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Thou said'st, thy lot, in childhood's years,
Froze in thy soul the source of tears :
The time will come, when thou, with me,
The judginent-throne of God wilt see.
Oh! by thy hopes of mercy then,
By His blest love who died for men,
By each dread rite, and shrine, and vow
Avenger! I adjure thee now!
To him who bleeds beneath thy steel,
Thy lineage and thy name reveal,
And haste thee! for his closing ear
Hath little more on earth to hear-
Haste! for the spirit almost flown,
Is lingering for thy words alone.”

Then first a shade, resembling fear,
Pass'd o'er th’Avenger's mien austere;
A nameless awe his features cross'd,
Soon in their haughty coldness lost.

“What wouldst thou? Ask the rock and wild, And bid them tell thee of their child! Ask the rude winds, and angry skies, Whose tempests were his lullabies ! His chambers were the cave and wood, His fosterers men of wrath and blood; Outcasts alike of earth and heaven, By wrongs to desperation driven! Who, in their pupil, now could trace The features of a nobler race? Yet such was inine! if one who cast A look of anguish o'er the past, Bore faithful record on the day, When penitent in death he lay. But still deep shades my prospects veil, He died-and told but half the tale; With him it sleeps-I only know Enough for stern and silent woe, For vain ambition's deep regret, For hopes deceived, deceiving yet, For dreams of pride that vainly tell How high a lot had suited well The heir of some illustrious line, Heroes and chieftains of the Rhine !

Then swift through Albert's bosom pass'd,
One pang, the keenest and the last,
Ere with his spirit fled the fears,
The sorrows, and the pangs of years;
And, while his grey hairs swept the dust,
Faltering he murmur'd, “Heaven is just !

For thee that deed of guilt was done,
By thee avenged, my Son! my Son!”

The day was closed the moonbeam shed
Light on the living and the dead,
And as through rolling clouds it broke,
Young Ella from her trance awoke-
Awoke to bear, to feel, to know
E'en more than all an orphan's woe.
Oh! ne'er did moonbeam's light serene
With beauty clothe a sadder scene !
There, cold in death, the father slept,
There, pale in woe, the daughter wept !
Yes! she might weep-but one stood nigh
With horror in his tearless eye,
That eye which ne'er again shall close
In the deep quiet of repose ;
No more on earth beholding aught,
Save one dread vision, stamp'd on thought.
But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid
His deeper woe had scarce survey’d,
Till his wild voice reveal'd a tale,
Which seem'd to bid the Heavens turn pale !
He call'd her, “ Sister!” and the word
In anguish breathed, in terror heard,
Reveal'd enough-all else were weak,
That sound a thousand pangs could speak.
He knelt beside that breathless clay,
Which, fix'd in utter stillness, lay-
Knelt till his soul imbibed each trace,
Each line of that unconscious face ;
Knelt, till his eye could bear no more,
Those marble features to explore ;
Then, starting, turniny, as to shun
The image thuis by Memory, won,
A wild farewell to her he bade,
Who by the dead in silence pray'd,
And, frenzied by his bitter doom,
Fled thence to find all earth a tomb!

Days pass’d away—and Rhine's fair shore
In the light of suminer smiled once more ;
The vines were purpling on the hill,
And corn-fields waved in the sunshine still :
There came a bark up the noble stream,
With pennons that shed a golden gleam,
With the flash of arms, and the voice of song,
Gliding triumphantly along ;
For warrior-forms were glittering there,
Whose pluines waved light in the whispering air;
And as the tones of car and wave
Their measured cadence mingling gave,

'Twas thus th' exulting chorus rose,
While many an echo swell'd the close :-

From the fields where dead and dying,
On their battle-bier are lying,
Where the blood unstanch'd is gushing,
Where the steed uncheck'd is rushing,
Trampling o'er the noble-hearted,
Ere the spirit yet be parted;
Where each breath of Heaven is swaying
Knightly plumes and banners playing,
And the clarion's music swelling
Calls the vulture from his dwelling;
He comes, with trophies worthy of his line,
The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine!
To his own fair woods, enclosing
Vales in sunny peace reposing,.
Where his native stream is laving
Banks, with golden harvests waving,
And the summer light is sleeping
On the grape, through tendrils peeping ;
To the halls where harps are ringing,
Bards the praise of warriors singing,
Graceful footsteps bounding fleetly
Joyous voices mingling sweetly;
Where the cheek of mirth is glowing,
And the wine-cup brightly flowing,
He comes with trophics worthy of his line,
The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine.

He came-he sought his Ella's bowers,
He traversed Lindheim's lonely towers;
But voice and footstep thence had fled,
As from the dwellings of the dead,
And the sounds of human joy and woe
Gave place to the moan of the wave below.
The banner still the rampart crown'd,
But the tall rank grass waved thick around;
Still hung the arms of a race gone by,
In the blazon'd halls of their ancestry,
But they caught no more, at fall of night,
The wavering flash of the torch's light;
And they sent their echoes forth no more,
To the Minnesinger's tuneful lore,
For the hands that touch'd the harp were gone,
And the hearts were cold that loved its tone ;
And the soul of the chord lay mute and still,
Save when the wild wind bade it thrill,
And woke from its depths a dream-like moan,
For life, and power and beauty gone.

The warrior turn'd from that silent scene, Where a voice of woe had welcome been,

And his heart was heavy with boding thought,
As the forest-path alone he sought.
He reach'd a convent's fane, that stood
Deep bosom'd in luxuriant wood;
Still, solemn, fair-it seem'd a spot
Where earthly care might be all forgot,
And sounds and dreams of Heaven alone,
To musing spirit might be known.

And sweet e'en then were the sounds that rose
On the holy and profound repose.
Oh! they came o'er the warrior's breast,
Like a glorious anthem of the blest;
And fear and sorrow died away,
Before the full, majestic lay.
He enter'd the secluded fane,
Which sent forth that inspiring strain ;
He gazed-the hallow'd pile's

Was that of some high festal day;
Wreath's of all hues its pillars bound,
Flowers of all scents were strew'd around;
The rose exhaled its fragrant sigh,
Blest on the altar to smile and die;
And a fragrant cloud from the cens 's breath
Half hid the sacred pomp beneath ;
And still the peal of choral song
Swell’d the resounding aisles along;
Wakening, in its triumphant flow,
Deep echoes from the graves below.

Why, from its woodland birth place torn,
Doth summer's rose that scene adorn?
Why breathes the incense to the sky ?
Why swells th' exulting harmony?
-And see'st thou not yon form, so light,
It seems half floating on the sight,
As it the whisper of a gale,
That did but wave its snowy veil,
Might bear it from the earth afar,
A lovely, but receding star?
Know that devotion's shrine e'en now,
Receives that youthful vestal's vow,
For this, high hymns, sweet odours rise,
A jubilee of sacrifice!
Mark yet a moment! from her brow
Yon priest shall lift the veil of snow,
Ere yet a darker mantle hide
The charms to Heaven thus sanctified;
Stay thee! and catch their parting gleam,
That ne'er shall fade from memory's dream
A moment! oh! to Ulric's soul,
Poised between hope and fear's control,

What slow, unmeasured hours went by,
Ere yet suspense grew certainty ;
It came at length-once more that face
Reveald to man its mournful grace ;
A sunbeam on its features fell,
As if to bear the world's farewell;
And doubt was o'er-his heart grew chill-
'Twas she though changed—'twas Ella still !
Though now her once-rejoicing mien,
Was deeply, mournfully serene ;
Though clouds her eye's blue lustre shaded,
And the young cheek beneath had faded,
Well, well he knew the form, which cast
Light on his soul through all the past !
'Twas with him on the battle plain,
'Twas with him on the stormy main,
'Twas in his visions, when the shield
Pillow'd his head on tented field;
'Twas a bright dream that led him on
Where'er a triumph might be won,
In danger as in glory nigh,
An angel-guide to victory!

She caught his pale bewilder'd gaze
Of grief halt lost in fix'd amaze-
Was it some vain illusion, wrought
By frenzy of impassion'd thought ?
Some phantom, such as Grief hath power
To summon, in her wandering hour?
No! it was he! the lost, the mourn'd,
Too deeply loved, too late return'd!

A fever'd blush, a sudden start,
Spoke the last weakness of her heart,
'Twas vanquish'd soon-the hectic red
A moment Hush'd her cheek. and fled.
Once more serene-her steadfast eye
Look'd up as to Eternity;
Then gaz'd on Ulric with an air,
That said—the home of Love is there!

Yes! there alone it smiled for him,
Whose eye before that look grew dim ;
Not long 'twas his e'en thus to view
The beauty of its calm adieu ;
Soon o'er those features, brightly pale,
Was cast th' impenetrable veil;
And, if one human sigh were given
By the pure bosom vow'd to Heaven,
'Twas lost, as many a murmur'd sound
Of grief," not loud, but deep,” is drown'd,

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