And love is still an empty sound,
The modern fair-one's jest;
On Earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest.

For shame, fond youth! thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex," he said:
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.

Surprised he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms :

The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid in all her charms.

"And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn," she cried;
"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where Heaven and you reside.

But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way.

My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,

He had but only me.

To win me from his tender arms,

Unnumber'd suitors came;

Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt or feign'd a flame.

Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove; Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love.

In humblest, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.

And when, beside me in the dale,
He caroll'd lays of love,

His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove.

The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of Heaven refined,
Could nought of purity display,
To emulate his mind.

The dew, the blossom on the tree,

With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, woe to me!

Their constancy was mine.

For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain ;

And, while his passion touch'd my heart,

I triumph'd in his pain;

Till, quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride;

And sought a solitude forlorn,

In secret where he died.

But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay :
I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay.

And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die;

'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will I."

"Forbid it, Heaven!

the Hermit cried,

And clasp'd her to his breast:

The wondering fair-one turn'd to chide,
"Twas Edwin's self that press'd.

“And shall we never, never part,
My life, - my all that's mine?”

"No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true;

The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin's too."

ALPINE MINSTRELSY.

SCHILLER: Translated by THEODORE MARTIN.

FISHER-BOY, IN HIS BOAT.

THE clear smiling lake woo'd to bathe in its deep;
A boy on its green shore had laid him to sleep;
Then heard he a melody flowing and soft,

And sweet, as when Angels are singing aloft:

And as, thrilling with pleasure, he wakes from his rest,

The waters are murmuring over his breast;

And a voice from the deep cries, "With me thou must go; I charm the young shepherd, I lure him below."

HERDSMAN, ON THE MOUNTAIN.

Farewell, ye green meadows, farewell, sunny shore!
The herdsman must leave you, the Summer is o'er.
We go to the hills, but you'll see us again,
When the cuckoo is calling, and wood-notes are gay,
When flowerets are blooming in dingle and plain,
And the brooks sparkle up in the sunshine of May.
Farewell, ye green meadows, farewell, sunny shore!
The herdsman must leave you, the Summer is o'er.

CHAMOIS-HUNTER, ON THE TOP OF A CLIFF.

On the heights peals the thunder, and trembles the bridge;
The huntsman bounds on by the dizzying ridge:
Undaunted he hies him o'er ice-cover'd wild,

Where leaf never budded, nor Spring ever smiled;
And beneath him an ocean of mist, where his eye
No longer the dwellings of man can espy:

Through the parting clouds only the earth can be seen,
Far down 'neath the vapour the meadows of green.

A LEGEND OF BREGENZ.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

GIRT round with rugged mountains the fair Lake Constance

lies;

In her blue heart reflected, shine back the starry skies; And, watching each white cloudlet float silently and slow, You think a piece of Heaven lies on our Earth below!

Midnight is there; and silence, enthroned in heaven, looks down

Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping town:
For Bregenz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol shore,
Has stood above Lake Constance a thousand years and more.

Her battlements and towers, upon their rocky steep,
Have cast their trembling shadows for ages on the deep;

Mountain, and lake, and valley a sacred legend know,

Of how the town was saved one night, three hundred years

ago.

Far from her home and kindred, a Tyrol maid had fled,
To serve in the Swiss valleys, and toil for daily bread;
And every year that fleeted so silently and fast

Seem'd to bear further from her the memory of the past.

She served kind, gentle masters, nor ask'd for rest or change ; Her friends seem'd no more new ones, their speech seem'd no more strange;

And, when she led her cattle to pasture every day,

She ceased to look and wonder on which side Bregenz lay.

She spoke no more of Bregenz, with longing and with tears;
Her Tyrol home seem'd faded in a deep mist of years;
She heeded not the rumours of Austrian war or strife;
Each day she rose contented, to the calm toils of life.

Yet, when her master's children would clustering round her stand,

She sang them the old ballads of her own native land; And, when at morn and evening she knelt before God's throne,

The accents of her childhood rose to her lips alone.

And so she dwelt: the valley more peaceful year by year; When suddenly strange portents of some great deed seem'd

near.

The golden corn was bending upon its fragile stalk,

While farmers, heedless of their fields, paced up and down in talk.

The men seem'd stern and alter'd, with looks cast on the ground;

With anxious faces, one by one, the women gather'd round ;
All talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was put away;
The very children seem'd afraid to go alone to play.