Who doth not feel his bosom bound- Though centuries enshroud the tale, Even I, whose visions all are gone, Whose dreams of fame with youth have flown, I deem'd were all at rest. The Douglas burn, behind yon height St. Mary's lake, in dream-like peace 'Tis hallow'd by the mighty dead, By beauty, grief and song! The sorrows of Mary Scott, "the Flower of Yarrow," are the theme of many of our most exquisite ballads. And living genius in its power, The clanging hoof, the wild deer's tread, The stately hunting train Gay glittering through the greenwood trees, Where trooper shot across the steep Gone are the glittering princely throng Yet is not Yarrow's glory veil'd, May Heaven its choicest blessings pour White rising o'er the stream! Bright as the noonday beam! SPECIMENS OF THE GERMAN NOVELISTS. No. II.-ST. ANDREW'S EVE. (Freely translated from the German of Frederick Baron de la Motte Fouque.) BY N. D. STENHOUSE, A. M. "BE dissuaded, Barbara," said Margaret to her young friend. "Oh do not tamper with evil spirits! Your fate has, indeed, been a happy one. Besides, it is always a duty to be contented." Barbara was a light-hearted, lively girl, who had never felt any privation. Her native town, Magdeburg, had been stormed and demolished a few years before; but, at that time, she was on a visit to a distant country, and even this event had scarcely cost her a pang. She was now lodging along with her wealthy parents, in the upper storey of a house, which was all that Margaret's mother, who had been left a widow at an early age, had saved from the wreck of a handsome fortune. The two girls, however, kept up a firm friendship, though their circumstances were so different, and though their dispo sitions were, if possible, still more different, except in a good groundwork of piety and kind-heartedness. They used to visit each other alternately every evening, and, at the time we are speaking of, the widow had gone out to inquire for a sick person, and they were sitting together at the fire-side in her little room, and plying the distaff with great assiduity.-"What is it, after all?" said Barbara in reply to Margaret's anxious exhortation. "It is just one of aunt Susan's old-fashioned notions and nothing more." "I am not pleased with aunt Susan," said Margaret, "and much less with her old-fashioned notions. What an idea! To go into a dark room, on St. Andrew's Eve, and ask with mystical words and gestures who is to be your husband, that you may get spirits to personify him! Barbara, the thing condemns itself. Who knows what monsters you might bring up! And only consider how awful these times are. It is scarcely three years since the cruel Tilly reduced our beautiful town to dust and ashes,-only a few houses near the venerable cathedral have been spared,—and it is a mercy indeed, that ours is among the number." "Well, then," said Barbara smiling, "the house seems to have something fortunate about it, and this is an encouragement to run such a risk." "I do not think so," replied Margaret. "Whenever I pass through Magdeburg, and see the half-shattered, half-burned houses, and tall grass in many of the streets, and return to my own home, which has been so miraculously preserved,—I feel a strong inclination to throw myself on my knees and to take some vow upon me,-I am so completely at a loss to express my gratitude for goodness so overwhelming." "The affair may well leave a deeper impression upon your mind," said Barbara; "as you were in the midst of the havock, and made such a narrow escape on the intercession of the venerable Bakius. How truly affecting it must have been, when he came to the porch and repeated the Latin verses,— since even the stern Tilly relented, and pardoned the crowds who had taken refuge in the church! But all this has naturally had less effect upon me. I was only told of it, you know, a month afterwards, when I was engrossed with the gaieties of Vienna; and my parents, too, reconciled themselves to what had happened, as they had not been exposed to any danger." "But what are your feelings," said Margaret, when you see the death-crosses on the graves of so many young citizens, who died like heroes,-fruitless, alas! as their resistance was? This I should think, must, at least, draw a tear from every eye." "There is such a scarcity of lovers, in consequence of all this," said Barbara smiling, "that I wish to know at once, whether I should despair or not. To morrow-night is St. Andrew's eve. Consider the matter till then, and accompany me. Good night!" She then left the room, singing and laughing; but Margaret burst into tears and hid her glowing face in her handkerchief. Soon afterwards her mother came home. When she had shut the door, blown out the lantern-candle, and hung her black velvet hood, after carefully brushing it, in its usual place behind the stone, she sang the following lines: "Oh why art thou cast down, my soul, In God still hope and rest. "Be of good courage, and He strength All ye whose hope and confidence Do on the Lord depend." Then perceiving, for the first time, that her daughter was in tears, she stroked her moist cheeks, and said, "Has the psalm brought up painful recollections? Ah, my dear, I never thought that it would affect you in this way-you might rather derive the highest consolation from such words as these, "Be of good courage, and He strength "Be assured, Margaret, that he also will be strengthened, for, in pursuit of a nobler object, no one could have fallen."-" True! my dear mother," said Margaret; "let us trust that all will yet be well!" She then kissed her mother's hand and sang the verse with perfect composure, while she assisted in extinguishing the fire, and both were offering up their evening prayers in bed when the town-clock struck ten. St. Andrew's Eve arrived; but in spite of all Margaret's opposition, aunt Susan kept her ascendancy. She accompanied Barbara up stairs, and soon after, glided, with a sneer, past Margaret who, with tearful eyes and a beating heart, was standing at the open door and looking on the silent, glittering scenery of the snow-covered streets. Barbara soon rushed down stairs in the greatest agitation-grasped Margaret by the arm, and whispered, as she tottered with her into the sitting-room, "Ah! my sister, would that I had taken your advice! I am undone. A monster is to be my husband!" Margaret endeavoured, as far as she could, to compose her trembling friend; she also brought smelling-bottles, medicine and every restorative which her well-regulated house contained. By this means, Barbara was at last so far recruited, that she was able to relate what had befallen her. "You must know, Margaret," said she, "that though I did not positively believe what I had been told, I shuddered from head to foot when aunt Susan left the room. But I cannot describe the horror I felt, when I pronounced the mysterious words and followed the other directions which she had given me. Then I heard the sound of footsteps on the stair-case—yes, I did,—and they were loud and heavy like a man's-the door creaked, and a face appeared." She covered her face with her hands and trembled violently. "In his shrunk hand, the monster bore a lantern, which threw an oblique light on his shaggy hair, his rolling eyes, and his foaming lips. Árt thou my bride?" he shrieked out, and opening his mouth with a convulsive effort, he began to hop round me. He did not remain long, however, and I collected strength to make my escape. But what does that signify? I must be his prey soon or late. Oh, luckless night!" 66 "Compose yourself," said Margaret, fixing her eyes on the ground, with a mournful smile and a deep blush; compose yourself, my dear Barbara; it has not been a spectre, but alas!-a true object of pity —a maniac. I must tell you his whole history. "When the enemy marched against Magdeburg, no one was more active in mustering the city-soldiers, than the young Lorenz Falk, who had already given many proofs of a most amiable and heroic disposition." "I recollect him, perfectly," said Barbara, interrupting her friend. "When he was a little yellow-haired boy, he used to play with us before the door in my father's garden. We always called him Eichkatzchen*, as he sprang up the trees so quickly and fearlessly, -is it not the same?" Margaret gave a nod of assent, and suppressing her tears, she continued, "That was indeed a happy time.-During the siege, he often came to our house, as he was stationed near the walls,-not far from this, and my mother thought it an honour to have an opportunity of shewing any kindness to so brave a man. Ah! Barbara, what a confidence he felt in the Divine protection. He had, in fact, the art of banishing care from all who heard him speak. He only laughed at Tilly and his cannonades, and met the enemy with the spirit of a lion." "My dear Margaret," said Barbara interrupting her, "you have overheated yourself, in attempting so kindly to allay my fears. Your cheeks are as red as fire. Remove a little from the hearth." Margaret hastily shoved back her chair, and continued, though in a lower tone of voice. "As he had always been so confident of success, he might be partly to blame for the inconsiderate conduct of the people, when the enemy had apparently withdrawn. Indeed, it cannot be denied, that he did what he could to encourage the projected festivities, and that in order to enter upon them with greater spirit, he advised the troops, in the first place, to take a night's rest. Alas! how suddenly did the enemy rush upon the slumbering town! Lorenz Falk fought like a hero;-so did all his comrades, and if he was guilty of imprudence, he atoned for it with his blood. He was found among a heap of dead bodies, under the smoking rafters of some shattered houses. The deep gash on his head was at last cured, but his reason had deserted him, probably before he received the wound, in the heat of his impetuosity and on the sudden overthrow of all his hopes; for, those who saw him last affirm, that he laughed aloud, and cried out Victoria! and said, that he was fighting among the ruins of conquered Rome. "Every evening he hovers about that part of the wall where he was formerly stationed, and when I am standing at the door, or sitting at • Oak-cat. |