THE TEUTOBURGER BATTLE.

WHEN

HEN the Romans, rashly roving,
Into Germany were moving,

First of all, to flourish partial,

Rode mid trumpets the field marshal,
Sir Quinctilius Varus.

But in the Teutoburgian Forest

How the north-wind blew and chorussed;
Ravens flying through the air,

And there was a perfume there
As of blood and corpses.

All at once, in sock and buskins
Out came rushing the Cheruskins,
Howling, "Gott und Vaterland!"
They went in with sword in hand,
Against the Roman legions.

Ah, it was an awful slaughter,
And the cohorts ran like water;
But of all the foe that day,
The horsemen only got away,
Because they were on horseback.

O Quinctilius! wretched general,

Knowest thou not that such our men are all?

In a swamp he fell, - how shocking!
Lost two boots, a left-hand stocking,

And, besides, was smothered.

Then, with his temper growing wusser,

Said to Centurion Titiusser,

"Pull your sword out,

never mind,

And bore me through with it behind,

Since the game is busted."

Scævola, of law a student,

Fine young fellow, but imprudent
As a youth of tender years,
Served among the volunteers,
He was also captured.

E'en his hoped-for death was baffled,
For ere they got him to the scaffold
He was stabbed quite unaware,
And nailed fast en derrière

To his Corpus Juris.

When this forest fight was over
Hermann rubbed his hands in clover;
And to do the thing up right,
The Cheruscans did invite

To a first-rate breakfast.

Now, in honor of the story,

A monument they'll raise for glory.
As for pedestal, - they 've done it;
But who'll pay for a statue on it
Heaven alone can tell us.

Joseph Victor Scheffel. Tr. C. G. Leland.

Tharaw.

ANKE VON THARAW.

THIS Song of Simon Dach, though apparently written in a tone of great tenderness, is in fact a satire upon a lady who proved untrue to him. In after life he could not forgive himself for having taken this poetical revenge. On his death-bed, after a violent spasm of pain, he exclaimed: Ah! that was for the song of Anke von Tharaw."

ANNIE of Tharaw, my true love of old,

She is my life and my goods and my gold.

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again
To me has surrendered in joy and in pain.

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good,
Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood!

Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow
We will stand by each other, however it blow.

Oppression and sickness and sorrow and pain
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.

As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall,
The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall,

So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, Through crosses, through sorrows, through mauifold

wrong.

Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone

In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,

Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea flows, Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes.

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun,

The threads of our two lives are woven in one.

Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed,
Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid.

How in the turmoil of life can love stand,

Where there is not one heart and one mouth and one hand?

Some seek for dissension and trouble and strife:
Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife.

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love;
Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove.

Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen;
I am king of the household, and thou art its queen.

It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast.

This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell;
While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.

Simon Dach. Tr. H. W. Longfellow.

Thuringia.

THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS.

HIS is the land, the happy valleys these,

THIS

Broad breadths of plain, blue-veined by many a
stream,

Umbrageous hills, sweet glades, and forests fair,
O'er which our good liege, Landgrave Herman, rules.
This is Thuringia: yonder, on the heights,

Is Wartburg, seat of our dear lord's abode,
Famous through Christendom for many a feat
Of deftest knights, chief stars of chivalry,
At tourney in its courts; nor more renowned
For deeds of prowess than exploits of art,
Achieved when, vocal in its Muses' hall,
The minstrel-knights their glorious jousts renew,
And for the laurel wage harmonious war.
On this side spreads the chase in wooded slopes
And sweet acclivities; and, all beyond,

The open flats lie fruitful to the sun

Full many a league; till, dark against the sky,
Bounding the limits of our lord's domain,
The Hill of Hörsel rears his horrid front.

Robert, Lord Lytton.