'd and stared, half rapt, half scared,

And thought no more of Hilda. Spell-bound he stood, then past the wood With rapid step advancing,

Through bush and brake, he near'd the lake,

And saw-0, sight entrancing!—

A vision fair, with flowing hair,
And lilies white twined in it,
And eyes whose bright unearthly light
Transfix'd him in a minute.

Her arms were bare-what arms they were !

She hadn't e'en a kilt on;
For dress she wore nor less nor more
Than Eve described by Milton.
And still she sang, still echoing rang
That strain of witching beauty;
And still the knight stood bolt upright,
Like sentinel on duty;

Till from the bank of rushes dank
On which she lay reclining
She rose in haste, and held him fast,
Her arm round his entwining.
No hope for him, his eye grew dim,

His breath came short and shorter, His feet no more could touch the shore, For both were in the water;

When through the brake beside the lake,

At ev'ning hour so dreary,
A form in white appear'd in sight-
'Twas Hilda, faint and weary.

'Hugo' cried she, 'come back to me,
Thine am I-thine for ever!
Till my last breath, in life, in death,
I'll never leave thee, never!