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She heard the knight that fond tale tell,

With a pale and pensive brow: "Henceforth my spirit may not sleep, As ever till now it slept;

Henceforth mine eyes have learned to weep, As never till now they wept.

Twelve months, dear Otto, let me grieve For my own, my childhood's home, Where the sun at noon, or the frost at eve,

Did never dare to come;

And when the Spring its smiles recalls,

Thy maiden will resign

The holy hush of her father's halls

For the stormy joys of thine."

But where that father's halls ?—vain, vain !

She threw her sad eyes down;

And if you dared to ask again,

She answered with a frown.

Some people have a knack, we know,

Of saying things mal-a-propos,
And making all the world reflect

On what it hates to recollect:

They talk to misers of their heir,
To women of the times that were,
To ruined gamblers of the box,

To thin defaulters of the stocks,

To cowards of their neighbours' duels,

To Hayne of Lady H.'s jewels,

To poets of the wrong Review,

And to the French of Waterloo.

The Count was not of these; he never
Was half so clumsy, half so clever ;
And when he found the girl had rather
Say nothing more about her father,

He changed the subject-told a fable-
Believed that dinner was on the table-
Or whispered, with an air of sorrow,
That it would surely rain to-morrow.

The Winter storms went darkly by,

And, from a blue and cloudless sky,

Again the sun looked cheerfully

Upon the rolling Rhine

And Spring brought back to the budding flowers

Its genial light and freshening showers,

And music to the shady bowers,

And verdure to the vine.

And now it was the First of May;
For twenty miles round all is gay;
Cottage and castle keep holiday;

For how should sorrow lower

On brow of rustic or of knight,

When heaven itself looks all so bright,
Where Otto's wedding feast is dight

In the hall of Belmont Tower?

Stately matron and warrior tall
Come to the joyous festival;

Good Count Otto welcomes all,

As through the gate they throng;

He fills to the brim the wassail cup;
In the bright wine Pleasure sparkles up,

And draughts and tales grow long ;
But grizzly knights are still and mute,
And dames set down the untasted fruit,
When the bride takes up her golden lute,

And sings her solemn song:

"A voice ye hear not, in mine ear is crying;

What does the sad voice say?

• Dost thou not heed thy weary father's sighing?

Return, return to-day!

Twelve moons have faded now:

My daughter, where art thou?'

"Peace! in the silent evening we will meet thee,

Gray ruler of the tide!

Must not the lover with the loved one greet thee? The bridegroom with his bride?

Deck the dim couch aright,

The bridal couch, to-night."

The nurses to the children say

That, as the maiden sang that day,

The Rhine to the heights of the beetling tower

Sent up a cry of fiercer power,

And again the maiden's cheek was grown

As white as ever was marble stone,

And the bridesmaid her hand could hardly hold,

Its fingers were so icy cold.

Rose Count Otto from the feast,

As entered the hall the hoary priest.

A stalwart warrior, well I ween,

That hoary priest in his youth had been;
But the might of his manhood he had given
To peace and prayer, the Church and Heaven.
For he had travelled o'er land and wave;
He had kneeled on many a martyr's grave;
He had prayed in the meek St. Jerome's cell,
And had tasted St. Anthony's blessed well.
And reliques round his neck had he,
Each worth a haughty kingdom's fee-
Scrapings of bones, and points of spears,
And vials of authentic tears

From a prophet's coffin a hallowed nail,
And a precious shred of our Lady's veil ;
And therefore, at his awful tread,

The powers of darkness shrank with dread;
And Satan felt that no disguise

Could hide him from those chastened eyes.

He looked on the bridegroom, he looked on the bride, The young Count smiled, but the old priest sighed.

"Fields with the father I have won ;

I am come in my cowl to bless the son;

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