He sings of Fatherland, the minstrel's glory—

High theme of memory and hope divine— Twining its fame with gems of antique story, In Suabian songs and legends of the Rhine;

Well do they know his name among the mountains,

In ballads breathing many a dim tradition,
Nourished in long belief or minstrel rhymes,
Fruit of the old romance, whose gentle inis-
sion

And plains and valleys, of his native land; Part of their nature are the sparkling fountains

Of his clear thought, with rainbow fancies spanned.

His simple lays oft sings the mother, cheerful,
Beside the cradle in the dim twilight;

His plaintive notes low breathes the maiden,
tearful,

With tender murmurs in the ear of night.

The hillside swain, the reaper in the mead

Ows,

Carol bis ditties through the toilsome day; And the lone hunter in the Alpine shadows Recalls his ballads by some ruin gray.

O precious gift! O wondrous inspiration!
Of all high deeds, of all harmonious things,
To be the oracle, while a whole nation
Catches the echo from the sounding strings!

Out of the depths of feeling and emotion
Rises the orb of song, serenely bright-
As who beholds, across the tracts of ocean,
The golden sunrise bursting into light.

Wide is its magic world-divided neither

By continent, nor sea, nor narrow zone; Who would not wish sometimes to travel thither,

In fancied fortunes to forget his own?
WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER

THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.
LET her be laid within a silent dell,
Where hanging trees throw round a twilight
gleam-

Just within hearing of some village-bell,
And by the margin of a low-voiced stream;
For these were sights and sounds she once
loved well.

Passed from the earth before our wiser Then o'er her grave the star-paved sky will
times.
beam;

THE MINSTREL.

"WHAT Voice, what harp, are those we hear WHо best can paint th' enamelled robe of Beyond the gate in chorus?

Spring,

With flow'rets and fair blossoms well bedight;

Who best can her melodious accents sing, With which she greets the soft return of light;

Go, page!-the lay delights our ear;
We'll have it sung before us!"
So speaks the king: the stripling flies—
He soon returns; his master cries-

66

Bring in the hoary minstrel!"

"Hail, princes mine! Hail, noble knights!

Who best can bid the quaking tempest rage, And make th' imperial arch of Heav'n to groan

All hail, enchanting dames!

What starry heaven! What blinding lights! Breed warfare with the winds, and finely

Whose tongue may tell their names?

In this bright hall, amid this blaze,
Close, close, mine eyes! Ye may not gaze
On such stupendous glories!"

The minnesinger closed his eyes;
He struck his mighty lyre:
Then beauteous bosoms heaved with sighs,
And warriors felt on fire;
The king, enraptured by the strain,
Commanded that a golden chain

Be given the bard in guerdon.

"Not so! Reserve thy chain, thy gold,

For those brave knights whose glances, Fierce flashing through the battle bold,

Might shiver sharpest lances! Bestow it on thy treasurer thereThe golden burden let him bear

With other glittering burdens.

"I sing as in the greenwood bush
The cageless wild-bird carols—
The tones that from the full heart gush
Themselves are gold and laurels!
Yet might I ask, then thus I ask—
Let one bright cup of wine, in flask

Of glowing gold, be brought me !"

They set it down; he quaffs it all—

"O! draught of richest flavor! O! thrice divinely happy hall

Where that is scarce a favor!
If Heaven shall bless ye, think on me;
And thank your God as I thank ye

For this delicious wine-cup!"

SONNET.

wage

Great strife with Neptune on his rocky throne

Or lose us in those sad and mournful days
With which pale Autumn crowns the misty
year,

Shall bear the prize, and in his true essays
A poet in our awful eyes appear;

For whom let wine his mortal woes beguile,
Gold, praise, and woman's thrice-endearing
smile.

LORD THURLOW.

A POET'S THOUGHT.

TELL me, what is a poet's thought?
Is it on the sudden born?
Is it from the starlight caught?
Is it by the tempest taught?

Or by whispering morn?

Was it cradled in the brain?

Chained awhile, or nursed in night?
Was it wrought with toil and pain?
Did it bloot and fade again,
Ere it burst to light?

No more question of its birth:

Rather love its better part!
'Tis a thing of sky and earth,
Gathering all its golden worth
From the poet's heart.

BARRY CORNWALL