Full sore rocked the cavern whene'er he drew nigh,
The fire on the altar blazed bickering and high;
In volcanic explosions the mountains proclaim
The dreadful approach of the Monarch of Flame.

Unmeasured in height, undistinguished in form,
His breath it was lightning, his voice it was storm;
I ween the stout heart of Count Albert was tame,
When he saw in his terrors the Monarch of Flame.

In his hand a broad faulchion blue-glimmer'd through smoke,

And Mount Lebanon shook as the monarch he spoke :"With this brand shalt thou conquer, thus long, and no

more,

Till thou bend to the Cross, and the Virgin adore."

The cloud-shrouded Arm gives the weapon; and,

see! The recreant receives the charm'd gift on his knee : The thunders growl distant, and faint gleam the fires, As, borne on his whirlwind, the Phantom retires.

2

Count Albert has armed him the Paynim among,

Though his heart it was false, yet his arm it was strong; And the Red-cross waxed faint, and the Crescent came on, From the day he commanded on Mount Lebanon.

From Lebanon's forests to Gallilee's wave,

The sands of Samaar drank the blood of the brave;
Till the Knights of the Temple, and Knights of Saint John,
With Salem's King Baldwin, against him came on.

The war-cymbals clattered, the trumpets replied,
The lances were couched, and they closed on each side;
And horsemen and horses Count Albert o'erthrew,
Till he pierced the thick tumult King Baldwin unto.

Against the charmed blade which Count Albert did wield,
The fence had been vain of the King's Red-cross shield;
But a Page thrust him forward the monarch before,
And cleft the proud turban the renegade wore.

So fell was the dint, that Count Albert stooped low
Before the crossed shield, to his steel saddle-bow;

And scarce had he bent to the Red-cross his head,-
"Bonne grace, notre Dame," he unwittingly said.

Sore sighed the charmed sword, for its virtue was o'er, It sprung from his grasp, and was never seen more; But true men have said, that the lightning's red wing Did waft back the brand to the dread Fire-King,

He clenched his set teeth, and his gauntletted hand; He stretched, with one buffet, that Page on the strand; As back from the stripling the broken casque rolled, You might see the blue eyes, and the ringlets of gold,

Short time had Count Albert in horror to stare

On those death-swimming eye-balls, and blood-clotted

hair;

For down came the Templars, like Cedron in flood,

And dyed their long lances in Saracen blood.

The Saracens, Curdmans, and Ishmaelites yield
To the scallop, the saltier, and crosletted shield;
And the eagles were gorged with the infidel dead,
From Bethsaida's fountains to Naphthali's head.

The battle is over on Bethsaida's plain.—

Oh, who is yon Paynim lies stretched mid the slain?
And who is yon Page lying cold at his knee?---
Oh, who but Count Albert and fair Rosalie.

The Lady was buried in Salem's blessed bound,
The Count he was left to the vulture and hound:
Her soul to high mercy Our Lady did bring;
His went on the blast to the dread Fire-King.

Yet many a minstrel, in harping, can tell,

How the Red Cross it conquered, the Crescent it fell; And lords and gay ladies have sighed, 'mid their glee, At the tale of Count Albert and fair Rosalie.

FREDERICK AND ALICE.

This tale is imitated, rather than translated, from a fragment introduced in Goethe's " Claudina von Villa Bella,” where it is sung by a member of a gang of banditti, to engage the attention of the family, while his companions break into the castle. It owes any little merit it may possess to my friend MR LEWIS, to whom it was sent in an extremely rude state; and who, after some material im provements, published it in his "Tales of Wonder."

FREDERICK leaves the land of France,

Homeward hastes his steps to measure;

Careless casts the parting glance,

On the scene of former pleasure;

Joying in his prancing steed,

Keen to prove his untried blade,
Hope's gay dreams the soldier lead

Over mountain, moor, and glade.