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Short time went by from that dread hour
Of manifested wrath and power,
Ere from the cliff a little shrine
Looked down upon the rolling Rhine.
Duly the virgin Priestess there
Led day by day the hymn and prayer ;
And the dark heathen round her pressed
To know their Maker, and be blessed.


To the Countess Von C , Bonn.

1. This the Legend of the Drachenfels—

Sweet theme, most feebly sung ; and yet to me My feeble song is grateful ; for it tells

Of far-off smiles and voices. Though it be Unmeet, fair Lady, for thy breast or bower, Yet thou wilt wear, for thou didst plant the


It had been worthier of such birth and death

If it had bloomed where thou didst watch its rise, Framed by the zephyr of the fragrant breath,

Warmed by the sunshine of thy gentle eyes, And cherished by the love, in whose pure shade No evil thing can live, no good thing fade.


It will be long ere thou wilt shed again

Thy praise or censure on my childish laysThy praise, which makes me happy more than vain,

Thy censure, kinder than another's praise.

Huge mountains frown between us, and the swell
Of the loud sea is mocking my farewell.


Yet not the less, dear Friend, thy guiding light
Shines through the secret chambers of my

Or when I waken, with revived delight,

The lute young Fancy to my cradle brought,
Or when I visit with a studious brow
The less-loved task, to which I turn me now.


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 elegant 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 lest 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 Mr. Macquill'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 Plaintiff's and Defendant's 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 a 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 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

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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


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 savoury 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.
Let me pray but a minute's space,

And bid me pledge ye then;
I swear to ye, by our Lady's grace,

I shall eat and drink like ten!”

The Lord of the Castle in wrath arose,

He frowned like a fiery dragon ;

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