"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,

The violet and the blue harebell,

And one frail rose in its earliest bloom;
Alas! I meant it for thy hair,
And now I fling 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:

But brighter gleamed his anxious eye,

When a light shone out from a hill hard by.
Thither he spurred, as gay and glad

As Mrs. Maquill's delighted lad,

When he turns away from the Pleas of the Crown,
Or flings, with a yawn, old Saunders down,

And flies, at last, from all the mysteries
Of Plaintiffs' and Defendants' histories,
To make himself sublimely neat,

For Mrs. Camac's in Mansfield Street.

At a lofty gate Sir Rudolph halted; Down from his seat Sir Rudolph vaulted: And he blew a blast with might and main, On the bugle that hung by an iron chain. The sound called up a score of sounds;—

The screeching of owls, and the baying of hounds,

The hollow toll of the turret bell,

The call of the watchful sentinel,

And a groan at last, like a peal of thunder,
As the huge old portals rolled asunder,
And gravely from the castle hall
Paced forth the white-robed seneschal.
He stayed not to ask of what degree
So fair and famished a knight might be;
But knowing that all untimely question
Ruffles the temper, and mars the digestion,
He laid his hand upon the crupper,

And said, "You're just in time for supper!"
They led him to the smoking board,

And placed him next to the castle's lord.

He looked around with a hurried glance:

You may ride from the border to fair Penzance,
And nowhere, but at Epsom Races,

Find such a group of ruffian faces

As thronged that chamber: some were talking
Of feats of hunting and of hawking,

And some were drunk, and some were dreaming,
And some found pleasure in blaspheming.

He thought, as he gazed on the fearful crew,

That the lamps that burned on the walls burned blue.
They brought him a pasty of mighty size,

To cheer his heart, and to charm his eyes;
They brought the wine, so rich and old,
And filled to the brim the cup of gold;

The knight looked down, and the knight looked up,
But he carved not the meat, and he drained not the cup.

"Ho, ho," said his host with angry brow,

"I wot our guest is fine;
Our fare is far too coarse, I trow,

For such nice taste as thine :

Yet trust me I have cooked the food,
And I have filled the can,

Since I have lived in this old wood,
For many a nobler man."-
"The savory buck and the ancient cask
To a weary man are sweet;

But ere he taste, it is fit he ask

For a blessing on bowl and meat.