And her cheek was as full, and fresh, and fair, And her eyes were unclosed, and their glassy rays As if before their orbs had gone Some sight they could not close upon; And her bright brown locks all gray were grown; And her hands were clenched, and cold as stone; And the veins upon her neck and brow But she was dead!—what boots it how? In holy ground she was not laid; And Vidal came at night, alone, And tore his shining hair, And laid him down beside the stone, "Fare thee well, fare thee well, Most beautiful of earthly things, I will not bid thy spirit stay, Nor link to earth those glittering wings, That burst like light away! I know that thou art gone to dwell In the sunny home of the fresh-day beam, Before decay's unpitying tread Hath crept upon the dearest dream That ever came and fled; Fare thee well, fare thee well; And go thy way, all pure and fair, Into the starry firmament; And wander there with the spirits of air, As bright and innocent! "Fare thee well, fare thee well! Strange feet will be upon thy clay, And never stop to sigh or sorrow; Yet many wept for thee to-day, And one will weep to-morrow: Alas! that melancholy knell Shall often wake my wondering ear, And thou shalt greet me, for a while, Too beautiful to make me fear, Too sad to let me smile! Fare thee well, fare thee well! I know that heaven for thee is won; And yet I feel I would resign Whole ages of my life, for oneOne little hour, of thine! "Fare thee well, fare thee well! See, I have been to the sweetest bowers, The violet and the blue harebell, Fare ye well, fare ye well! Droop, droop to-night, thou blushing token; A fairer flower shall never fade, Nor a fonder heart be broken!" THE LEGEND OF THE TEUFEL-HAUS. THE way was lone, and the hour was late, Poor youth, of a woman's broken vow, Of the cup dashed down, ere the wine was tasted, Of eloquent speeches sadly wasted, Of a gallant heart all burnt to ashes, And the Baron of Katzberg's long mustaches. Make men extremely deaf and blind. At last he opened his great blue eyes, Found that his hunter had turned his back, And now was threading a forest hoar, "By Cæsar's head," Sir Rudolph said, If I to-night should make my bed Now, for thy sake, good roan, I would we were beneath a roof, Were it the foul fiend's own!" Ere the tongue could rest, ere the lips could close, It was not the scream of a merry boy By a bending bishop's annual pun; Nor the roar of a Yorkshire clown;-oh, no! It was a gentle laugh, and low; Half uttered, perhaps, and stifled half, Such as my uncle Peter's are, When he tells you his tales of Dr. Parr. |