281

THE

HE night is silent, the wind is still, The moon is looking from yonder hill

Down upon convent, and grove, and garden;

The clouds have passed away from

her face,

Leaving behind them no sorrowful trace,

Only the tender and quiet grace

Of one, whose heart has been healed with pardon!

And such am I. My soul within

Was dark with passion and soiled with sin.
But now its wounds are healed again;
Gone are the anguish, the terror, and pain;
For across that desolate land of woe,

O'er whose burning sands I was forced to go,
A wind from heaven began to blow;
And all my being trembled and shook,

As the leaves of the tree, or the grass of the field,
And I was healed, as the sick are healed,
When fanned by the leaves of the Holy Book!

I am the Lady Irmingard,

Born of a noble race and name!
Many a wandering Suabian bard,

Whose life was dreary, and bleak, and hard,
Has found through me the way to fame.

Brief and bright were those days, and the night
Which followed was full of a lurid light.
Love, that of every woman's heart

Will have the whole, and not a part,

That is to her, in Nature's plan,

More than ambition is to man,

Her light, her life, her very breath,

With no alternative but death,

Found me a maiden soft and young,

Just from the convent's cloistered school,
And seated on my lowly stool,
Attentive while the minstrels sung.

Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall,
Fairest, noblest, best of all,
Was Walter of the Vogelweid;
And, whatsoever may betide,
Still I think of him with pride!
His song was of the summer-time,
The very birds sang in his rhyme;
The sunshine, the delicious air,

The fragrance of the flowers, were there;
And I grew restless as I heard,
Restless and buoyant as a bird,
Down soft, aërial currents sailing,

O'er blossomed orchards, and fields in bloom,
And through the momentary gloom

Of shadows o'er the landscape trailing,

Yielding and borne I know not where,
But feeling resistance unavailing.
And thus, unnoticed and apart,
And more by accident than choice,
I listened to that single voice
Until the chambers of my heart
Were filled with it by night and day.
One night-it was a night in May-
Within the garden, unawares,
Under the blossoms in the gloom,

I heard it utter my own name
With protestations and wild prayers;
And it rang through me, and became
Like the archangel's trump of doom
Which the soul hears, and must obey;
And mine arose as from a tomb.
My former life now seemed to me
Such as hereafter death may be,
When in the great Eternity

We shall awake and find it day.

It was a dream, and would not stay;
A dream, that in a single night
Faded and vanished out of sight.
My father's anger followed fast
This passion, as a freshening blast
Seeks out and fans the fire, whose rage

It may increase, but not assuage.
And he exclaimed: "No wandering bard
Shall win thy hand, O Irmingard!
For which Prince Henry of Hoheneck
By messenger and letter sues."

Gently, but firmly, I replied:
"Henry of Hoheneck I discard!

Never the hand of Irmingard

Shall lie in his as the hand of a bride!"

This said I, Walter, for thy sake;
This said I, for I could not choose.
After a pause, my father spake
In that cold and deliberate tone
Which turns the hearer into stone,
And seems itself the act to be
That follows with such dread certainty:
"This, or the cloister and the veil !"
No other words than these he said,
But they were like a funeral wail;
My life was ended, my heart was dead.

That night from the castle-gate went down,
With silent, slow, and stealthy pace,
Two shadows, mounted on shadowy steeds,
Taking the narrow path that leads
Into the forest dense and brown.
In the leafy darkness of the place,
One could not distinguish form nor face,
Only a bulk without a shape,

A darker shadow in the shade;
One scarce could say it moved or stayed.
Thus it was we made our escape!
A foaming brook, with many a bound,
Followed us like a playful hound;

Then leaped before us, and in the hollow
Paused, and waited for us to follow,
And seemed impatient, and afraid
That our tardy flight should be betrayed
By the sound our horses' hoof-beats made.
And when we reached the plain below,
We paused a moment and drew rein
To look back at the castle again;
And we saw the windows all a-glow

With lights, that were passing to and fro;
Our hearts with terror ceased to beat;
The brook crept silent to our feet;
We knew what most we feared to know.
Then suddenly horns began to blow;
And we heard a shout and a heavy tramp,
And our horses snorted in the damp
Night-air of the meadows green and wide,
And in a moment, side by side,

So close, they must have seemed but one,
The shadows across the moonlight run,
And another came, and swept behind,
Like the shadow of clouds before the wind!
How I remember that breathless flight
Across the moors, in the summer night!
How under our feet the long, white road,
Backward like a river flowed,
Sweeping with it fences and hedges,
Whilst farther away, and overhead,
Paler than I, with fear and dread,
The moon fled with us, as we fled
Along the forest's jagged edges!
All this I can remember well;
But of what afterwards befell

I nothing further can recall
Than a blind, desperate, headlong fall:
The rest is a blank and darkness all.
When I awoke out of this swoon,
The sun was shining, not the moon,
Making a cross upon the wall

With the bars of my windows narrow and tall;

And I prayed to it, as I had been wont to

pray,

From early childhood, day by day,
Each morning, as in bed I lay!

I was lying again in my own room!
And I thanked God, in my fever and pain,
That these shadows on the midnight plain
Were gone, and could not come again!
I struggled no longer with my doom!
This happened many years ago.
I left my father's home to come,
Like Catherine to her martyrdom,
For blindly I esteemed it so.
And when I heard the convent door
Behind me close, to ope no more,

I felt it smite me like a blow.
Through all my limbs a shudder ran,
And on my bruised spirit fell
The dampness of my narrow cell,
As night-air on a wounded man,
Giving intolerable pain.

But now a better life began.

I felt the agony decrease

By slow degrees, then wholly cease,
Ending in perfect rest and peace!

It was not apathy, nor dulness,

That weighed and pressed upon my brain,
But the same passion I had given

To earth before, now turned to heaven
With all its overflowing fulness.

THE Wildgrave winds his bugle horn,
To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo!
His fiery courser snuffs the morn,

And thronging serfs their lords 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.
Ha 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 mayst 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, launching forward with a bound, "Who, for thy drowsy priestlike 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;

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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 bloodhounds 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 spurn;
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 Spirits' hardened tool!
Scorner of God! Scourge of the poor!
The measure of thy cup is full.

"Be chased for ever 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 woe;
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 caverned space,
At midnight's witching hour, ascend.
This is the horn, the hound, and horse,
That oft the 'lated peasant hears;
Appalled, he signs the frequent cross,
When the wild din invades his ears.
The wakeful priest oft drops a tear

For human pride, for human wce,
When, at his midnight mass, he hears
The infernal cry of, "Holla, ho!"

Two lovers, once upon a time,

which it was their purpose to consecrate to all manner of refined and innocent enjoyments. There they would hold pleasant intercourse with one another, and the circle of their familiar friends; there they would give festivals of delicious fruit; there they would hear lightsome music, intermingled with the strains of pathos which make joy more sweet; there they would read poetry and fiction, and permit their own minds to flit away in day-dreams and romance; there, in short-for

So,

their hopes?-there all pure delights were to cluster like roses among the pillars of the edifice, and blossom ever new and spontaneously. one breezy and cloudless afternoon, Adam Forrester and Lilias Fay set out upon a ramble over the wide estate which they were to possess together, seeking a proper site for their Temple of Happiness. They were themselves a fair and happy spectacle, fit priest and priestess for such a shrine; although, making poetry of the pretty name of Lilias, Adam Forrester was wont to call