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The account of the consummation of this horrible ceremony, and the flight of the wanderer, is remarkably fine :
The death-work was begun-I veiled mine eyes,
In the mid-battle-ay, to turn the flying-
-Faint grew the sounds—more faint-I listened--they had ceased ! He then escapes with his wife and child on board a vessel, but before it has reached its place of destination, the former dies. The exile's keen reminiscences of this event, and the circumstances connected with it, are most pathetically narrated. He, however, gains the woods of North America at last, and there pours forth the strains of passionate regret, from which we have already borrowed so largely. The Literary Gazette, we perceive, accuses Mrs. Hemans of an anachronism, with which, if our worthy contemporary had read the poem attentively, he would have seen that she was not chargeable. The boy (says the Gazette,) is represented as being quite infantine at his mother's death, and yet the father had been long years in prison. This is a misapprehension, the father had not been long years in prison, and there is, consequently, no anachronism whatever. We regret that our space will not admit of our transferring to our pages a few more of the numerous tender and touching bursts of feeling with which this poem abounds ; but if our readers cannot form some idea of its many and great beauties from the specimens we have quoted, we shall be sorry for them. Of the many
attached to the Forest Sanctuary,' we can only give three, viz. 'Our Lady's Well,' which we do not remember to have seen in print before ;. · He Never Smiled Again,' an affecting passage in history, most pathetically illustrated, and Richard Cæur de Lion at the Bier of his Father,' one of the noblest Ballads in the English language.
OUR LADY'S WELL'*
Fount of the Virgin's ruined shrine !
Tis that all on earth is of Time's domain-
HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.
It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.
The bark that held a prince went down,
The sweeping waves rolled on ;
To him that wept a son?
for life may long be horne
-He never smiled again !
* A beautiful spring in the woods near St. Asaph, formerly covered in with a chapel, now in ruins. It was dedicated to the Virgin, and, according to Pennant, much the resort of pilgrims.
There stood proud forms around his throne,
The stately and the brave,
That one beneath the wave!
In pleasure's reckless train,
-He never smiled again!
He heard the minstrel sing,
Amidst the knightly ring :
Was blent with every strain,
-He never smiled again!
Of vows once fondly poured,
At many a joyous board;
Were left to Heaven's bright rain,
-He never smiled again!
CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.
The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the Abbey Church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Ceur-de-Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.
Torches were blazing clear, hymns pealing deep and slow,
There was heard a heavy clang, as of steel-girt men the tread,
But there's more in late repentant love than steel may keep suppressed !
He looked upon the dead, and sorrow seemed to lie,
Oh, father! is it vain, this late remorse and deep ?
'Thou that my boyhood's guide didst take fond joy to be !
Tobias Merton tells us we must fill out this page, we have therefore * selected the following pleasing little song:
BRANDENBURGH HARVEST SONG. *
FROM THE GERMAN OF LA MOTTE FOUQUE.
The corn, in golden light,
Waves o'er the plain;
Full swells the grain.
Our harvest lay !
Comes o'er the day.
On every breeze a knell
The hamlet's pour.
She is no more!
Earth shrouds with burial sod
Her soft eye's blue,
Fall tears like dew!
* For the year of the Queen of Prussia's death.
A LEGEND OF THE RHINE:
FROM THE GERMAN OF VON LOEBEN.
THERE where yon rocks are sleeping,
Beneath the bright moonshine,
And gazing on the Rhine.
As the vessels glide along-
But, Youth! bcware her song.
Thus doth she look on all,
Her golden ringlets fall.
Those glances still have rolled-
For the wave is false and eold! Thus sang an old huntsman, who had seated himself on a rock which impended over the Rhine, not far from the cave where, in ancient times, the holy hermit, St. Goar, had taken up his abode, and effected the conversion of the neighbouring fishermen. The waves, as they rushed past, bore swiftly along with them a small slight bark, in which sat a youth clothed in costly apparel. The boat was just speeding to the dangerous whirlpool, called the Bank, where the steersman is driven to the exercise of his utmost skill, to retain any command over his vessel. Yet the youth heeded not the dangers of his situation, nor turned away his gaze from a dark frowning rock, from whence a fair but unearthly maiden looked down, and seemed to smile upon him. The old huntsman now sang louder and louder, for he could not help fancying that the poor youth had set out to visit his true-love, and had been bewitched by the sight of the water-fairy, Loreley. Lute, bow, and rudder had all escaped from his hold; his hat, with its white plume, hung only by a ribbon around his neck, and he seemed to abandon himself to the rushing and raging waters, as though he delighted in their fury, and waited till they should have risen sufficiently high to bear him up the rock. The huntsman might have sung yet louder, and the whirlpool might have risen to overpower him with their roar, yet
still not one single word would have reached the object of his warning; for he heard and saw nothing but the beautiful nymph, who, seated on the rock above him, was engaged in picking up little pieces of glittering stone, as though she were gathering flowers, and, anon, gaily scattering them in the water, and leaning over its sides to watch them sink down, and disappear in sparkling foam-bells. It seemed to her victim that it was to him she was leaning and smiling, and he stretched out his arms with a longing look, and stood as if gazing on a far-off star; when all at once his little bark was dashed with a shattering stroke on the sharp stones, and the vortex dragged him to its raging gulf, and closed its gigantic arms above his struggling form. All was now over with the hapless youth. He never rose again. But Loreley looked down with a careless and even sportive glance, gathered fresh splinters from the rock, and smiled like a child through her long fair hair.