Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 56, No. 345, July, 1844

A river-maiden rose.

She sang to him with witching wile,
"My brood why wilt thou snare,
With human craft and human guile,
To die in scorching air?
Ah! didst thou know how happy we
Who dwell in waters clear,
Thou wouldst come down at once to me,
And rest for ever here.

"The sun and ladye-moon they lave
Their tresses in the main,
And breathing freshness from the wave,
Come doubly bright again.
The deep blue sky, so moist and clear,
Hath it for thee no lure?
Does thine own face not woo thee down
Unto our waters pure?"

The water rush'd and bubbled by—
It lapp'd his naked feet;
He thrill'd as though he felt the touch
Of maiden kisses sweet.
She spoke to him, she sang to him—
Resistless was her strain—
Half-drawn, he sank beneath the wave,
And ne'er was seen again.

Our next extract smacks of the Troubadours, and would have better suited good old King René of Provence than a Paladin of the days of Charlemagne. Goethe has neither the eye of Wouverman nor Borgognone, and sketches but an indifferent battle-piece. Homer was a stark moss-trooper, and so was Scott; but the Germans want the cry of "boot and saddle" consumedly. However, the following is excellent in its way.

THE MINSTREL

"What sounds are those without, along
The drawbridge sweetly stealing?
Within our hall I'd have that song,
That minstrel measure, pealing."
Then forth the little foot-page hied;
When he came back, the king he cried,
"Bring in the aged minstrel!"

"Good-even to you, lordlings all;
Fair ladies all, good-even.
Lo, star on star within this hall
I see a radiant heaven.
In hall so bright with noble light,
'Tis not for thee to feast thy sight,
Old man, look not around thee!"

He closed his eyne, he struck his lyre
In tones with passion laden,
Till every gallant's eye shot fire,
And down look'd every maiden.
The king, enraptured with his strain,
Held out to him a golden chain,
In guerdon of his harping.

"The golden chain give not to me,
For noble's breast its glance is,
Who meets and beats thy enemy
Amid the shock of lances.
Or give it to thy chancellere—
Let him its golden burden bear,
Among his other burdens.

"I sing as sings the bird, whose note
The leafy bough is heard on.
The song that falters from my throat
For me is ample guerdon.
Yet I'd ask one thing, an I might,
A draught of brave wine, sparkling bright
Within a golden beaker!"

The cup was brought. He drain'd its lees,
"O draught that warms me cheerly!
Blest is the house where gifts like these
Are counted trifles merely.
Lo, when you prosper, think on me,
And thank your God as heartily
As for this draught I thank you!"

We intend to close the present Number with a very graceful, though simple ditty, which Goethe may possibly have altered from the Morlachian, but which is at all events worthy of his genius. Previously, however, in case any of the ladies should like something sentimental, we beg leave to present them with as nice a little chansonette as ever was transcribed into an album.

THE VIOLET

A violet blossom'd on the lea,
Half hidden from the eye,
As fair a flower as you might see;
When there came tripping by
A shepherd maiden fair and young,
Lightly, lightly o'er the lea;
Care she knew not, and she sung
Merrily!

"O were I but the fairest flower
That blossoms on the lea;
If only for one little hour,
That she might gather me—
Clasp me in her bonny breast!"
Thought the little flower.