Return this book on or before the Latest Date stamped below. A charge is made on all overdue books. University of Illinois Library JUt -1 13KB MAY i 0 19112 APR 2 1 1992 L161— 1141 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2015 h ttps ://a rc h i ve . o rg/d etai I s/o u 1 1 i n esto b u rg e rO 0 retz OUTLINES TO BURGE It'S BALLA DS. WITH iDrstsnrtJ ant) Cngratieti BY M o R I T Z R E T Z S C H. B UR G Uirs TEX T, EXP L A N A T 1 0 X S, A NJ) B 1 0 G R A P II I C A L X OTIC E S. BOST 0 N : It O B ERTS B It O T II E It S. 1873. 6 ?/ . fl&Y y~ jflout? l\rt?sd) anD Burger. Moritz Retzsch, the famous illustrator of the works of Shaks- : peare and Goethe, a series of whose designs for Burger’s ballads is contained in these pages, was born in Dresden, December 9, 1779. His ancestors originated in Hungary, where the name “ Retzsch signifying “ word ” is yet extant. Being persecuted as Protestants, they emigrated to Saxony. The artist’s father, August Retzsch, Secretary of War at Dresden, died in early manhood, leaving his family in limited if not in straitened circumstances. The bright, active boy passed his happy youth among the vineyards near Dresden, cared for by his mother, a gentle and lovely lady, and in the society of a sister and dearly loved elder brother. He early revealed an enthusiastic nature, excitable imagination, rare tenderness and susceptibility. The subject of sin against the Holy Ghost, and the impossibility of atonement, being introduced one Sunday, the boy rose and hastily left the room ; after a long fruitless search, he was found under his bed, sobbing and crying that he had sinned against the Holy Ghost. Although he displayed a great love for art, his mother’s friends wished him to study some profession. But the tutor who was to prepare him for college, on seeing an illustrated journal kept by his pupil, at once recognized his talent, and at his earnest instance Retzsch entered the Art Academy at Dresden, in 1798. Under Professor Toskani’s tuition he progressed so rapidly that in less than two years the good man declared he could teach him nothing more. Retzsch, assured that he could now dispense with academic aid, returned to his vineyard home, where he gave free rein to his fancy, in all kinds of composition. Some time passed thus, and Toskani persuaded him to return to the academy and study with Professor Grassi, an odd, pedantic old man, who soon grew jealous ot his pupil’s progress ; and fearing least he should excel himself, seldom permitted him to be present while he painted, and was very chary in giving him information. Retzsch, thus thrown upon his own resources, painted and drew from works in the Dresden gallery, and soon excited the attention of connoisseurs by his copy of the Sistine Madonna, after- wards sent to America. About this time, he executed a series ot drawings from Homer, and several large oil paintings, mostly mytho- logical subjects, which were exhibited in Dresden in 1805-1807, and greatly contributed to his fame. Becker, then superintendent ot the Dresden collection of antiques, gave an order for the illustration of his archaeological work, “The Augusteum,” a task which occupied him for several years, during which he was also employed in filling orders for portraits, which occupation, though lucrative, was not to his taste. The cruel war years 1806—1814 brought terrible calamity to his family, and almost exhausted his little patrimony, obliging him to exert his utmost powers ; but in spite of other toil, he still found time for his favorite pursuit. Amid the burdens of war, though soldiers tn were quartered upon him and battle raged around him, he worked steadily at the plates for Tieck’s Genevieve and Goethe’s Faust and Egmont. Retzsch made the personal acquaintance of Goethe through Gen- eral Thielemann, whose portrait he had painted. To them and to Professor Hartmann of Dresden, he owed a commission from Cotta, the publisher, to design a series of outlines from Faust. This was a signal for his release from bondage. Goethe was delighted with the work, and sounded his praises far and near ; soon after its appearance, his name became fis familiar to England and France, where the outlines were speedily republished, as it was to Germany. In 18 1G, Retzsch was made a member of the Dresden Academy ; two years later he married a poor girl whom he had long loved, and for some years enjoyed uninterrupted bliss. In 1824 he. became professor at the Dresden Academy, and his works, most of which were published by Cotta ot Stuttgart and Ernst Fleischer of Leipsic, steadily increased both his fame and his fortune. In 1828, finding that the alternation of work and tuition, and his daily journeys between town and country, wore upon him, he retired to his vineyard home and the peace and quiet ot country life. In 1835 he met with a great loss in the death of his brother, in the prime of life, of apoplexy ; in his account of his own life, he calls him his best and truest friend, and mourned him sincerely to the end ot his days. Honors were heaped upon him ; the Saxon court, that is Princes 1 rederic and John, bestowed many tokens of their favor on him ; and Queen Victoria, for whose album he made several drawings at the order of the Prince of Coburg, rewarded him handsomely for this valuable addition to her collection. Foreio-ners especially English, who came to Dresden, often visited the artist’s 2 idyllic home, the peaceful asylum of the muse, pervaded by a pleasing simplicity. The attacks of envious rivals could not shake the calm content which he long enjoyed in the bosom of his family and sur- rounded by trusty friends. Not until his latter years did he show any signs ot mental decay, when his deafness rendered intercourse with him painful to those who were familiar with his old cheery self. From time to time his inner life waked as it from slumber, and only a few days before his death, he traced with trembling hand and fast failing sight, a new series of designs. He died in June, 1857 ; and his mortal remains lie in the graveyard of Neustadt-Dresden. Historically speaking, Retzsch may be reckoned as a champion of the school fostered by Goethe and his friends, early in this century, as opposed to the newly risen romantic school of art. The art amateurs of Weimar struggled bravely against it, in theory at least, and the Dresden academy lent practical support to their plans, espe- cially 1 rofessors Matthai and Hartmann, the latter of whom won the first prize offered by Weimar for an essay on the subject. Nominally, at least, he agreed with these artists, although he often differed from them in his choice of subject and style of treatment. While they searched mythology and ancient history tor a model, Retzsch preferred modern poetry, often pitching upon the most romantic images in fanciful or allegorical tales. His favorite and best-known works are the illustrations to Goethe’s Faust, Shakspeare’s dramas, Schiller’s Lay of the Bell, and the following ballads by Burger. Other works less familiar to ns are the outlines to Tieck’s Genevieve, “ Sintram and his Comrades,” a sequel to Sintram, by Fouque ; “ The Girl on the Gray Horse with a Hobgoblin behind her,” and “ Armida’s Tears,” from a story by Miltitz. His purely allegorical designs have much in common with the drawings of Runge and Kiigelgen, his Dresden con- temporaries, who strove to symbolize the romantic in theii woiks. Retzsch was strongly opposed to that ascetic school which turns away from the realms of romance to grasp, almost passionately, at medieval models ; he often vented his spleen in caricatures ; one of which, representing an artist with flowing beard and hail, sitting on a dirty torso of the Apollo, bears the following words : “ An artist bound and guided by an utter want of taste, on whom Heaven, either in admiration or disgust, has bestowed this body as a seat whence be may more easily study and copy a Madonna roughly hewn in oak. Such are the critics who condemn even Raphael in art and Greek statues in sculpture.” The following description by himself of one of bis symbolical designs, shows his love of strange, almost incompre- hensible allegory : “ The spirit of humanity, banished from earth by childish ignorance, is reclining on the back of a huge sphinx, whose features are averted, and partly veiled by a cloud ; be bolds a lose half-withered in bis hand, and looks up with a divine expression towards two butterflies which have escaped from the chrysalis state, and are sporting above his head. At his feet are a dead bird and reptile, emblematical of sin and death. Retzsch’s outlines deserve greater praise than any other of Ins works, whose number (about five hundred) testifies alike to his industry and imagination. Retzsch expressed himself with the utmost ease and enjoyment in these illustrations, which dispense with all elaboration and reveal the artist’s thoughts in the simplest and least pretentious way. He strove, as did Flaxman, to do justice to the special requisites of this style of composition: a peculiar conception of the subject and a sketchy treatment in harmony with the laws of perspective. Retzsch’s drawing is singularly sharp, fine, and elegant, the character of his de- lineations being as various as ingenious. Goethe greatly influenced public opinion by bis compliment to tbe artist ; in a notice of tbe illus- trations to Hamlet be says: “We would fain fill several pages with this work if permissible ; but as we could only praise, and the work- man’s best praise is bis own work, we will merely express our hope that all directors of literary institutions, of every description, will pur- chase the book, sure that the members will thank them, as it contains, not only a clever preface, but the principal passages, in three languages, including tbe original. We say tbe principal passages, because tbe artist bos ingeniously given us the plot of a play by means of a few striking incidents, thus presenting a brief analysis of the whole. But here we must close, lest we be led to dilate upon tbe characteristic and happy manner, tbe taste and skill with which the artist has managed to place before us in bright and vivid pictures filled with healthy images, a play like Hamlet, which, say what we will, must ever be a gloomy problem to the soul.” Retzsch’s first important works found even more favor with Eng- lish than with German connoisseurs. Mrs. Jameson, a well-known author, speaks with enthusiasm, in her “ Visits and Sketches, of her introduction to Retzsch, bis talent, and bis personal appearance. He received us,” she says, “ with open-hearted frankness. His figure is rather larger and more portly than 1 had expected ; but I admired his fine Titanic head, so large and so sublime in its expression ; bis light blue eye, mild and wide, which seemed to drink in meaning and to flash out light; his hair profuse, grizzled, and flowing in masses round bis bead; and bis expanded brow full of poetry and power. In bis de- portment be is a mere child of nature, simply careless, without regard to forms ; yet pleasing from the benevolent earnestness of his manner, and intuitively polite without being polished. “ He is one of nature's special favorites, endowed by her with a double portion of the inventive faculty. As his published works (the famous outlines to Faust, Shakspeare, &c.) are illustrations of the ideas of others, few but those who may possess some of his original drawings are aware that Retzsch is himself a poet of the first order, using his glorious power of graphic delineation to throw into form the conceptions, thoughts, and aspirations of his own glowing imagination and fertile fancy. As a colorist, I believe his style is criticised. I was surprised to see in some of his designs and pencil drawings the most elaborate delicacy of touch and most finished execution of parts, com- bined with a fancy which seems to run wild over his paper, or his canvas ; but only seems , for it must be remarked that there is no exaggeration either of form or feeling ; Retzsch is peculiar, fantastic, even extravagant, but never false in sentiment or expression. The reason is that the moral sentiments are strongly developed in his char- acter ; where they are deficient, let the artist who aims at the highest poetical department of excellence despair, for no possession of crea- tive talent, nor professional skill, nor conventional taste, will supply that main deficiency.” Mrs. Jameson then describes the head of an angel smiling, and relates that Retzsch painted it that he might “ create an angel for him- self, which should smile upon him out of Heaven, when pursued by dark fancies and haunted by melancholy forebodings.” She adds “ that it is but rarely that we can associate the mirthful with the beautiful and sublime.” Then she speaks of another head : “ perfectly beauti- lul, but unspeakably fearful, — the orbs of sight at first appearing dark, hollow, unfathomable spaces. This picture, the Angel of Death , formed a grave and meaning companion to the other.” Farther on she men- tions a number of allegorical designs, among them, The Enigma of Human Life,” just described, and a satire. “ The genius of Art, repre- sented as a young Apollo, turns, with a melancholy, abstracted air, the handle of a barrel organ, while vulgarity, ignorance, and folly listen with approbation ; meantime his lyre and his palette lie neglected at his feet, together with an empty purse and wallet : the mixture of pathos, poetry, and satire in this little drawing can hardly be described in words.” Mrs. Jameson also especially notices one, among those com- positions, which she calls moral poems thrown into palpable form, the most interesting of them all : “ The Chess-Players — The Genius of Humanity and the Spirit of Evil playing for the souls of men: they sit in an archway through which lizards are crawling. The top of a sar- cophagus forms the chess-board. A beautiful youth sits before it, con- sidering his next move ; opposite him sits Satan in a chair, whose arms are the heads and gaping jaws of lions. A large cloak envelops him; only his claw-like hands are visible ; his devilishly beautiful features stamp him as liar, cheat, and traitor. Between them stands a spirit, the Angel of Conscience, whom Satan has no power to disturb, and man alone can repulse or remove. He gazes anxiously at the board. Satan’s king is an image of himself ; his queen is sensual pleasure, a shameless, wanton beauty, the cup of intoxication in her hand. The six knights are the capital sins : pride, idleness, envy, covetousness, lust, and gluttony. The eight pawns are doubts, little bat-winged harpies. On the side of Humanity, the soul takes the place of king; religion is the queen ; the knights are hope with her anchor, truth with torch and glass, peace, humility, innocence, and love ; the pawns are winged angels, signifying prayers against doubts, lhe game is "oino- against man ; his adversary has weakened his power of prayer by the loss of several angels, — his humility is gone, and his peace is lost, — but the man has conquered pride and overcome a doubt. The allegory is carried out even in the carving of the sarcophagus, which represents a soul trembling at a horrid image of Death.” Instructive and interesting as these allegorical designs may be, their abstract qualities undeniably prevent them from stirring our sen- sibilities. Retzsch’s most popular designs are either entirely free from allegory, or so slightly marked by it, that it rather enhances than di- minishes the artistic charm. Among them may be reckoned the follow- ing illustrations of Burger’s Ballads : Lenore, the Lay of the Brave Man, and the Pastor’s Daughter of Taubenhain. These three ballads are among the most popular that Burger ever wrote, and are the most thoroughly pervaded by bis own poetic indi- viduality. Burger was a prominent member ot the Hainbund, the Gottingen poets’ club, which originated in the spring-time ot our greatest literary period. They were ever ruled by their admiration for Klopstock, which soon became worship, and an intense love of popular poetry, aroused in them by Herder, the first to teach the true meaning of folksong, and Goethe, who was the first to strike the key-note ot this style of poetry. Burger in some degree imitated Klopstock s manner and dithyrambic style. He himself says of two of his eaiL poems, “ A Minstrel’s Love and “ A Minstrels Lay: ' 4 I he poets of our time have revived, with some success, the songs ot the ancient bards, most of which are lost ; the author of these two poems wishes to see whether such of them as remain to us might not now exeit a greater influence upon our poetry than ever before. In his “ Hearts Thoughts of Folksong,” he insists that the German muse, instead of taking scientific journeys, should study natures catechism happily at home. This idea pervaded all Burger’s poems. He was more wedded to the people than any other poet of the Gottingen Hainbund, and won more sympathy from the masses than any of them. If his talent never ripened to perfect maturity, the cause was clearly in the many conscious and unconscious errors, whose conse- quences saddened and darkened bis whole life. “ The contemplation of this life,’’ says Schlegel, “ is the more painful, when we consider that not only his early illness, which rendered it almost impossible for him to live as others did, not only his unhappy love and the domestic troubles of his latter years, but also his very affection for poetry and poetic labors, prevented him from materially increasing his worldly wealth, embittered and indeed shortened his life. Few have bought their laurels so dearly.” Burger’s latter days were spent in solitude. Schiller’s bitter criticism, which he now first saw, affected him more powerfully than almost any other thing in his life ; and when we con- sider his slender purse, his sorrows and illnesses, his many necessary but disagreeable tasks, bis total lack of cheerful society, the constant aching of his wounded self-esteem, we gain a not inadequate idea of the dark reality of the talented poet’s life. “ Lenore ” was the culmination of his poetic glory. His love of ballads was first aroused by Herder’s “ German Art and Style and Percy’s Reliques ; to this latter he chiefly owed his fame, popular poems in ballad form being almost unknown in Germany when be first wrote. No less than five of bis poems, and two of his best-known works (die Entfiihrung and Binder Graurock), are imitations, almost literal translations, of English ballads. It was long doubted that Lenore was original, as was afterward proved ; Schlegel remarks that Burger, in writing it, could have no memory but that of an old song, one verse of which, as he often related, he had heard a girl singing: “ The moon shines bright o’erhead, And swiftly onward ride the dead, Dost shudder, dear, to ride with me?” He never heard the rest of the song; hut this fragment possessed a singular charm for him, and was the origin of Lenore. Burger also seems, according to Schlegel, to have taken a hint from an old Ger- man song, in the verse where Wilhelm appears at his loved one’s door. AVI len Burger was working on the poem of Lenore, he wrote to Boie : “’Tis now my pet child. I will send you one verse as sample. [Here follows the second verse of the poem.] You will thus get an idea of the tone of it, which I flatter myself grows more familiar and ballad- like as it draws to a close. The subject is taken from an old spinning song. I've taken great pains in poetizing it. My greatest reward would he to have it set to music in a simple ballad-like way and again used at the spinning-wheel. Would I could add the melody in my soul to the words.” In another letter to Boie, he says, referring to an earlier poem, Venus’ Vigil, which he intended to re-write : “ The spirit of this poem is already so strange to me, it seems so distant and so dark, that I can hardly judge it. Herder has aroused an old aspiration of my soul ; and I must either forget myself or let it have its way. O Boie, what bliss ! To find that a man like Herder taught those very things of nature and of song which I had long dimly felt and seen. I think 4 Lenore ’ is in some measure due to Herder’s lessons.” Then, in an enthusiastic letter about Goethe’s 4> Gotz von Bcrlichingen,” he writes : 44 This Gdtz inspired three stanzas of Lenore. They are as great in their way as ‘Gdtz’ is in his. How the critics will growl at it ! Free, free ! subject to naught but nature ! ” Although Burger was affected by Herder and Goethe, as he here acknowledges, and by the old English ballads, he was none the less original ; far from merely imitating them, he strove for a peculiar and individual style in his narrative poems. While a certain bare presen- tation of facts and laconic brevity are innate in these English ballads, as in all folksongs, Burger’s romances are most elaborate in treatment ; single scenes are most carefully and dramatically depicted, the artist seeming to seek to make them visible to the eye by his great minute- ness of description. Then the imps, ghosts, and fairies, who play so important a part in Burger’s poems, lack no trait that might increase their verisimilitude. The poet’s subjects, in truth, were full of this mythical element; still he himself had a decided taste for the fantastic, and his heart longed for the unhallowed realms of dream world. He possessed this taste in common with Betzsch, and the poetic interpretation which he placed on his visions was eminently adapted to the artist’s pencil. 44 Lenore ” was a glorious subject for this pen painting. It is by far the best, the jewel, of Burger’s poems, — the costly ring, in Schlegel’s words, with which he wedded folksong, as the Doge of Venice does the sea. Its appearance in Germany was hailed with universal applause. The novelty of subject and style exercised a powerful charm, and the poem in itself was a great success. A story, as Schlegel says, which depicts the deluded hopes and vain revolt of a human heart, and all the horror of a desperate death, in a few sharp lines and living pictures, is told with strict truth, in the simplest words, by constantly changing voices, while we seem to see the figures move and gesticulate before us. The composition is simple and noble ; it is divided into three parts, the brief introduction, and the quick transitions, as given to us in Retzch’s outlines ; the first, a cheerful picture of an army returning from the war, being in strong contrast to the others, Lenore’s wild passion, and her abduction into the kingdom of Death. Burger had good reasons for dating his story at so recent a day as the close of the Seven Years’ War. Undoubtedly much of its popu- larity and charm proceeds from this fact. Retzsch gives us the cos- tume of the time chosen by the poet, though other artists have seen fit to alter it. The “ Lay of the Brave Man,” illustrated by the second set of out- lines, is hardly less popular than Lenore, although by no means equal to it in poetic treatment. It is the subject of the poem, which exalts joy for a brave deed, and admiration of a noble soul though in poor and mean array, that arouses general interest. As Schlegel truly remarks, it is by no means a folksong, nor has it the true romantic tone, which Burger so often used. Their simplicity would forbid the superabundant rhetoric and oft-repeated interjections of this poem (O brave man, brave man, appear, appear, &c.), as also the egotism of the song, which folk-poetry, absorbed in its subject, is never guilty of. If we, as Schlegel suggests, omit every line or stanza of declamation and merely retain the story, we shall find, not only that these passages are superfluous, but that their omission greatly enhances the effect of the poem. The scene is laid in Verona, and the costume is never alluded to in the poem, so that the artist is free to use his own discre- tion. “ The Pastor’s Daughter of Taubenhain,” illustrated by the third set of outlines, is, especially in the more important passages, adapted to the nature of folk-romance with admirable taste and feeling. “ There’s a spot where never grows the grain, Which is never wet with dew nor with rain, And round it the wind blows wearily.” This verse has the true ring, the genuine melancholy charm of the folksong. The opening and closing stanzas are the best ; they are masterly in form and strangely fanciful and imaginative. However we may regret the expiatory close of the poem, affecting even to the cold- est hearts, we cannot but admire the truth and poetry with which the author has depicted the different soul states, from the unhappy girl's first error to her fatal crime. 8 XL m o i* a. Fbom heavy dreams Lenora rose With morning’s first, faint ray : “ O William, art thou false — or dead? IIow long wilt thou delay?” He, with King Frederick’s knightly train, Had hied to distant battle plain, And not a line had come to tell If yet he were alive and well. And now were king and queen full fain The weary strife to cease, Subdued at length their mutual wrath, And joined their hands in peace ; Then rose the song, and clash, and clang. And kettle-drums and trumpets rang, As decked with garlands green and gay, Each host pursued its homeward way. And here and there and everywhere, Along each road and route, To meet them came both young and old, With song and merry shout. “ Thank God!” both child and mother cried, And “ Welcome ! ” many a happy bride. But, ah, one heart shared not the bliss Of fond embrace and thrilling kiss. From rank to rank Lenora flew ; She called each knight by name. And asked for William ; but, alas ! No answering tidings came. Then when that host had all gone by, She beat her breast in agony, And madly tore her raven hair, And prostrate fell in wild despair. The mother hastened to her child : “ Al), God have mercy now! My darling child, what ailelli thee? ” And kissed her marble brow. ‘ 4 O mother, mother, all is o’er ; No peace, no hope forever more ; No pity dwells with God on high ; Woe’s me, woe’s me ; O misery ! ” “ Help, God of grace, look dowhi and help ! Child, breathe a fervent prayer; Wh at God has done must work for good ; God hears, and God will spare.” “ O mother, mother — idle thought ! No good for me God’s will hath wrought; Vain have been all my prayers — all vain, I dare not look to Heaven again ! ” 44 Help, God of grace! No child shall seek The Father’s face in vain ; Come, and the blessed sacrament Shall surely sooth thy pain.” 44 O mother, mother, pangs like these N o sacrament hath power to ease ; No sacrament can pierce death’s gloom. And wake the tenant of the tomb ! ” 44 Child, hear me; say, the false one now, In far Hungarian land, Abjures his holy faith and plights Some Paynim maid his hand? Well, let it go. child, let it go ; ’Twill profit him no more below; And O, when soul and body part, What flames shall burn his perjured heart!” “O mother, mother, lost is lost, And gone forever gone ; Death, death is now my only gain ; O, had I ne’er been born ! Be quenched, forever quenched, my light ! Die, die in horror’s gloomiest night ! No pity dwells with God on high; Woe’s me, woe’s me ; O misery ! ” “Help, God of grace! O, enter not In judgment with thy child ! Alas ! She knows not what she says ; Forgive whom woe makes wild. Ah, child, forget thine earthly woes. And think on God and heaven’s repose ; Then shall thy soul, life’s sorrows passed, The bridegroom meet in bliss at last.” “ O mother, mother, what is bliss ? 0 mother, what is hell ? With him, with him alone, is bliss; Without my William, hell. Be quenched, forever quenched, my light. Die, die in horror’s gloomiest night ! While he is not, no peace below ; Without him, heaven is endless woe ! ” Thus raged the madness of despair, And smote and scorched her brain. She ceased not still God’s providence And justice to arraign ; She wrung her hands and beat her breast, Until the sun had gone to rest, Till all the stars came out on high, And twinkled in the vaulted sky. When, hark ! a distant trap, trap, trap, Like horses’ hoofs did sound ; And soon an iron-mailed knight Sprang clattering to the ground. And hark ! and hark! a gentle ring Came swiftly, softly, — kling, ling, ling; Then through the door, in accents clear, .These words did greet Lenora’s ear : — “Holla! holla! love, ope to me; Dost wake, my child, or sleep ? And what are now thy thoughts of me? And dost thou smile or weep ? ” “ Ah, William, thou ? ... so late at night ? . . . I’ve wept and watched through gloom and light ; And, ah, what depths of woe I’ve known ! Whence com’st thou now thus late and lone ? ” 44 At midnight hour alone we ride : From Hungary I come. I saddled late, and now, my bride, AVill bear thee to thy home.” “ Ah, William, first come in, till morn ; The wild wind whistles through the thorn. Come quickly in, my love ; these arms Shall fold thee safe from midnight harms.” 44 Let the wind whistle through the thorn, Child, what have I to fear? Loud snorts the steed ; the spur rings shrill ; I may not tarry here. Come, robe thyself, and mount with speed Behind me on my coal-black steed; And when a hundred miles are passed, We reach the bridal bed at last.” “ All, must I ride a hundred'miles To bridal bed this day ? And, hark! e’en now the booming clock — Eleven ! — night wears away.” “See here! see here! the moon shines bright ; We and the dead ride swift by night. Thou, an thou mount without delay, Shalt see thy marriage bed to-day ! ” “ Where is thy chamber, say, my love? And where thy marriage bed P ” [cool — “Far, far from here! . . . Still, small, and Six planks with foot and head.” “ Hast room for me ?” . . . “ For thee and me ; Come, robe thee, mount, and soon thou’lt see The guests stand waiting for the bride ; The chamber door stands open wide.” Up rose the maid, and donned her robes. And on the courser sprung, And round the darling rider’s form Her lily arms she liung. And hurry ho ! o’er hill and plain, Hop, hop, the gallop swept amain, Till steed and rider panting blew, And dust clouds, sparks, and pebbles flew. And on the right and on the left How fast the landscape fled ! How all the thundering bridges shook Beneath the courser’s tread ! [bright “ Dost quake, my love P . . . The moon shines Hurrah! the dead ride swift by night ! Dost fear the dead, my love, my own ? ” “ Ah no! . . . yet leave the dead alone.” What clang was that, and doleful song, And rush of raven’s wing? . . . Hark! hark! the knell of funeral bell ! The bending mourners sing, “ Bear home the dead ! ” and soon appear The shrouded corpse and sable bier ; Like croak of frogs in marshy plain, Swelled, on the breeze that dismal strain. “ When midnight’s passed, bear home the With sad, sepulchral strain ; [dead, I’m bearing home my youthful bride ; Haste — join the bridal train! Come, sexton, bring thy choir along, And croak for me the bridal song ; Come, priest, and be thy blessing said, Or ere we seek the marriage bed ! ” Ceased clang and song . . . swift fled the Obedient to his call, [bier . . . Hard at the horse’s heels, that throng Came hurrying one and all ; And onward, on, o’er hill and plain, Hop, hop, the gallop swept amain, Till horse and rider panting blew, And dust clouds, sparks, and pebbles dew. On either hand — right, left — how swift Trees, hedges, mountains fled ! How vanished cities, towns, and farms, As onward still they sped ! [bright ! “ Dost quake, my love ? . . . The moon shines Hurrah ! The dead ride swift by night ! Dost fear the dead, my love, my own ? ” “ Ah, leave the dead to rest alone ! ” See, see ! beneath yon gallows tree, Along the moonlit ground, Half brought to view, an airy crew Go dancing round and round. “ Ha, merry crew ! come, haste along, And follow in the marriage throng ! I take my bride ere morn, and ye Shall dance the wedding dance for me.” And hurry, skurry, close behind That pack came hustling fast : So rattles through the hazel bush November’s fitful blast. And onward still, o’er hill and plain, Hop, hop, the gallop dashed amain, Till horse and rider panting blew, And dust clouds, sparks, and pebbles flew. How fast the land on either hand Beneath the moon swept by ! How swiftly fled, high over head The stars along the sky ! [bright ! “ Dost quake my love ? . . . The moon shines Hurrah ! the dead ride swift by night ! Dost fear the dead, my love, my own ? ” “ Ah, leave the dead to rest alone ! ” “ Speed, speed, my steed ! Methinkse’en now The early cock doth crow. Speed on ! I scent the morning air ; Speed, speed ! the sand runs low ! ’Tis done — ’tis done — our journey’s passed; The bridal bed appears at last. Hurrah ! how swiftly ride the dead ! It is, it is the bridal bed ! ” . . . And, lo ! an iron grated gate Full in their pathway frowned: lie snapped his switch, and lock and bolt Sprang back with thunder sound. The clanking gates, wide opening, led O’er crowded dwellings of the dead, Where tombstones, thickly scattered round, Gleamed pale along the moonlit ground. Ila, see! ha, see! Wlioo! whoo ! what tongue Can such dread wonder tell ! The rider’s collar, piece by piece, Like shrivelled tinder fell ; His head a sightless skull became, A ghastly skeleton his frame ; In his right hand a scythe he swung. And in his left an hour-glass hung. High pranced the steed, and snorted wild, And, snorting, flamed outright; And, whee! the solid ground beneath Fled from the maiden’s sight. Howls, howls were heard through upper air. Below, deep meanings of despair : Her quaking heart, ’twixt death and life, Seemed wrestling in an awful strife. Now round and round, o’er moonlit ground, The ghastly spectre train Full well did dance their fetter dance, And howled this dismal strain, — “Forbear! forbear! Though heart be riven, Contend not with the God of heaven ! Thou hast laid down this earthly clod ; Now may thy soul find peace with God ! ” The artist presents us the chief points of the poem in six illus- trations : Lenore’s awakening, the returning army, Lenore’s despair, the visit of her ghostly lover, the ride by night, and Lenore’s death. plate 1. Anxiety for the fate of her lover, exposed to all the dangers of war, has filled Lenore’s dreams with frightful images. It is early, the cuckoo clock has just sung, and the hands point to four. But a troubled heart drives away rest, Lenore rises in agony, stretches forth her longing arms to clasp her lover, wavering between desire and dread- 10 ful doubt: “O William, art thou false or dead? How long wilt thou delay?” Her mother, sleeping at her side, awakes and watches her with sorrowful eyes. Pate 2. The ranks of returning warriors stretch in long lines across the country. In the background we see the infantry ; but the middle and foreground of the picture are occupied by the cavalry to which Wil- liam belonged. The villagers hasten to meet the warriors, who are decked with green boughs. A young woman has found lifer husband and holds towards him her boy, who shrinks away from the man in armor on the horse. Another rider has dismounted and embraces his father with speechless joy. Lenore hurries by these touching groups, forgetful of self, anxiously questioning the soldiers. The bearded man, whom she has just asked for news of William, looks gravely at her as if a stranger to her. But she docs not gain her longed-for news from him. “ From rank to rank Lenora flew ; She called each knight by name, And asked for William ; but alas! No answering tidings came.” plate 3. The soldiers have passed by ; we can see the last ones disappear- ing, one with his arm around his betrothed’s waist. William was not among them. Lenore has sunk to the ground, overcome by grief and despair ; her hair is loosened, her kerchief torn, no stranger is near to check the flow of her passionate complaint ; her mother’s monitions are unavailing. Her frenzy soon becomes impiety: “ O mother, mother, what is bliss ? O mother, what is hell ? With him, with him alone, is bliss ; Without my William, hell! Be quenched, forever quenched, my light, Die, die in horror’s gloomiest night! While he is not, no peace below ; Without him, heaven is endless woe!” She thus draws down the wrath of avenging powers ; the spirit of her dead love appears to her as in life, and drags her down to the grave through all the horrors and apparitions of night. Plate 4. It is night, the moon is in the sky, the bird of death, the screech owl, hoots from the roof, and bats hover in the air. The ghostly rider descends from his neighing steed at Lenore’s door, he has pulled the bell, and Lenore, with slippered feet and in loose array, has hurried down to welcome her beloved. He cannot linger in her embrace : “ For when a hundred miles are passed, They’ll reach the bridal bed at last.” But she, filled with love and desire, sees not his spectral look, nor the drops of blood that ooze through his armor; pointing to the clock on the church tower, she asks doubtfully : — 11 “ Ah, must I ride a hundred miles To bridal bed this day ? And, hark ! e’en now the booming clock — Eleven! — night wears away.” Her lover’s apparition clasps her slender waist and tells her she must follow him out into the darkness. opiate 5. The black steed gallops furiously on, over the tottering bridge, by the gallows on the boggy moor. At a sign from the gloomy rider, rise a shadowy throng of apish figures, a horrid bridal procession, with priest and clerk in floating robes. On the right, the skeleton of a criminal turns on the wheel, from whose skull still protrudes the nail which held him to the torture, another, with his head under his arm, flies above them, wrapped in his shroud, while a raven with a skull for head and other goblin forms hover near. The gallows, too, are in motion ; two skeletons are waltzing thereon, scattered skulls and bones spring up, and below stands a man of bones, peering triumphantly out at the flying train. Lenore sits on the wild horse, with her arms about her lover ; her head is on his shoulder, and her eyes are half closed as in a swoon : “ Dost quake, my love? . . . The moon shines bright! Hurrah ! the dead ride swift by night ! Dost fear the dead, my love, my own ? ” “ Ah no! . . . yet leave the dead alone! ” Plate 6. The frightful journey’s end, the abode of death, is reached. The ghostly throng towers above the open grave, and turn to skeletons. The rider and his horse are skeletons as well ; he seizes Lenore, his bony hand is laid in token of death upon her icy bosom, she sinks into his grave, the bride of Death. A surpliced goblin blesses the pair in mocking tones, and round the grave grinning ghosts whirl in demoniac dance. A gravestone, surmounted by a skeleton, hears these words, which at once declare Lenore’s doom and hold forth hope for her salvation : “ Forbear! forbear! though heart be riven, Contend not with the God of heaven ! Thou hast laid down this earthly clod; Now may thy soul find peace with God.” €l)e Lap of tfjc 33 rah e itfan. The brave man’s lay sounds clear and loud As organ-tone or bell-note tolled. Who is of courage justly proud Esteems a song but heeds not gold. Thank God ! That glorify and sing I can, To glorify and sing a good brave man. From warm south sea the thaw wind blew And swept o’er meadows damp and drear. Before it every cloudlet flew, As when a wolf the lambkins fear. It scoured the fields, the heavy branches brake, And burst the ice on every sea and lake. On mountain top dissolved the snow ; The waters fell in sounding ranks ; A lake was all the vale below ; The river overflowed its banks ; [course, High rolled the foaming waves along their Uprooting mighty icecliffs with their force. With columns stout and sturdy beam, From end to end of quarried stone, A bridge securely spanned the stream, And on it stood a cottage lone, In which the tollman, wife and children stay. “ O tollman ! tollman, quick ! away ! away !” 1 A hollow crash around them rang, Loud howled the stormy waves without. Up on the root the tollman sprang, And east a wildered look about. “0, Heaven! Have pity on me! Spare me, spare me ? [me ? ” I’m lost ! I’m lost ! Who will from danger bear The raging flood the ice-calces bore Far, far away from either shore, From either shore the torrent tore The beams and columns with a roar, The frightened tollman’s wife and children scream, They scream far louder than the wind or stream. The ice-cakes hammered stroke on stroke, Against the columns strongly wrought, Till twisted, torn and shattered, broke From either end the strong support. And soon destruction to the cot drew near — “ Have pity, O great Heaven, upon our fear ! ” — High on the upper shore there stands A swarm of people, great and small ; And each one cries and wrings his hands, But none would rescue of them all. [scream, The frightened tollman’s wife and children They scream for rescue from the wind and stream. When shall the brave man’s lay ring round, Like tolling bell and organ peal P Come, come, and make Ins fame resound! When wilt, dear song, his name reveal? See how destruction to the cot draws near! O brave man ! brave man ! quickly now appear ! A count rides quickly to the strand, A noble count on panting steed. What holds the count there in his hand ? A purse it is, and full indeed. “Behold two hundred gold pistoles are there For him, who doth to save these wretches dare.” But who’s the count? Comes he to save ? Tell, tell, brave song, if tell you can ! — The count, by Heaven, was most brave ! But still I know a braver man. [appear! O brave man! brave man! quick appear! Fven now the children their destruction fear. And ever higher rose the flood, And ever louder shrieked the wind, And ever chiller grew their blood. O where can they a savior find !, — For column after column broke and fell. [well. And then the key-stone cracked and snapped as “Hallo! hallo! will none appear?” The count still holds the purse on high. The men all hear, but they all fear, And of the thousands none will try. And all in vain, the wife and children scream For speedy help to come through wind and stream. Now tall and straight a peasant ’s seen All hurrying up the road apace, Arrayed in garments coarse and mean, But noble beauty in his face. He heard the count, the danger understood, He saw the tottering bridge, he saw the flood ; And in God’s name, he boldly sprang Into a fisher’s boat hard by ; Though round him waves and whirlwind clang, He steers right on o’er waters high. But woe ! alas ! the skiff is far too small In single passage thence to bring them all. Aid thrice he urged his boat across, Though wind and water round him raved, And thrice came back without a loss : Then he could rest, for all were saved. The final one was hardly safe on shore, Before the last beam fell with sullen roar. Who is, who is the good, brave man ? Tell, tell, brave song, and tell his deed! The peasant into peril ran ; But did he it for gold and greed. For if the count had offered not his gold, The peasant never would have been so bold. “ Here,” cried the count, “ my valiant friend, Here is your prize ! ’Twas bravely won ! ” Now say, did he not well intend? — By God ! The count has nobly done. But higher far and happier throbs, I ween, The peasant’s heart beneath his raiment mean. “ My life is not set up for sale. True, I am poor, but need no more. Y our gold will glad yon tollman pale. For gone is all his little store ! ” He spoke these words in accents frank and gay- _ Then on his heel he turned and went his way. Then let the brave man’s lav ring loud, As organ-tone or bell-note tolled ! Of such a spirit who is proud. Esteems a song, but heeds not gold. Thank God ! That glorify and sing I can, To glorify for aye the good brave man. Four scenes reveal the story of this poem : The count calling for some one to rescue those in danger, the first journey and the last, the refusal of the promised reward. Pate 1. In the background stands the bridge with the tollman’s home, rest- ing on but one support, the other props having fallen away. A crowd of people has gathered on the shore ; the principal figures in the fore- ground surround the count, who sits on his horse holding a purse of "old, which he offers as reward to him who shall save the unhappy family. No one in the crowd dare offer ; one broad-shouldered fellow stands with his hands behind him, calmly indifferent ; another, looking askance at the heavy purse, scratches his ear contemplatively ; others seem to say that it is impossible to think of rescue now. On the left, comes hastily a strong and powerful man, with head up and an expression of bold determination ; all see that he will be the one to save the sufferers. — 13 Plate 2. The bold man has sprung into a boat and steers straight on through the raging flood, which bears along on its waves mighty cakes of ice, timbers and beams from the broken bridge. Caring not for the dan- gers that surround him, he guides the skiff with steady hand, his eye on the helpless creatures who await him with hope, surprise, and anguish. Plate 3. The dangerous journey has been twice achieved, the greater part of the tollman’s family are safe; returning for the third time, the brave man bears the last ones from a horrid death and brings them safely to the shore. Those already saved stretch forth their arms to their brother and sister, while the crowd, with the count on horseback in their midst, greet their savior with shouts. Plate 4. Right of foreground, the tollman’s family. They raise their eyes to Heaven in thanksgiving, then turn to the noble fellow who made the fearful passage at the risk of his own life. The count bends from his saddle and offers the promised reward to their savior ; but he declines it proudly, pointing to the tollman’s family, whom the count’s money may benefit : “ My life is not set up for sale. True, I am poor, but need no more. Your gold will glad yon tollman pale, For gone is all his little store!” He spoke these words in accents frank and gay, Then on his heel he turned and went his wav. &\)t pastor's SDaucfljter of Caubmljatn. In the pastor’s garden of Taubenhain There’s a sound at night in the arbor. There are moans and groans with terror rife ; There’s a struggle, there’s a flutter and strife, As when the doves a falcon harbor. The Will-o’-wisps float o’er the stagnant pool, It shimmers and shines so drearily. There’s a spot where never grows the grain ; Which is never wet with dew nor with rain ; And round it the wind blows wearily. The pastor’s daughter of Taubenhain She was as stainless as a doveling. The maiden was young, was fair, and was fine, Many a knight rode down to Taubenhain And sought Rosetta for his loveling. From the steepest peak of the mountain high, F rom yonder where the brook comes streaming, A castle towers o’er the vale below, The roof with steel, the walls with silver glow, The windows bright as mirrors gleaming. There dwelleth the baron of Falkenstein With health and with wealth and with pleasure. The castle pleased the fair Rosetta’s sight, The youth on his prancing steed brought her delight, With love and his rich store of treasure. He wrote her a letter on paper of silk, Enriched with a golden red lining, lie sent her his picture so smiling and fair, Concealed in a heartlet of gold and pearls rare ; * And with it a ring of stones shining. “ Let all your gay suitors mount and' begone, Let none of them give your heart pleasure ! Rosetta, not one is fit your lord to be ; There is none, O my darling, who’s worthy of thee, Though wealthy in serfs and in treasure. “ I have a sweet message to whisper to thee ; But for thine ear alone it is meant. [hear. Thy suit murmured answer how gladly I’ll Fair maiden at midnight thy door I’ll be near ; Tremble not, nor fear thou to consent ! 14 “ Hearken at midnight to the notes of the quails, As in the near wheat fields they’re mating. Where the nightingales woo their coy brides with song. With their mellow music the whole night long ; O haste thou, and keep me not waiting!” — He came in his mantle and cap concealed, He came when twelve the bells were sounding. He stole in, armed with his dagger and bow, As softly, as lightly, as clouds gather low, And stilled with bread the watch-dog bounding. He mimicked in darkness the notes of the quails Which in the near wheat fields were mating. And the nightingales wooed their coy brides with song. With their mellow music the whole night long ; And Rose, alas ! — kept him not waiting. With phrases soft and sweet to ear and heart Adroitly he urged on his wooing ! — Love’s teachings, alas, made her trusting and tame ! He spared no devices, be it said to his shame He fain would achieve her undoing. He swore by all things that are holy and dear, That he would be faithful for ever. And while she resisted, he still did implore, He vowed that he loved her, and roundly he swore : “ Dear maiden, you'll weep for it never! ” They drew near the ai-bor so dusky and still, With blossoming bean blows embowered. And then with fear her timid heart beat fast ; And soon by wild desire’s fiery blast The innocent maid w r as o’erpowered. When on the beds of blossoming beans The rosy flowers ceased their blowing, Came o’er the maid an alteration strange, On her cheeks the bright roses to snow tints did change ; The starlight in her eyes ceased glowing. And when the peapods began to swell And peas were ripening to the marrow ; When strawberries and cherries grew red and round, That her breast heaved too high, the damsel soon found ; Her silken gown grew far too narrow. And when to the wheat field the reapers went, The symptoms began to grow stronger, And when autumn’s chill winds o’er the meadow blew, And far on the breezes the wheat stubble flew. Her shame could be hidden no longer. Then her father, a cruel and heartless man, Stormed loudly against poor Rosetta : [fit, “ Since to get you a child you now have seen No more in my house shall you guiltily sit, But go forth and seek for a better ! ” He wound her loose tresses around his harsh hand ; He beat her with leathern thongs knotted. On her quivering flesh he dealt blow alter blow Till her beautiful shoulders once white as the snow Were covered with blood thickly clotted. In the cold winter storm, mangled, weeping, alone — From his threshold he ruthlessly drove her. O’er the steep rugged pathway she painfully passed [last And fainting, reached Falkenstein’s castle at To recount her sad tale to her lover. ‘ 1 Alas ! That a mother by thee I’ve been made, Before we were lawfully wedded ! Gaze thou on each bleeding and festering gash, The marks of my sire’s unpitying lash In my poor tender body embedded ! ” Sobbing she flung herself on his broad breast ; She besought him to have pity on her : “O change now to good the sad evil thou’st wrought ! And since ’tis by thee that to shame I am brought, 0 restore me, my loved one, to honor ! ” “Poor darling,” he said, “in thy anger I share ! He shall pay for each wound I discover. Content thyself, sweet one, to tarry with me ! Caresses and comforts I’ll lavish on thee And our plans we will further talk over.” “ Ah,” she said, “ ’tis no time for caresses and rest ! With my honor no more must I palter. How oft hast thou promised to make me thy bride ! By the priest, before witness, the knot must be tied, Which unites us at God’s holy altar ! ” “ Silly child, know’st thou not that I spoke but in jest ? 1 did not mean that when I said it ! Of a high born family I am the head. It is proper that equals alone should be wed ; On my race I must not bring discredit. “ Silly child, for thy future I mean to provide : Of endearment I’ll never be chary. If you’ll wed with my huntsman so gallant and bold, Although it may cost me a mountain of gold, That gay youth I will give thee to marry.” “ God curse thee ! — thou infamous, treacher- ous man ! May he plunge thee in hell’s hottest fires! — Though as wife I should sully thy high born race, To sacrifice me, thou didst deem no disgrace, To thy vile and unhallowed desires ! “ Go get thee a bride, then, of most noble blood ! Soon shalt thou my bitter draught swallow ! A just, vengeful God will repay thee in kind, And he will ordain that thy humblest hind In thy bridal bed basely shall wallow ! “Then, traitor, the horrible doom shalt thou feel, What it is to sink down to my level ! In frenzy thou’lt rave of the terrible stain And speed the death shot thro’ thine agonized brain ! Then sink down to fiends, — a base devil ! ” So speaking, she sprang up and fled from the spot. Wherever she wandered unheeding, With bloody feet trampling o’er thistle and thorn, Over cliff and o’er meadow, bewildered, forlorn, With crazy fear rapidly speeding. “ Now whither, O whither, O merciful God, Can I wander a refuge to borrow ? ” Bliss, honor, all lost, she roamed round in despair, And at last to her garden at home did repair, To lay down her life full of sorrow. Her limbs all benumbed, she still staggered and reeled, To the arbor — the scene of her ruin ; Her body and mind racked with anguish and woe, She sank on a brush heap besprinkled with snow, On the spot where befell her undoing. Here crazed and half frozen, unsheltered, alone, Her terrible pangs came upon her. She gave but one glance at the boy which she bore, Then quick from her tresses a bodkin she tore And murdered the child of dishonor. Scarce had she accomplished her terrible deed, When, alas ! her poor mind ceased to wander. With horror and anguish her blood cold did run. “ 0 Jesus, my Saviour, O what have I done?” On her crime the poor girl dared not ponder. With her fingers she hastily hollowed a grave By the stagnant pool ’mid the rushes. “There sleep thou, my baby, in God may’st thou rest, Safe hidden forever from scorn and rude jest. How the ravens glare in the bushes ! ” The Will-o’-wisps flit o’er the stagnant pool, That shimmers and shines so drearily. Here’s the spot where never grows the grain ; Which is never wet with dew nor with rain ; And round it the wind blows wearily. And back of the garden of Rubenstein, High up on the wheel in the bushes. A hollow skull and cross-bones rattle and wave, ’Tis her skull that watches ever o’er the grave But three spans long amid the rushes. And every night above the Rubenstein, Above the wheel among the bushes, A shadowy form floats misty and pale, That quenches the blue light, to no avail, And moans on the shore mid the rushes. This poem is illustrated by live pictures : the meeting in the gar- den, the repudiation, her malediction of her lover, the crime, and the vision at the grave. Plate 1. A flowery garden by moonlight at midnight ; high up in the back- ground the castle of the knight of Falkenstein. Wrapped in his cloak the knight has stolen in ; he has found Rosetta, and with whis- pered words of love, he strives, an adept in the arts of tender entreaty, to lead her into the dusky arbor. Devotion, confiding love in her eyes, she gives him her hand and follows him with timid steps. plate 2. The spring and summer of love are followed by cold winter, the fruit of this secret intercourse has ripened and can no longer be con- cealed. The pitiless father thrusts out his unhappy daughter, her mournful and beseeching look has no power to stay his hand, which holds a scourge, with which he beats her tender body unmercifully. Her father’s wrath drives her relentlessly forth into the bitter winter night. The sprigs and roofs are covered with ice, and the moon casts a ghastly glimmer through the withered branches of the spectral trees. Plate o o. The wretched girl has hurried to Falkenstein’s castle, hoping to find aid and shelter there. She falls at his feet and implores him with streaming eyes : “ O change now to good the sad evil thou’st wrought ! And since ’tis by thee that to shame I am brought, O restore me, my loved one, to honor ! ” — In the handsomely furnished room, adorned with costly weapons of war and chase, the knight stands, leaning against a table with sym- bolic carvings on the corners : a falcon tearing a dove. Coldly and proudly twirling his moustache with an indifferent air, he hears her prayer and answers with these cruel words : u Silly child, knowest thou not that I spoke but in jest? I did not mean that when I said it ! Of a high born family I am the head. It is proper that equals alone should be wed ; On my race I must not bring discredit.” r Struck with horror, her face just now bent in prayer is raised ; she no longer kneels, but seems about to spring up. She convulsively clenches her left hand, while she threatens her deceiver with the other. With hate, rage, and despair in her face, she hurls this curse at him . “ God curse thee! Thou infamous, treacherous man! May he plunge thee in hell’s hottest fires!” plate 4. The anguish and despair have made the unhappy girl mad, and she murders her child. In the stormy winter night, with croaking ravens hovering near, she digs with bloody nails a tiny giave for hei new-born babe : “ There sleep thou, my baby, in God may'st thou rest, Safe hidden forever from scorn and rude jest! How the ravens glare in the bushes! ” She has given herself up to justice and suffered the punishment of death. In a stagnant pool above the grave, where will-o’-the- wisps are dancing, crouches a little childish figure — “ There’s the spot where never grows the grain ; Which is never wet with dew nor with rain ; And round it the wind blows wearily.” Over it hovers in the darkness, amidst pale clouds, the image of the wretched mother, her hair tied up and her garments stripped from her shoulders, as when she mounted the scaffold. She floats by, wringing her hands, with ghastly face : “ She quenches the blue light to no avail, And moans on the shore ’mid the rushes.” The village watchman, whose dog slinks along, tail between his legs, gazes with silent horror at the spectral form. L E N O II A. * THE LAY OF THE BRAVE MAN. 3 ■ THE PASTOR’S DAUGHTER OF TAUBENHAIN. /' M, \ 7? Vi-f-M \ 1 . ^ // r * ■ .