And many a tombstone ghostlie white And when hee from his steede alytte, His head became a naked scull; And att his drye and boney heele Nor spur was left to be; And inn his witherde hande you might And lo! his steede did thin to smoke, And pal'd, and bleach'd, then vanish'd quite And hollow howlings hung in aire, But onwarde to the judgment-seat, '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, Why steals along the pond of toads A gliding fire so blue, That lights a spot where grows no grass, The parson's daughter once was good, And gentle as the dove, 'Let go thy sweethearts, one and all ; '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: The words he whisper'd were so soft, How soon will she, who loves, believe! No lure, no soothing guise, he spar'd, To banish virtuous shame; He call'd 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, 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 And when she saw the pods increase, And when the mowers went afield, She felt her burden stir within, And when the winds of autumn hist Then could the damsel's piteous plight Her sire, a harsh and angry man, With furious voice revil'd: 'Hence from my sight! I'll none of thee I harbour not thy child.' And fast, amid her fluttering hair, 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, Up the harsh rock, on flinty paths, 2 A |