That woman's faith's a brittle trustseven twelvemonths didst thou say? I'll pledge me for no lady's truth be yond the seventh fair day.' The noble Baron turn'd him round, A long adieu he bids to all, hoists topsails, and away, And wanders in Saint Thomas-land seven twelvemonths and a day. It was the noble Moringer within an orchard slept, When on the Baron's slumbering sense a boding vision crept; And whisper'd in his ear a voice, ''Tis time, Sir Knight, to wake, To whom he spoke right anxiously, Thy Lady and thy heritage another 'Thou trusty squire to me, Wilt thou receive this weighty trust when I am o'er the sea? 'To watch and ward my castle strong, till seven long years are gone, And guard her as Our Lady dear was guarded by Saint John?' Marstetten's heir was kind and true, master take. 'Thy tower another banner knows, thy steeds another rein, And stoop them to another's will thy gallant vassal train; And she, the Lady of thy love, so faithful once and fair, This night within thy fathers' hall she weds Marstetten's heir.' It is the noble Moringer starts up 'Oh would that I had ne'er been born! but fiery, hot, and young, And readily he answer made with too presumptuous tongue : 'My noble lord, cast care away, and But, on your journey wend, And trust this charge to me until your pilgrimage have end. 'Ogood Saint Thomas, hear,' he pray'd, And I am far in foreign land, and must It was the good Saint Thomas, then, The Moringer he started up as one from spell unbound, And to the warder thus he spoke: 'Friend, to thy Lady say, And dizzy with surprise and joy gazed A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land wildly all around; 'I know my fathers' ancient towers, the mill, the stream I know, Now blessed be my patron Saint who cheer'd his pilgrim's woe!' He leant upon his pilgrim staff, and to the mill he drew, So alter'd was his goodly form that none their master knew; The Baron to the miller said, 'Good friend, for charity, Tell a poor palmer in your land what tidings may there be?' craves harbour for a day. 'I've wander'd many a weary step, my strength is wellnigh done, And if she turn me from her gate I'll see no morrow's sun; I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, a pilgrim's bed and dole, And for the sake of Moringer's, her once-loved husband's soul.' It was the stalwart warder then he came his dame before, 'A pilgrim, worn and travel-toil❜d, stands at the castle-door; The miller answered him again, 'He And prays, for sweet Saint Thomas' knew of little news, Save that the Lady of the land did a new bridegroom choose; sake, for harbour and for dole, And for the sake of Moringer, thy noble husband's soul.' Her husband died in distant land, The Lady's gentle heart was moved; such is the constant word; His death sits heavy on our souls, he was a worthy Lord. 'Of him I held the little mill which wins me living free; God rest the Baron in his grave, he still was kind to me! And when Saint Martin's tide comes 'Do up the gate,' she said, 'And bid the wanderer welcome be to banquet and to bed; And since he names my husband's name, so that he lists to stay, These towers shall be his harbourage a twelvemonth and a day.' It was the stalwart warder then undid the portal broad; round, and millers take their toll, The priest that prays for Moringer It was the noble Moringer that o'er the threshold strode; shall have both cope and stole.' It was the noble Moringer to climb the hill began, 'And have thou thanks, kind heaven,' he said, though from a man of sin, And stood before the bolted gate That the true lord stands here once a woe and weary man ; 'Now help me, every saint in heaven that can compassion take, To gain the entrance of my hall this woful match to break.' His very knock it sounded sad, his call was sad and slow, For heart and head, and voice and hand, were heavy all with woe; more his castle-gate within.' Then up the halls paced Moringer, his step was sad and slow; It sat full heavy on his heart, none seem'd their Lord to know; He sat him on a lowly bench, oppress'd with woe and wrong, Short space he sat, but ne'er to him seem'd little space so long. Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, and come was evening hour, The time was nigh when new-made brides retire to nuptial bower; 'Our castle's wont,' a bridesman said, 'hath been both firm and long, No guest to harbour in our halls till he shall chant a song.' Then spoke the youthful bridegroom there as he sat by the bride, 'My merry minstrel folk,' quoth he, 'lay shalm and harp aside; Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay, the castle's rule to hold, And well his guerdon will I pay with garment and with gold.' 'Chill flows the lay of frozen age,' 'twas thus the pilgrim sung; 'Nor golden meed nor garment gay unlocks his heavy tongue; Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at board as rich as thine, And by my side as fair a bride with all her charms was mine. 'But time traced furrows on my face, and I grew silver-hair'd, For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, she left this brow and beard; Once rich, but now a palmer poor, I tread life's latest stage, And mingle with your bridal mirth the lay of frozen age.' It was the noble Lady there this woful lay that hears, And for the aged pilgrim's grief her eye was dimm'd with tears; She bade her gallant cupbearer a golden beaker take, And bear it to the palmer poor to quaff it for her sake. It was the noble Moringer that dropp'd amid the wine A bridal ring of burning gold so costly and so fine: Now listen, gentles, to my song, it tells you but the sooth, 'Twas with that very ring of gold he. pledged his bridal truth. Then to the cupbearer he said, 'Do me one kindly deed, And should my better days return, full rich shall be thy meed; Bear back the golden cup again to yonder bride so gay, And crave her of her courtesy to pledge the palmer grey.' The cupbearer was courtly bred, nor was the boon denied, The golden cup he took again, and bore it to the bride; 'Lady,' he said, 'your reverend guest sends this, and bids me pray, That, in thy noble courtesy, thou pledge the palmer grey.' The ring hath caught the Lady's eye, she views it close and near, Then might you hear her shriek aloud, 'The Moringer is here!' Then might you see her start from seat, while tears in torrents fell, But whether 'twas for joy or woe, the ladies best can tell. But loud she utter'd thanks to Heaven, and every saintly power, That had return'd the Moringer before the midnight hour; And loud she utter'd vow on vow, that never was there bride That had like her preserved her troth, or been so sorely tried. Yes, here I claim the praise,' she said, 'to constant matrons due, Who keep the troth that they have plight, so stedfastly and true; For count the term howe'er you will, O father, see yonder! see yonder!' so that you count aright, 'Seven twelvemonths and a day are out when bells toll twelve to-night.' It was Marstetten then rose up, his falchion there he drew, He kneel'd before the Moringer, and down his weapon threw ; 'My oath and knightly faith are broke,' these were the words he said, 'Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, and take thy vassal's head.' The noble Moringer he smiled, and then aloud did say, 'He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd seven twelvemonths and a day; My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame speaks her sweet and fair, I give her for the bride you lose, and name her for my heir. 'The young bridegroom hath youthful he says; 'My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully gaze?' 'O, 'tis the Erl-King with his crown and his shroud.' 'No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud.' 'O father, my father, and did you not hear The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear?' bride, the old bridegroom the old, "Be still, my heart's darling—my child, Whose faith was kept till term and tide so punctually were told; But blessings on the warder kind that oped my castle-gate, For had I come at morrow tide, I came a day too late.' THE ERL-KING. FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE. O, WHO rides by night thro' the woodland so wild? It is the fond father embracing his child; And close the boy nestles within his be at ease; It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' the trees.' Erl-King. 'O wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest 'O father, my father, and saw you not plain The Erl-King's pale daughter glide past thro' the rain?' 'O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon; To hold himself fast, and to keep It was the grey willow that danced to loved arm, himself warm. the moon.' |