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;
Count Otto, ere thou bend thy knee,
What shall the hire for my service be?"

"Greedy hawk must gorge his prey;
Pious priest must win his pay:

Name the guerdon, and so to the task ;
Thine it is, ere the lips can ask."

He frowned as he answered-" Gold or gem,
Count Otto, little I reck of them;

But your bride has skill of the lute, they say,
Let her sing me the song I shall name to-day."
Loud laughed the Count;-" And if she refuse
The ditty, Sir Priest, thy whim shall choose,
Row back to the house of old St. Goar;

I never bid Priest to a bridal more."

Beside the maiden he took his stand,
He gave the lute to her trembling hand;
She gazed around with a troubled eye,
The guests all shuddered, and knew not why:
It seemed to them as if a gloom

Had shrouded all the banquet room,

Though over its boards, and over its beams, Sunlight was glowing in merry streams.

The stern Priest throws an angry glance
On that pale creature's countenance;
Unconsciously her white hand flings
Its soft touch o'er the answering strings;
The good man starts with a sudden thrill,
And half relents from his purposed will;
But he signs the cross on his aching brow,
And arms his soul for its warfare now.
"Mortal maid, or goblin fairy,

Sing me,

I pray thee, an Ave-Mary."

Suddenly the maiden bent

O'er the gorgeous instrument;
But of song the listeners heard

Only one wild, mournful word,—

Lurley,-Lurley!"

And when the sound in the liquid air
Of that brief hymn had faded,

Nothing was left of the Nymph who there

For a year had masqueraded,

But the harp in the midst of the wide hall set,

Where her last strange word was spoken;

The golden frame with tears was wet,

And all the strings were broken!

THE DEATH OF GESLER.

BY JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

Scene. The lake of Lucerne.-Gesler's bark; the wind against it.-Gesler, Arnold, and soldiers; George and

rowers. -Tell, at the bottom of the boat, in chains.

GESLER. Lie to it, slaves!

GEORGE. My lord, they do their best.

The wind is right-a-head, the swell is strong!

Together!

GESLER. Is there danger?

GEORGE. None, my lord,

(To the rowers.)

As yet; but none can tell how soon there may

Be danger, when the wind begins to blow

Upon these mountain lakes.

GESLER. How deep is 't here?

GEORGE. A hundred fathom, sir.

GESLER. A fathom is

GEORGE. Two yards.

GESLER. I know-a hundred fathom-so!

A yard, three feet-six hundred feet to hang
O'er nothing!

ARNOLD. Nothing, sir?

GESLER. What is it but

To be suspended in the empty air

Upon a twig.

The air floats not the twig

As doth the lake the plank; but this away,

Down!-down you go, as sure! In such a sea,

For sea it is, what could a swimmer do? (To George.) GEORGE. To live, an able swimmer might contrive

In even such a sea.

GESLER. What help could he

Afford to one unpractised in the art?

GEORGE. Small; and e'en that at risk of his own life;
The aid he'd give, his own disablement ;

For oft the swimmer's grasped by him he'd save,
To utter uselessness of his own limbs.

GESLER. What does he then?

GEORGE. Drown him that so would 'scape.

GESLER. And if he fails?

GEORGE. Then each doth drown the other!

A storm is coming on.

GESLER. I see it not.

GEORGE. There's thunder at a distance.

GESLER. I but hear

The roaring of the lake and wind. It lightens !--

You saw 't?

GEORGE. I did.

You'll hear the thunder now.

Then for a deluge. (it thunders, and rains in torrents.) GESLER. Make to land!

GEORGE. 'T will be

A furious storm.

GESLER. To land!

GEORGE. We dare not do 't

We do not know the shore! we must keep out,
For fear of shoals or sunken rocks, whereon

To strike were to be lost!

That mingle with deep moans, and outcries hoarse.

And threatening loud;-all kinds of utterings

That wrath and fear yell forth, and agony;

Or furious madness, at its topmost height?
ARNOLD. One might imagine such.
GESLER. Imagine such!

I hear them!-Hark!

GEORGE. (to rowers.) We're losing way.

1st ROWER. We are.

GESLER. Back-back, my friends!

GEORGE. We may not put about!

O'erburthened as she is, we durst not shew

Her side to such a sea!

GESLER. Sit near me, Arnold!

You see that slave with moving lips? He prays!