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”

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, And young and fair and many came

To win the damsel's love.

High o'er the hamlet, from the hill,

Beyond the winding stream, The windows of a stately house

In sheen of evening gleam,

There dwelt, in riot, rout, and roar,

A lord so frank and free,
That oft, with inward joy of heart,

The maid beheld his glee.

Whether he met the dawning day,

In hunting trim so fine,
Or tapers, sparkling from his hall,

Beshone the midnight wine.

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,

I'll pipe my quail-call from the field :

Be kind, nor make me wait.'

In cap and mantle clad he came,

At night, with lonely tread ; Unseen, and silent as a mist,

And hush'd the dogs with bread.

And when the amorous nightingale

Sung sweetly to his mate,
She heard his quail-call in the field,

And, ah! ne'er made him wait.

The words he whisper'd were so soft,

They won her ear and heart;
How soon will she, who loves, believe !

How deep a lover's art !

No lure, no soothing guise, he spar'd,

To banish virtuous shame; He callid on holy God above,

As witness to his flame. .

He clasp'd her to his breast, and swore

To be for ever true: • O yield thee to my wishful arms,

Thy choice thou shalt not rue.'

And while she strove, he drew her on,

And led her to the bower
So still, so dim—and round about

Sweet smelt the beans in flower.

There beat her heart, and heaved her breast,

And pleaded every sense ;
And there the glowing breath of lust

Did blast her innocence.

But when the fragrant beans began

Their fallow blooms to shed,
Her sparkling eyes their lustre lost;

Her cheek, its roses fled;

And when she saw the pods increase,

The ruddier cherries stain,
She felt her silken robe grow tight,

Her waist new weight sustain.

And when the mowers went afield,

The yellow corn to ted,
She felt her burden stir within,

And shook with tender dread.

And when the winds of autumn hist

Along the stubble field;
Then could the damsel's piteous plight

No longer be conceald.

Her sire, a harsh and angry man,

With furious voice revild: · Hence from my sight! I'll none of thee

I harbour not thy child.'

And fast, amid her fluttering hair,

With clenched fist he gripes,
And seiz'd a leathern thong, and lash'd

Her side with sounding stripes.

Her lily skin, so soft and white,

He ribb’d with bloody wales ;
And thrust her out, though black the night,

Though sleet and storm assails.

Up the harsh rock, on flinty paths,

The maiden had to roam ;

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