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

If thou didst not hear the blast

Of the savage horn, from the mountain-tower,
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass'd,

And the roar of the stormy chase went by,

Through the dark unquiet sky!

The stag sprung up from his mossy bed
When he caught the piercing sounds,

And the oak-boughs crash'd to his antler'd head
As he flew from the viewless hounds;

And the falcon soar'd from her craggy height,
Away through the rushing night!

The banner shook on its ancient hold,
And the pine in its desert-place,

As the cloud and tempest onward roll❜d
With the din of the trampling race;

And the glens were fill'd 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 triumphal chord ;

And the Minnesinger's thrilling lay

In the hall died fast away.

* Minnesinger, love-singer; the wandering minstrels of Germany were so called in the middle ages.

The convent's chanted rite was stay'd,

And the hermit dropp'd his beads,

And a trembling ran through the forest-shade, At the neigh of the phantom steeds,

And the church-bells peal'd to the rocking blast As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass'd.

The storm hath swept with the chase away,

There is stillness in the sky,

But the mother looks on her son to-day,

With a troubled heart and eye,

And the maiden's brow hath a shade of care
Midst the gleam of her golden hair!

The Rhine flows bright, but its waves ere long

Must hear a voice of war,

And a clash of spears our hills among,

And a trumpet from afar;

And the brave on a bloody turf must lie,

For the Huntsman hath gone by!

BRANDENBURGH HARVEST-SONG*.

FROM THE GERMAN OF LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ.

THE corn, in golden light,

Waves o'er the plain;

The sickle's gleam is bright;
Full swells the grain.

Now send we far around

Our harvest lay!

-Alas! a heavier sound

Comes o'er the day!

On every breeze a knell

The hamlets pour,—

-We know its cause too well,

She is no more!

* For the year of the Queen of Prussia's death.

M

Earth shrouds with burial sod

Her soft eye's blue,—

-Now o'er the gifts of God

Fall tears like dew!