See, limp and loose-their life is o'er--
See, helpless hang they now!

Yet weal to him-c'er fields he strays,
Where snows no more can fall;

Gone hence-to meads that shine with maize,
Which springs, self-sown, for all.
Where birds abound on every brake—

Where forests teem with deer

Where swarm the fish through every lake-
One chase from year to year!
There, Spirits now he feasts amid-

And leaves us here bereft,

That we may praise the deeds he did,

And-bury what is left.

Here bring the last gifts!—and with these
The last lament be said;

Let all that pleased, and yet may please,
Be buried with the Dead.
Beneath his head the hatchet hide
That he so stoutly swung--

And place the bear's fat haunch beside,
The journey hence is long!

And let the knife new-sharpened be,

That, on the battle-day,

Shore with quick strokes he took but threeThe foeman's scalp away!

The paints that warriors love to use

Place here within his hand;

That he may shine with ruddy hues

Amidst the Spirit-land

THE LAY OF THE MOUNTAIN.

THE SCENERY OF GOTTHARDT IS HERE PERSONIFIED.

THE three following ballads, in which Switzerland is the scene, betray their origin in Schiller's studies for the Drama of William Tell.

THE dizzy Bridge hangs o'er the nether abyss,

Life and death it goes winding between; In the desolate path, o'er the lone precipice, The giants that threaten are seen:

That thou wake not the Lioness,' silently tread-And still be thy breath in the pathway of Dread!

High over the marge springs the arch that doth span The deeps that lie fearful below;

That Bridge was not built by the science of Man-Such daring did Man never know:

Late and early the stream roars beneath it for ever,
Invading and storming,—and harming it never.

Black and dreary, a Portal expands to thy sight,
It seems like the Realm of the Dead-

Yet beyond it there smiles but a land of delight,
Where the Spring with the Autumn is wed.
Ah, if to that valley of bliss I could gain
From this life, ever weary with trouble and pain!

Below, to the plain (ever hidden their source),

Four Rivers rush roaringly forth—

The fourfold divisions of earth for their course;
The east and the west-south and north.

On, fast as they spring from their mother, they roar,
Forth flying and rushing, and lost evermore,

Two peaks rise aloft in the blue of the air,
O'er the world that to mortals is given;
Veil'd in vapors of gold, dance eternally there

The Clouds,-silent Daughters of Heaven!

And there, where no breath of the earthborn may breathe,

Their dance in the solitude noiseless they wreathe.

High, and bright to behold, sits a Queen; looking down

From a throne never threatened by time,3

And wondrous the diamonds that blaze in the crown
That encircles her temples sublime.

The sun shoots his arrows of light on that form,
But he only can gild it-he never can warm.

1 The Lioness-(Löwin for Lawine)—the avalanche. The giants in the preceding line are the rocks that overhang the pass, which winds now to the right, now to the left, of a roaring stream,

2 The Devil's Bridge. The Land of Delight (called in Tell "a serene valley of joy"), to which the dreary portal (in Tell the Black Rock Gate) leads, is the Urse Vale. The four rivers, in the next stanza, are the Reus, the Rhine, the Tessin, and the Rhone.

3 The everlasting glacier. See William Tell, act v. scene 2.

FOUNDED ON A LEGEND OF THE VALLEY OF ORMOND, IN THE

PAYS DE VAUD.

ILT thou not, thy lamblings heeding,

"WILT

(Soft and innocent are they!)

Watch them on the herbage feeding,

66

Or beside the brooklet play?"

'Mother, mother, let me go,

O'er the mount to chase the roe."

"Wilt thou not, thy herds assembling,
Lure with lively horn along?--
Sweet their clear bells tinkle trembling,
Sweet the echoing woods among!"
"Mother, mother, let me go,

O'er the wilds to chase the roe."

"See the flowers that smile unto thee-
Wilt thou tend them not, my child?
On the height no gardens woo thee;
Wild is nature on the wild."
"Leave the flowers in peace to blow;
Mother, mother, let me go!"

Forth the hunter bounds unheeding,
On his hardy footsteps press;
Hot and eager, blindly speeding
To the mountain's last recess :

Swift, before him, as the wind,
Panting, trembling, flies the hind.

Up the ribbed crag-tops driven,
Up she clambers, steep on steep;
O'er the rocks asunder riven

Springs her dizzy, daring leap:
Still unwearied, with the bow
Of death, behind her flies the foe.

On the peak that rudely, drearly
Jags the summit, bleak and hoar,
Where the rocks, descending sheerly,
Leave to flight no path before;
There she halts at last, to find
Chasms beneath--the foe behind!

To the hard man—dumb-lamenting,
Turns her look of pleading woe;
Turns in vain—the Unrelenting

Meets the look--and bends the bow.

Yawn'd the rock; from his abode

Forth the mountain Genius strode ;

And, his godlike hand extending,
From the hunter snatched the prey,
“Wherefore, woe and slaughter sending,
To my solitary sway?—

Why should my herds before thee fall?

THERE'S ROOM UPON THE EARTH FOR ALL!"