And follows thee ever through wind and cloud

With whispers loving but not loud.

List! rein thy steed-oh! listen well,

For strange is the music of that soft spell. "Whither away, dear knight, so fast?

My tale is not told, my dream is not pass'd:

I melt not away till nigh mid-day:

Gentle knight, whither away?"

And a shrouded form of silvery mist

Seem'd to float and blend with the waves she kiss'd,

That whether it were a maiden's dress

Or the flow of the streamlet, none might guess.

And the knight stood still.

But a stormy sound

Echo'd from forth the caverns round

'Twas the spirit of the mists who spake.

"No moonlight dreams, Sir Knight, awake! Away to the reckless chase with me!

I came not in vain from the fetterless sea.

With the blast, as my courser, I'm rushing on

high

To join in the sport of the stormy sky."

And the knight forgot the lovely stream,

Her music and half-finish'd dream,

And while clatter'd the hoofs like a brazen drum

He shouted afar, "I come! I come!"

To him the streamlet spake not on:

Her harp strings quiver'd; their tones were gone.

But to the little waves turn'd she,

And thus spake on right cheerily.

"What can tame the spirit proud

Of the knight, who revels in storm and cloud?
Nothing but tears-and smiles through tears,
And music too sweet for mortal ears.
But I will smile, and I will weep,

And my silver lyre shall wake from sleep.
Flow, sisters, flow in our tuneful stream,
My tale must be told, and finish'd my dream.
Flow merrily, sisters: and track him well.
He hears, he knows, he feels my spell."

The waves flow'd on with their tuneful sound;
They cross'd the knight in his maddest bound;

And, like one who sees a spirit-form,

He check'd his course through the cloudy storm:

And bow'd his head, and listens still,

Tranced with the music of the rill.

And long together side by side

The waves did flow, the knight did ride;
Till the spirit of the streamlet stole
The heart from out his inmost soul.

Oh! stay the hours: the sun rides high:
The tale is told, and the stream must die:
The last few notes, the sweetest far,

Like a trembling voice from a nightly star,
Rich as the tones of a dying swan,

The last few silvery notes are gone.

Watton, 1844.

х

TEARS IN MUSIC.

ON THE SLOW MOVEMENT OF MOZART'S SYMPHONY IN E FLAT.

I.

Он, hush! my soul, be silent,

For the chords sweep on again;

Though it take thy heart from out thee,

Still listen to the strain.

II.

It flows along, like waters,

To a tuneful "dying fall,"

And tells of griefs, and tears, and love

That smiles amid them all.

N

III.

In deep waves of affection

Flows on the mournful river,

Persuasively, persuasively,

For ever and for ever.

IV.

Methinks a sad beloved one

Is by her lover kneeling,

And blent with their own echoes still

Her tender strains are stealing.

V.

With her soft blue eye she asketh

The secret of his woe,

For a burning grief hath seal'd his heart

And his tears will not flow.

VI.

She asketh with the music

That tells of things that were;

She asks to grieve, for grief with him

Were a solace unto her.