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And her cheek was as full, and fresh, and fair,
As it had been when warmth was there,
And her eyes were unclosed, and their glassy rays
Were fixed in a desolate, dreamy gaze,
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;

For she had died in sin, And good St. Ursula forbade

That such should enter in ; But in a calm and cold retreat

They made her place of rest, ·
And laid her in her winding-sheet,

And left her there unblest ;
And set a small stone at her head,

Under a spreading tree;
Orate”-that was all it said,

Orate hic pro me!

And Vidal came at night, alone,

And tore his shining hair,
And laid him down beside the stone,

And wept till day-break there.

“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 one

One little hour, of thine !

“Fare thee well, fare thee well!
See, I have been to the sweetest bowers,

And culled from garden and from heath
The tenderest of all tender flowers,
And blended in my wreath

The violet and the blue harebell,
And one frail rose in its earliest bloom;

Alas ! I meant it for thy hair,
And now I Aling it on thy tomb,
To weep and wither there !

Fare ye well, fare ye well!
Sieep, sleep, my love, in fragrant shade,

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,
And Sir Rudolph was far from his castle gate.
The night came down, by slow degrees,
On the river stream, and the forest-trees;
And by the heat of the heavy air,
And by the lightning's distant glare,
And by the rustling of the woods,
And by the roaring of the floods,
In half an hour, a man might say,
The Spirit of Storm would ride that way.
But little he cared, that stripling pale,
For the sinking sun, or the rising gale ;
For he, as he rode, was dreaming now,
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.
So the earth below, and the heaven above,
He saw them not ;—those dreams of love,
As some have found, and some will find,
Make men extremely deaf and blind.

At last he opened his great blue eyes,
And looking about in vast surprise, .
Found that his hunter had turned his back,
An hour ago on the beaten track,
And now was threading a forest hoar,
Where steed had never stepped before.

“By Cæsar's head,” Sir Rudolph said,

“It were a sorry joke,
If I to-night should make my bed

On the turf, beneath an oak!
Poor Roland reeks from head to hoof;-

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,
The sound of a listener's laughter rose.
It was not the scream of a merry boy
When harlequin waves his wand of joy ;
Nor the shout from a serious curate, won
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,
A good old-gentlemanly laugh;
Such as my uncle Peter's are,
When he tells you his tales of Dr. Parr.
The rider looked to the left and the right,
With something of marvel, and more of fright:

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