I've got my wife, I take her home,
My howre of wedlocke hayl.

Lead forth, O clarke, the chaunting quire, To swell our nuptial song:

Come, preaste, and reade the blessing soone; For bed, for bed we long.'

They heede his calle, and husht the sowne;
The biere was seen no more;

And followde him ore feeld and flood
Yet faster than before.

Halloo! halloo! away they goe,
Unheeding wet or drye;

And horse and rider snort and blowe,
And sparkling pebbles flye.

How swifte the hill, how swifte the dale,

Aright, aleft, are gone?

By hedge and tree, by thorpe and towne,
They gallop, gallop on.

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede; Splash, splash, acrosse the see:

'Hurrah! the dead can ride apace;

Dost fear to ride with me?

In roundel daunces reele:

The moone is bryghte, and blue the nyghte, Mayst dimlie see them wheele.

'Come to, come to, ye ghostlie crewe,
Come to, and follow mee,

And daunce for us the wedding daunce,
When we in bed shall be.'

And brush, brush, brush, the ghostlie crewe
Come wheeling ore their heads,
All rustling like the wither'd leaves
That wyde the wirlwind spreads.

Halloo! halloo ! away they goe,
Unheeding wet or drye;

And horse and rider snort and blowe,
And sparkling pebbles flye.

And all that in the moonshyne lay,
Behynde them fled afar ;
And backwarde scudded overhead

The sky and every star.

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede; Splash, splash, across the see:

‹ Hurrah! the dead can ride apace; Dost fear to ride with mee?

'I weene the cock prepares to crowe :
The sand will soon be runne;

I snuffe the earlye morning aire :
Downe, downe! our work is done.

The dead, the dead can ride apace!
Our wed-bed here is fit;

Oure race is ridde, our journey ore,
Our endlesse union knitt.'

And lo! an yren-grated gate

Soon biggens to their viewe:

He crackte his whyppe; the clangynge boltes, The doores asunder flewe.

They pass, and 'twas on graves they trode; "Tis hither we are bounde :'

And many a tombstone ghostlie white
Lay in the moonshyne round.

And when hee from his steede alytte,
His armour, black as cinder,
Did moulder, moulder all awaye,
As were it made of tinder.

His head became a naked scull;
Nor haire nor eyne had hee:
His body grew a skeleton,
Whilome so blythe of blee.

And att his drye and boney heele
Nor spur was left to be;

And inn his witherde hande you might
The scythe and houre-glasse see.

And lo! his steede did thin to smoke,
And charnel fires outbreathe;

And pal'd, and bleach'd, then vanish'd quite
The mayde from underneathe.

And hollow howlings hung in aire,
And shrekes from vaults arose.

Then knew the mayde she mighte no more
Her living eyes unclose.

But onwarde to the judgment-seat,
Thro' myste and moonlight dreare,

The ghostlie crewe their flyghte persewe,
And hollowe inn her eare :-

'Be patient; tho' thyne herte shoulde breke, Arrayne not Heaven's decree ;

Thou nowe art of thie bodie refte,

Thie soule forgiven bee!'

"It is said," resumed the Nymph, "that when Bürger first wrote this poem, he was a very young man, and read it to his companions with such spirit and vehemence, that they started from their seats in horror at the impassioned accent with which he uttered the expression in the original, which is so happily rendered by 'he crackte his whyppe.' I have also heard it stated, that he is considered among his countrymen as Coleridge and Wordsworth are among us, not so much for genius as for rejecting what is called the conventual phraseology of regular poetry, in favour of popular forms of expression, gathered from the simple and energetic utterance of the common people. Imitative harmony he pursues almost to excess, the onomatopoeia is his prevailing figure, the interjection his favourite part of speech,―arrangement, rhythm, sound, rhyme, are always with him an echo to the same. The hurrying vigour of his poetical diction is unrivalled, yet it is so natural, even in its sublimity, that his poetry is singularly fitted to become national with the people. Of these two ballads some prefer The Parson's Daughter' to Lenora. It has been no less happily translated than the other, under the title of "

6

THE LASS OF FAIR WONE.

Beside the parson's bower of yew,

Why strays a troubled spright,
That peaks and pines, and dimly shines
Thro' curtains of the night?

Why steals along the pond of toads

A gliding fire so blue,

That lights a spot where grows no grass,
Where falls no rain nor dew?

The parson's daughter once was good,
And gentle as the dove,

He sent the maid his picture, girt
With diamond, pearl, and gold;
And silken paper, sweet with musk,
This gentle message told:

'Let go thy sweethearts, one and all;
Shalt thou be basely woo'd,
That worthy art to gain the heart
Of youths of noble blood?

'The tale I would to thee bewray,

In secret must be said:

At midnight hour I'll seek thy bower; Fair lass, be not afraid.

' And when the amorous nightingale Sings sweetly to his mate,