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ml when to bless the little babe The holy Father came,
0 cleanse the stains of sin away
ben did the check of Rndiger
id faltering in his speech he bade
hen o'er the many-tinted sky
Lnd we will take the little babe,
id so together forth they went,
d many a one from Waldhurst's walls
t Rudiger in silent mood
Ii turn thee, turn thee, Rudiger!
ow hush thee, hush thee, Margaret, The mists will do no harm,
1 from the wind the little babe
i turn thee, turn thee, Rudiger,
answer'd not; for now he saw
swan come sailing strong, '. by a silver chain he drew
little boat along.
shore they came, and to the boat ast leapt he with the child,
in leapt Margaret—breathless now, nd pale with fear and wild.
With arching crest and swelling breast
On sail'd tho stately swan.
The little boat went on.
The full-orb'd moon, that beam'd around
Cast through the crimson canopy
And swiftly down the hurrying stream
In silence still they sail,
Flapp'd to the heavy gale.
And he was mute in sullen thought,
And she was mute with fear, Nor sound but of the parting tide
Broke on the listening ear.
The little babe began to cry,
And with a quick and hollow voice
"Now hush thee, hush thee, Margaret,
Nor my poor heart distress! I do but pay perforce the price
Of former happiness.
And hush thee too, my little babe!
Thy cries so feeble cease;
And thou shalt be at peace."
So as he spake to land they drew,
And swift he stept on shore, And him behind did Margaret
Close follow evermore.
It was a place all desolate,
And there a rocky mountain rose,
And at its base a cavern yawn'd,
No eye its depth might view,
That darkness darker grew.
Cold horror crept through Margaret's blood,
When Rudiger approach'd the cave,
A deep sepulchral sound the cave
Return'd: "Lo I am here!"
And Rudiger approach'd, and held
The little infant nigh; Then Margaret shriek'd, and gather'd then
New powers from agony.
In Finland there is a Castle which is called the New Rock, moated abont with a river of onsnuuded depth, the water black, and the fish therein very distasteful to the palate. In this are spectre, often seen, which foreshow either the death of the Governor, or of some prime officer belonging to the place; and »"* eommonly it appeareth in the shape of a harper, sweetly singing and dallying and playisi.under the water. It is reported of one Donica, that after she was dead, the Devil walked in her body for the space of two years, so that none suspected hot she was still alive; for she did both speak and eat, though very sparingly; only ► he had a deep paleness on her countenance, which was the only sign of death. At length a Magician coining by where she was then in the company of many other virgins, as soon as ne beheld her he said: Fair Maids, why keep you company with this dead Virgin, whom you sopnose to be alive? when, taking away the magic charm which was lied under her arm, the body fell down lifeless and without motion.
The following Ballad is founded on these stories They are to be found in the notes to I he Hierarchies of the Blessed Angels ;; a Poem by Thomas Heywood, printed In folio by Adam lslip, 1635.
Hick on a rock whose castled shade
Darken'd the lake below,
The towers of Arlinkow.
The fisher in the lake below
Durst never cast his net, Nor ever swallow in its waves
Her passing wing would wet.
The cattle from its ominous banks
In wild alarm would run,
The summer's scorching sun.
For sometimes when no passing breeze
The long lank sedges waved,
Its deafening billows raved;
Far was her beauty known, for none
So fair could Finland boast;
Young EsERHinn loved her most.
Together did they hope to tread
The pleasant path of life,
Donica Eberhard's wife.
The eve was fair and mild the air,
Along the lake they stray; The eastern hill reflected bright
The tints of fading day.
And brightly o'er the water stream •
The liquid radiance wide; Donica's little dog ran on
And gamboll'd at her side.
Youth, health, and lovebloom'd on her cam
Her full dark eyes express
Her soul's meek tenderness.
Nor sound was heard, nor passing p*k
The air was hush'd, no little wave
Sudden the unfathom'd lake sent forth
Its music from beneath.
The solemn sounds of death.
As those deep sounds of death arose.
Donica's cheek grew pale. And in the arms of Eberhard
The lifeless maiden fell.
Loudly the youth in terror shriek'd.
And loud he call'd for aid.
Gazed on the lifeless maid.
But soon again did better thoughts
In Eberhard arise,
The maiden raise her eyes.
And on his arm reclined she moved
With feeble pace and slow, And soon with strength recovcr'd reach'd
The towers of Arlinkow.
Yet never to Donica's cheek
Return'd the lively hue; Her cheeks were deathy white and wan,
Her lips a livid blue.
Her eyes so bright and black of yore
And beam'd strange lustre in her face
The dog that gamboll'd by her side,
Now at his altcr'd mistress howl'd,
Yet did the faithful Eberhard
Not love the maid the less;
With deeper tenderness.
And when he found her health unharm'd,
He would not brook delay,
To fix the bridal day.
And when at length it came, with joy
He hail'd the bridal day,
They went their willing way.
But when they at the altar stood,
And heard the sacred rite,
A pale sulphureous light.
And when the Youth with holy warmth
Her hand in bis did hold, Sudden he felt Donica's hand
Grow deadly damp and cold.
And loudly did he shriek, for lo!
A Spirit met his view,
His own Donica knew.
Thnt instant from her earthly frame
Howling the Daemon fled. And at the side of Kliei hard
The livid form fell dead.
THK MAID OF THE IKK.
Tho subject of the following ballad was related to me. when a school-boy, as a fact which bad happened in the north of England. Either Fumes or Kirkstall-Abbey (I forgot which) was named as the scene. It seems, howover, to have been founded npon a story related in Dr. Plot's History of Staffordshire. "Amongst the unusual accidents," says this amusing author," that have attended the female sex in the course of their lives, I think I may also reckon the narrow escapes they have made from death. Whereof I met with one mentioned with admiration by every body at Leek, that happened not tar off at the Black Meer of Morridge which, though famous for nothing for which it is commonly reputed so (as that it is bottomless, no cattle will drink of it, or birds fly over or settle upon it, all which I found false;) yet Is so, for the signal deliverance of a poor woman, enticed thither in a dismal stormy night, by a bloody ruffian, who had first gotten her with ehild, and intended in this remote inhospitable place to have dispatched her by drowning. Tho same night (Providence so ordering it) there were several persons of inferior rank drinking in an ale-house at Leek, whereof one having been out, and observing the darkness and other ill circumstances of the weather, coming in again, said to the rest of his companions, that he were a stout man indeed that would venture to go to the Black Meer of Morridge in such a night as that: to which one of them replying, that for a crown or some sncb sum he would undertake it, the rest joining their purse, said he should have his demand. The bargain being struck, away he went on. his journey with a stick in his hand, which fae was to leave there as a testimony of his performance. At length coming near the Meer, he heard the lamentable cries of this distressed woman, begging for mercy, which at first put him to a stand; but being a man of great resolution and some policy, he went boldly on, however, counterfeiting the presence of divers other persons, calling Jack, Dick, and Tom, and crying //ere are the roguea we look'd for, which being heard by the murderer, he left the woman and fled; whom the other man found by the Meer side almost stript of her clothes, and brought her with him to Leek, as an ample testimony of his having been at the Meer, and of God's providence too."
Who is yonder poor Maniac, whose wildlyfix'd eyes
Seem a heart overcharged to express? She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs: She never complains, but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.
No pity she looks for, no alms does she seek;
Nor for raiment nor food doth she care:
Through her rags do the winds of the winter
blow bleak On that wither'd breast, and her weatherworn cheek Hath the hue of a mortal despair.
Yrt cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary the Maniac hath been; The Traveller remembers who journey'd
tliih way No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, As Mary the Maid of the Inn.
She run with wild speed, she rush'd in at
burthen no more, And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor, Unable to utter a sound.
Ere yet her pale lips could the story
start, For — what a cold horror then thrill'd through her heart 'When the name of her Richard she knew!
Where the old Abbey stands, on the common hard by, His gibbet is now to be seen; His irons you still from the rond may espy, The traveller beholds them and thinks with a sigh Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
J A S P A It.
.ijspak was poor, and vice and want
And Jaspar look'd with envious eyes
On plunder bent abroad he went
Toward the close of day, And loitcr'd on the lonely road
Impatient for his prey.
No traveller came, he loitcr'd long,
And often look'd around,
To catch some coming sound.
He sate him down beside the stream
So fair a scene might well have charm'd
He sate beneath a willow-tree
The gentle river full in front
Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone
Upon the poplar-trees;
I'lay'd slowly to the breeze.
He listen'd—and he heard the wind
He heard the waters flow along',
He listen'd for the traveller's tread.
The nightingale sung sweet,— He started up, for now he heard
The sound of coming feet;
He started up and graspt a stake.
And waited for his prey; There came a lonely traveller,
And Jaspar crust his way.
But Jaspar's threats and curses lail'd
The traveller to appal,
Which held his little all.
Awhile he struggled, but he strove
Beneath his blows he fell and groan'd,
Jaspar raised up the murder'd man,
And in the running water then
The waters closed around the corpse,
The willow waved, the stream flow'd on,
There was no human eye had seen
And Jaspar's conscience never knew
And soon the ruffian had consumed
The gold he gain'd so ill,
And he was needy still.
One eve beside the alehouse-fire
He sate as it befell,
Whom Jaspar knew full well.
He sate him down by Jaspar's side
A melancholy man,
Went hard with Jonathan.
His toil a little earn'd, and he
With little was content;
And all he had was spent.
Then with his wife and little ones
He shared the scauty meal,
And felt what wretches feel.