"Thy silver hairs I see, They had not been so white! I bore thee down, high heart! at last: "Thou wert the noblest king And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, "Thou that my boyhood's guide How will that sad still face of thine Look on me till I die!' THE VASSAL'S LAMENT FOR THE FALLEN TREE. ["Here (at Brereton, in Cheshire) is one thing incredibly strange, but attested, as I myself have heard, by many persons, and commonly believed. Before any heir of this family dies, there are seen, in a lake adjoining, the bodies of trees swimming on the water for several days."-CAMDEN's Brittania.] YES! I have seen the ancient oak On the dark deep water cast, And it was not felled by the woodman's stroke, Or the rush of the sweeping blast; For the axe might never touch that tree, And the air was still as a summer sea. I saw it fall, as falls a chief By an arrow in the fight, And the old woods shook to their loftiest leaf, At the crashing of its might; And the startled deer to their coverts drew, And the spray of the lake as a fountain's flew ! 'Tis fallen! But think thou not I weep But by that sign too well I know, A youthful head, with its shining hair, But on his brow the mark is set Oh! could my life redeem him yet! He bounded by me as I gazed And it seemed like sunshine when he raised His joyous glance to mine. With a stag's fleet step he bounded by, He must, he must! in that deep dell, 'Tis known that ne'er a proud tree fell I've borne him in these arms, that now And must I see, on that fair brow, I must!-yon green oak, branch and crest, It seemed like youth to see him young, But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh, THE WILD HUNTSMAN. [It is a popular belief in the Odenwald, that the passing of the Wild Huntsman announces the approach of war. He is supposed to issue with his train from the ruined castle of Rodenstein, and traverse the air to the opposite castle of Schnellerts. It is confidently asserted, that the sound of his phantom horses and hounds was heard by the Duke of Baden before the commencement of the last war in Germany.] THY rest was deep at the slumberer's hour, Of the savage horn from the mountain-tower, The stag sprung up from his mossy bed And the oak-boughs crashed to his antlered head, The banner shook on its ancient hold, As the cloud and tempest onward rolled And the glens were filled with the laugh and shout, And the bugle, ringing out! From the chieftain's hand the wine-cup fell, At the castle's festive board, And a sudden pause came o'er the swell Of the harp's triumphant chord; The convent's chanted rite was stayed, And a trembling ran through the forest-shade, And the church-bells pealed to the rocking blast The storm hath swept with the chase away, But the mother looks on her son to-day And the maiden's brow hath a shade of care The Rhine flows bright; but its waves ere long And the clash of spears our hills among, And a trumpet from afar ; And the brave on a bloody turf must lie— BRANDENBURG HARVEST SONG.? THE corn in golden light Waves o'er the plain; The sickle's gleam is bright; 1 Minnesinger, love-singer-the wandering minstrels of Germany were so called in the middle ages. 2 For the year of the Queen of Prussia's death. Now send we far around Comes o'er the day! Earth shrouds with burial sod On every breeze a knell The hamlets pour : We know its cause too well- THE SHADE OF THESEUS. AN ANCIENT GREEK TRADITION. KNOW ye not when our dead Had crushed our vines and flowers, Through the holy laurel bowers; When banners caught the breeze, There was one, a leader crowned, With his tall and shadowy crest; But the arrows drew no blood, Though their path was through his breast. When banners caught the breeze, His sword was seen to flash Where the boldest deeds were done; But it smote without a clash The stroke was heard by none ! His voice was not of those That swelled the rolling blast, And his steps fell hushed like snows'Twas the Shade of Theseus passed! When banners caught the breeze, Far sweeping through the foe, As the Shade of Theseus passed! When banners caught the breeze, ANCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE. WHERE is the summer with her golden sun? Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe and die The reeds, low whispering o'er the river waves? Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining, Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs, Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers, |