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They made each steel portal to rattle and ring,
And, borne on the blast, came the dread Fire-King.
Full sore rock'd the cavern whene'er he drew nigh,
The fire on the altar blazed bickering and high;
In volcanic explosions the mountains proclaim
The dreadful approach of the monarch of flame.
Unmeasured in height, undistinguished in form,
His breath it was lightning, his voice it was storm;
1 ween the stout heart of count Albert was tame,
When he saw in his terrors the monarch of flame.
In his hand a broad falchion blue glimmered thro'
smoke,

And Mount Lebanon shook as the monarch he
spoke:

"With this brand shalt thou conquer, thus long,

and no more,

Till thou bend to the cross, and the virgin adore." The cloud-shrouded arm gives the weapon; and, see!

The recreant receives the charmed gift on his knee:

The thunders grow distant, and faint gleam the
fires,

As, borne on his whirlwind, the phantom retires.
Count Albert has armed him the paynim among,
Though his heart it was false, yet his arm it was
strong;

And the red-cross waxed faint, and the crescent

came on,

From the day he commanded on Mount Lebanon.
From Lebanon's forest to Galilee's wave,
The sands of Samaar drank the blood of the brave;
Till the knights of the temple, and knights of St.
John,

With Salem's king Baldwin, against him came on.
The war-cymbals clattered, the trumpets replied,
The lances were couched, and they closed on each
side;

And horsemen and horses count Albert o'erthrew,
Till he pierced the thick tumult king Baldwin

unto.

Against the charmed blade which count Albert did

wield,

The fence had been vain of the king's red-cross shield;

But

page thrust him forward the monarch be-
fore,

And cleft the proud turban the renegade wore.
So fell was the dint, that count Albert stooped low
Before the crossed shield, to his steel saddle-bow;
And scarce had he bent to the red-cross his head,
"Bonne grace, notre dame," he unwittingly said.
Sore sighed the charmed sword, for its virtue was
o'er,

It sprung from his grasp, and was never seen more:
But true men have said, that the lightning's red
wing

Did waft back the brand to the dread Fire-King.
He clench'd his set teeth, and his gauntletted hand;
He stretched, with one buffet, that page on the
strand;

As back from the stripling the broken casque

rolled,

You might see the blue eyes, and the ringlets of gold.

Short time had count Albert in horror to stare

On those death-swimming eye-balls, and blood

clotted hair;

For down came the templars, like Cedron in flood,
And died their long lances in Saracen blood.
The Saracens, Kurdmans, and Ishmaelites yield
To the scallop, the saltier, and crosletted shield;
And the eagles were gorged with the infidel dead,
From Bethsaida's fountains to Napthali's head.
The battle is over on Bethsaida's plain.
Oh, who is yon paynim lies stretched mid the
slain?

And who is yon page lying cold at his knee?
Oh, who but count Albert and fair Rosalie.
The lady was buried in Salem's blessed bound,
The count he was left to the vulture and hound:
Her soul to high mercy our lady did bring;
His went on the blast to the dread Fire-King.
Yet many a minstrel, in harping, can tell,
How the red-cross it conquered, the crescent it fell;
And lords and gay ladies have sighed, mid their
glee,
At the tale of count Albert and fair Rosalie.

FREDERICK AND ALICE.

THIS tale is imitated, rather than translated, from a fragment introduced in Goethe's Claudina von Villa Bella, where it is sung by a member of a gang of banditti, to engage the attention of the family, while his companions break into the castle. It owes any little merit it may possess to my friend Mr. Lewis, to whom it was sent in an extremely rude state; and who, after some material improvements, published it in his Tales of Wonder.

FREDERICK leaves the land of France,

Homeward hastes his steps to measure,
Careless casts the parting glance
On the scene of former pleasure.
Joying in his prancing steed,

Keen to prove his untried blade,
Hope's gay dreams the soldier lead

Över mountain, moor, and glade.
Helpless, ruined, left forlorn,
Lovely Alice wept alone;
Mourned o'er love's fond contract torn,
Hope, and peace, and honour flown.
Mark her breast's convulsive throbs!
See, the tear of anguish flows!
Mingling soon with bursting sobs,

Loud the laugh of frenzy rose.
Wild she cursed, and wild she prayed;
Seven long days and nights are o'er;
Death in pity brought his aid,

As the village bell struck four.
Far from her, and far from France,

Faithless Frederick onward rides;
Marking, blith, the morning's glance
Mantling o'er the mountain's sides.
Heard ye not the boding sound,
As the tongue of yonder tower,
Slowly, to the hills around,

Told the fourth, the fated hour?
Starts the steed, and snuffs the air,
Yet no cause of dread appears;
Bristles high the rider's hair,

Struck with strange mysterious fears.
Desperate, as his terrors rise,
In the steed the spur he hides?

From himself in vain he flies;
Anxious, restless, on he rides.
Seven long days, and seven long nights,
Wild he wandered, wo the while!
Ceaseless care, and causeless frights,
Urge his footsteps many a mile.
Dark the seventh sad night descends;

Rivers swell, and rain-streams pour!
While the deafening thunder lends
All the terrors of its roar.
Weary, wet, and spent with toil,

Where his head shall Frederick hide?
Where, but in yon ruined aisle,

By the lightning's flash descried. To the portal, dank and low,

Fast his steed the wanderer bound; Down a ruined staircase slow,

Next his darkling way he wound. Long drear vaults before him lie! Glimmering lights are seen to glide! "Blessed Mary, hear my cry!

Deign a sinner's steps to guide!" Often lost their quivering beam,

Still the lights move slow before, Till they rest their ghastly gleam Right against an iron door. Thundering voices from within,

Mixed with peals of laughter, rose;
As they fell, a solemn strain

Lent its wild and wond'rous close!
Midst the din, he seemed to hear
Voice of friends, by death removed;
Well he knew that solemn air,
'Twas the lay that Alice loved.
Hark! for now a solemn knell

Four times on the still night broke;
Four times, at its deadened swell,
Echoes from the ruins spoke.
As the lengthened clangours die,
Slowly opes the iron door!
Straight a banquet met his eye,
But a funeral's form it wore!
Coffins for the seats extend;

All with black the board was spread;
Girt by parent, brother, friend,

Long since numbered with the dead!
Alice, in her grave-clothes bound,
Ghastly smiling, points a seat;
All arose, with thundering sound;

All the expected stranger greet.
High their meagre arms they wave,
Wild their notes of welcome swell;
"Welcome, traitor, to the grave!
Perjured, bid the light farewell!"

THE WILD HUNTSMEN. THIS is a translation, or rather an imitation, of the Wilde Jager of the German poet Bürger. The tradition upon which it is founded bears, that formerly a wildgrave, or keeper of a royal forest, named Falkenburg, was so much addicted to the pleasures of the chase, and otherwise so extremely profligate and cruel, that he not only followed this unhallowed amusement on the Sabbath, and other days consecrated to religious duty, but accompanied it with the most unheard-of oppression upon the poor peasants who were under his vassalage.

When this second Nimrod died, the people adopted a superstition, founded probably on the many various uncouth sounds heard in the depth of a German forest, during the silence of the night. They conceived they still heard the cry of the wildgrave's hounds; and the well-known cheer of the deceased hunter, the sound of his horse's feet, and the rustling of the branches before the game, the pack, and the sportsmen, are also distinctly discriminated; but the phantoms are rarely, if ever, visible. Once, as a benighted chasseur heard this infernal chase pass by him, at the sound of the halloo, with which the spectre Huntsman cheered his hounds, he could not refrain from crying, "Gluck zu, Falkenburg!" (Good sport to ye, Falkenburg!) "Dost thou wish me good sport?" answered a hoarse voice; "thou shalt share the game;" and there was thrown at him what seemed to be a huge piece of foul carrion. The daring chasseur lost two of his best horses soon after, and never perfectly recovered the personal effects of this ghostly greeting. This tale, though told with some variation, is universally believed all over Germany.

The French had a similar tradition concerning an aerial hunter, who infested the forest of Fontainebleau. He was sometimes visible; when he appeared as a huntsman, surrounded with dogs, a tall grisly figure. Some account of him may be found in "Sully's Memoirs," who says he was called, Le Grand Veneur. At one time he chose to hunt so near the palace, that the attendants, and, if I mistake not, Sully himself, came out into the court, supposing it was the sound of the king returning from the chase. This phantom is elsewhere called saint Hubert.

The superstition seems to have been very general, as appears from the following fine poetical description of this phantom chase, as it was heard in the wilds of Ross-shire.

"Ere since, of old, the haughty thanes of Ross,-
So to the simple swain tradition tells,-
Were wont with clans, and ready vassals throng'd,
To wake the bounding stag, or guilty wolf,
There oft is heard, at midnight, or at noon,
Beginning faint, but rising still more loud,
And nearer, voice of hunters, and of hounds,
And horns hoarse-winded, blowing far and keen:-
Forthwith the hubbub multiplies; the gale
Labours with wilder shrieks and rifer din
Of hot pursuit; the broken cry of deer
Mangled by throttling dogs; the shouts of men,
And hoofs thick beating on the hollow hill.
Sudden the grazing heifer in the vale

Starts at the noise, and both the herdsman's ears
Tingle with inward dread. Aghast, he eyes
The mountain's height, and all the ridges round,
Yet not one trace of living wight discerns;
Nor knows, o'erawed, and trembling as he stands,
To what, or whom, he owes his idle fear,
To ghost, to witch, to fairy, or to fiend;
But wonders, and no end of wondering finds.”
Scottish Descriptive Poems, pp. 167, 162.
A posthumous miracle of father Lesly, a Scottish
capuchin, related to his being buried on a hill
haunted by these unearthly cries of hounds and
huntsmen. After his sainted relics had been de-
posited there, the noise was never heard more
The reader will find this, and other miracles, re-
corded in the life of father Bonaventura, which is
written in the choicest Italian.

THE wildgrave winds his bugle horn,
To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo!
His fiery courser snuffs the morn,
And thronging serfs their lord pursue.

The eager pack, from couples freed,
Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake;
While answering hound, and horn, and steed,
The mountain echoes startling wake.
The beams of God's own hallowed day
Had painted yonder spire with gold,
And, calling sinful man to pray,

Loud, long, and deep the bell had tolled:
But still the wildgrave onward rides;

Halloo, halloo! and hark again!
When, spurring from opposing sides,
Two stranger horsemen join the train.
Who was each stranger, left and right,
Well may I guess, but dare not tell;
The right hand steed was silver white,
The left, the swarthy hue of hell.
The right hand horseman, young and fair,
His smile was like the morn of May;
The left, from eye of tawny glare,

Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray.
He waved his huntsman's cap on high,
Cried, "Welcome, welcome, noble lord!
What sport can earth, or sea, or sky,

To match the princely chase, afford?" "Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell," Cried the fair youth, with silver voice; "And for devotion's choral swell,

Exchange the rude unhallowed noise. "To-day, the ill-omened chase forbear, Yon bell yet summons to the fane; To-day the warning spirit hear, To-morrow thou may'st mourn in vain." "Away, and sweep the glades along!"

The sable hunter hoarse replies; "To muttering monks leave matin song, And bells, and books, and mysteries." The wildgrave spurred his ardent steed, And, lanching forward with a bound, "Who, for thy drowsy priest-like rede, Would leave the jovial horn and hound? "Hence, if our manly sport offend!

With pious fools go chant and pray:
Well hast thou spoke, my dark-browed friend;
Halloo, halloo! and, hark away!"
The wildgrave spurred his courser light,
O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill;
And on the left, and on the right,

Each stranger horseman followed still.
Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn,
A stag more white than mountain snow:
And louder rung the wildgrave's horn,

"Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!"
A heedless wretch has crossed the way;
He gasps, the thundering hoofs below:
But, live who can, or die who may,
Still, "Forward, forward!" on they go.
See, where yon simple fences meet,

A field with autumn's blessings crowned;
See, prostrate at the wildgrave's feet,

A husbandman, with toil embrowned: "O mercy, mercy, noble lord!

Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry, "Earned by the sweat these brows have poured, In scorching hour of fierce July." Earnest the right hand stranger pleads, The left still cheering to the prey,

The impetuous earl no warning heeds,
But furious holds the onward way.
"Away, thou hound! so basely born,

Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!" Then loudly rung his bugle horn,

"Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!" So said, so done: a single bound

Clears the poor labourer's humble pale: Wild follows man, and horse, and hound, Like dark December's stormy gale.

And man, and horse, and hound, and horn,
Destructive sweep the field along;
While joying o'er the wasted corn,

Fell Famine marks the maddening throng. Again uproused, the timorous prey Scours moss, and moor, and holt, and hill; Hard run, he feels his strength decay, And trusts for life his simple skill. Too dangerous solitude appeared; He seeks the shelter of the crowd; Amid the flock's domestic herd

His harmless head he hopes to shroud. O'er moss, and moor, and holt, and hill, His track the steady blood-hounds trace; O'er moss and moor, unwearied still,

The furious earl pursues the chase.
Full lowly did the herdsman fall;

"O spare, thou noble baron, spare
These herds, a widow's little all;
These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care."
Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads,
The left still cheering to the prey;
The earl nor prayer nor pity heeds,

But furious keeps the onward way.
"Unmannered dog! To stop my sport
Vain were thy cant and beggar whine,
Though human spirits, of thy sort,
Were tenants of these carrion kine!"
Again he winds his bugle horn,

"Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!" And through the herd, in ruthless scorn, He cheers his furious hounds to go.

In heaps the throttled victims fall;

Down sinks their mangled herdsman near; The murderous cries the stag appal,Again he starts, new nerved by fear. With blood besmeared, and white with foam, While big the tears of anguish pour, He seeks, amid the forest's gloom,

The humble hermit's hallowed bower. But man and horse, and horn and hound, Fast rattling on his traces go;

The sacred chapel rung around

With, "Hark away! and, holla, ho!" All mild, amid the rout profane,

The holy hermit poured his prayer; "Forbear with blood God's house to stain; Revere his altar, and forbear! "The meanest brute has rights to plead, Which, wronged by cruelty, or pride, Draw vengeance on the ruthless head:

Be warned at length, and turn aside.” Still the fair horseman anxious pleads; The black, wild whooping, points the prey. Alas! the earl no warning heeds,

But frantic keeps the forward way.

"Holy or not, or right or wrong,
Thy altar, and its rites, I spuru;
Not sainted martyrs' sacred song,
Not God himself, shall make me turn!"
He spurs his horse, he winds his horn,
"Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!"
But off, on whirlwind's pinions borne,
The stag, the hut, the hermit, go.

And horse, and man, and horn, and hound,
And clamour of the chase was gone;
For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound,
A deadly silence reigned alone.
Wild gazed the affrighted earl around;
He strove in vain to wake his horn;
In vain to call; for not a sound

Could from his anxious lips be borne.
He listens for his trusty hounds;

No distant baying reached his ears: His courser, rooted to the ground,

The quickening spur unmindful bears. Still dark and darker frown the shades, Dark, as the darkness of the grave; And not a sound the still invades,

Save what a distant torrent gave. High o'er the sinner's humbled head At length the solemn silence broke; And from a cloud of swarthy red,

The awful voice of thunder spoke. "Oppressor of creation fair!

Apostate spirit's hardened tool!
Scorner of God! Scourge of the poor!
The measure of thy cup is full.
"Be chased forever through the wood;
For ever roam the affrighted wild;
And let thy fate instruct the proud,

God's meanest creature is his child."
'Twas hushed: one flash, of sombre glare,
With yellow tinged the forests brown;
Up rose the wildgrave's bristling hair,
And horror chilled each nerve and bone.
Cold poured the sweat in freezing rill;
A rising wind began to sing;
And louder, louder, louder still,

Brought storm and tempest on its wing.
Earth heard the call! Her entrails rend;
From yawning rifts, with many a yell,
Mixed with sulphureous flames, ascend
The misbegotten dogs of hell.
What ghastly Huntsman next arose,

Well may I guess, but dare not tell;
His eye like midnight lightning glows,
His steed the swarthy hue of hell.
The wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn,
With many a shriek of helpless wo;
Behind him hound, and horse, and horn,
And, "Hark away, and holla, ho!"
With wild despair's reverted eye,

Close, close behind, he marks the throng,
With bloody fangs, and eager cry,
In frantic fear he scours along.
Still, still shall last the dreadful chase,
Till time itself shall have an end
By day, they scour earth's caverened space,
At midnight's witching hour, ascend.
This is the horn, and hound, and horse,
That oft the lated peasant hears;

Appalled signs the frequent cross,
When the wild din invades his ears.
The wakeful priest oft drops a tear
For human pride, for human wo,
When, at his midnight mass, he hears
The infernal cry of "Holla, ho!"

WILLIAM AND HELEN.

Imitated from the " Lenore" of Bürger. THE author had resolved to omit the following version of a well-known poem, in any collection which he might make of his poetical trifles. But the publishers having pleaded for its admission, the author has consented, though not unaware of the disadvantage at which this youthful essay (for it was written in 1795) must appear with those which have been executed by much more able hands, in particular that of Mr. Taylor of Norwich, and that of Mr. Spencer.

The following translation was written long before the author saw any other, and originated in the following circumstances. A lady of high rank in the literary world read this romantic tale, as translated by Mr. Taylor, in the house of the celebrated professor Dugald Stuart of Edinburgh. The author was not present, nor indeed in Edinburgh at the time; but a gentleman who had the pleasure of hearing the ballad, afterwards told him the story, and repeated the remarkable chorus,

"Tramp! tramp! along the land they rode,
Splash! splash! along the sea;

Hurrah! hurrah! the dead can ride!

Dost fear to ride with me?"

In attempting a translation, then intended only to circulate among friends, the present author did not hesitate to make use of this impressive stanza; for which freedom he has since obtained the forgiveness of the ingenious gentleman to whom it properly belongs.

FROM heavy dreams fair Helen rose,
And ey'd the dawning red:
"Alas, my love, thou tarriest long!
O art thou false or dead?"

With gallant Frederick's princely power
He sought the bold crusade;
But not a word from Judah's wars

Told Helen how he sped.

With Paynim and with Saracen

At length a truce was made,
And every knight returned to dry
The tears his love had shed.
Our gallant host was homeward bound
With many a song of joy;
Green wav'd the laurel in each plume,
The badge of victory.

And old and young, and sire and son,
To meet them crowd the way,
With shouts, and mirth, and melody,
The debt of love to pay.

Full many a maid her true love met,
And sobb'd in his embrace,
And flutt'ring joy in tears and smiles,
Array'd full many a face.

Nor joy nor smile for Helen sad;
She sought the host in vain;

For none could tell her William's fate,
If faithless, or if slain.

The martial band is past and gone;
She rends her raven hair,

And in distraction's bitter mood
She weeps with wild despair.

"O rise, my child," her mother said,
"Nor sorrow thus in vain;
A perjured lover's fleeting heart
No tears recal again.

"O mother, what is gone is gone;
What's lost for ever lorn:

Death, death alone can comfort me;
O had I ne'er been born!

"O break, my heart, O break at once!
Drink my life-blood, despair!
No joy remains on earth for me,
For me in heaven no share.”
"O enter not in judgment, Lord!"
The pious mother prays;
'Impute not guilt to thy frail child,
She knows not what she says.
"O say thy pater-noster, child!
O turn to God and grace!

His will, that turn'd thy bliss to bale,
Can change thy bale to bliss."
"O mother, mother, what is bliss?
O mother, what is bale?

My William's love was heaven on earth,
Without it earth is hell.

"Why should I pray to ruthless heav'n,
Since my lov'd William's slain?
I only pray'd for William's sake,
And all my prayers were vain."
"O take the sacrament, my child,
And check these tears that flow;
By resignation's humble prayer,
O hallowed be thy wo!"

"No sacrament can quench this fire,
Or slake this scorching pain;
No sacrament can bid the dead
Arise and live again.

"O break, my heart, O break at once!
Be thou my god, despair!

Heaven's heaviest blow has fall'n on me,
And vain each fruitless prayer."
"O enter not in judgment, Lord,

With thy frail child of clay!

She knows not what her tongue has spoke;
Impute it not, I pray!

"Forbear, my child, this desp❜rate wo,
And turn to God and grace;
Well can devotion's heavenly glow
Convert thy bale to bliss."

"O mother, mother, what is bliss?
O mother, what is bale?

Without my William what were heaven,
Or with him what were hell?"

Wild she arraigns the eternal doom,
Upbraids each sacred power,
Till spent, she sought her silent room,
All in the lonely tower.

She beat her breast, she wrung her hands,
Till sun and day were o'er,

And through the glimm'ring lattice shone
The twinkling of the star.
Then crash! the heavy draw-bridge fell,
That o'er the moat was hung;
And clatter! clatter! on its boards
The hoof of courser rung.

The clank of echoing steel was heard,
As off the rider bounded,
And slowly on the winding-stair

A heavy footstep sounded.

And hark! and hark! a knock-Tap! tap!
A rustling stifled noise;-

Door-latch and tinkling staples ring;-
At length a whisp❜ring voice.
"Awake, awake, arise, my love!
How, Helen, dost thou fare?

Wak'st thou or sleep'st? laugh'st thou or weep'st? Hast thought on me, my fair?"

"My love! my love!-so late by night!-
I wak'd, I wept for thee:

Much have I borne since dawn of morn;
Where, William, could'st thou be?”
"We saddled late-From Hungary
I rode since darkness fell;

And to its bourne we both return
Before the matin bell."

"O rest this night within my arms,
And warm thee in their fold!

Chill howls through hawthorn bush the wind;
My love is deadly cold.”

"Let the wind howl through hawthern bush!
This night we must away;

The steed is wight, the spur is bright;
I cannot stay till day.

"Busk, busk, and boune! Thou mount'st behind Upon my black barb steed:

O'er stock and stile a hundred miles,
We haste to bridal bed."

"To-night-to-night a hundred miles!—
O dearest William, stay!

The bell strikes twelve-dark dismal hour.
O wait, my love, till day!"

"Look here, look here-the moon shines clear,
Full fast, I ween, we ride;
Mount and away! for ere the day

We reach our bridal bed.

"The black barb snorts, the bridal rings;
Haste, busk, and boune, and seat thee!
The feast is made, the chamber spread,
The bridal guests await thee."

Strong love prevail'd: she busks, she bounes,
She mounts the barb behind,

And round her darling William's waist
Her lily arms she twined.

And hurry! hurry! off they rode,
As fast as fast might be;

Spurn'd from the courser's thundering heels,
The flashing pebbles flee.

And on the right and on the left,

Ere they could snatch a view,

Fast, fast each mountain, mead, and plain,'
And cot and castle flew.

"Sit fast-dost fear?-The moon shines clear Fleet goes my barb-keep hold!

Fear'st thou?""O no!" she faintly said; "But why so stern and cold?

"What yonder rings? what yonder sings?

Why shrieks the owlet gray?"

""Tis death-bell's clang, 'tis funeral song,) The body to the clay.

"With song and clang, at morrow's dawn, Ye may inter the dead:

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