The thousand crowns; a pleasant load,
That made him rich for life.

And Nassau's Duke the favorite took

Into his deer-park's centre,

To share a field with other pets

Where deer-slayer cannot enter.

There, whilst thou cropp'st thy flowery food, Each hand shall pat thee kind,

And man shall never spill thy blood,

Wiesbaden's gentle hind.

Thomas Campbell.

Windeck, the Castle.

THE LADY OF CASTLE WINDECK.

EIN in thy snorting charger!

REIN

That stag but cheats thy sight; He is luring thee on to Windeck, With his seeming fear and flight.

Now, where the mouldering turrets

Of the outer gate arise,

The knight gazed over the ruins

Where the stag was lost to his eyes.

The sun shone hot above him ;

The castle was still as death;

He wiped the sweat from his forehead, With a deep and weary breath.

"Who now will bring me a beaker
Of the rich old wine that here,
In the choked-up vaults of Windeck,
Has lain for many a year?"

The careless words had scarcely
Time from his lips to fall,
When the Lady of Castle Windeck
Came round the ivy-wall.

He saw the glorious maiden

In her snow-white drapery stand,
The bunch of keys at her girdle,
The beaker high in her hand.

He quaffed that rich old vintage,
With an eager lip he quaffed;
But he took into his bosom

A fire with the grateful draught.

Her eyes' unfathomed brightness!
The flowing gold of her hair!
He folded his hands in homage,
And murmured a lover's prayer.

She gave him a look of pity,
A gentle look of pain;

And quickly as he had seen her

She passed from his sight again.

And ever from that moment
He haunted the ruins there,
A sleepless, restless wanderer,
A watcher with despair.

Ghost-like and pale he wandered,
With a dreamy, haggard eye;
He seemed not one of the living,
And yet he could not die.

'Tis said that the lady met him,
When many years had passed,
And, kissing his lips, released him
From the burden of life at last.
Ludolf Adelbert von Chamisso. Tr. W. C. Bryant.

IT

Winterthal.

THE DESERTED MILL.

T stands in the lonely Winterthal,
At the base of Ilsberg hill;

It stands as though it fain would fall,
The dark Deserted Mill.

Its engines, coated with moss and mould,
Bide silent all the day;

Its mildewed walls and windows old

Are crumbling to decay.

So through the daylight's lingering hours
It mourns in weary rest;

But soon as the sunset's gorgeous bowers
Begin to fade in the west,

The long-dead millers leave their lairs,
And open its creaking doors,
And their feet glide up and down its stairs,
And over its dusty floors.

And the miller's men, they too awake,
And the night's weird work begins;
The wheels turn round, the hoppers shake,
The flour falls into the bins.
The mill-bell tolls agen and agen,

And the cry is, "Grist here, ho!"
And the dead old millers and their men
Move busily to and fro.

And ever as night wears more and more
New groups throng into the mill,
And the clangor, deafening enough before,
Grows louder and wilder still.

Huge sacks are barrowed from floor to floor;
The wheels redouble their din;

The hoppers clatter, the engines roar,
And the flour o'erflows the bin.

But with the morning's pearly sheen
This ghastly hubbub wanes,

And the moon-dim face of a woman is seen

Through the meal-dulled window-panes.

She opens the sash, and her words resound
In tones of unearthly power,

"Come hither, good folks, the corn is ground;
Come hither and take your flour!"

Thereon strange hazy lights appear

A-flitting all through the pile,

And a deep, melodious, choral cheer

Ascends through the roof the while.
But, a moment more, and you gaze and hark,
And wonder and wait in vain;

For suddenly all again is dark,
And all is hushed again.

It stands in the desolate Winterthal,
At the base of Ilsberg hill;

It stands as though it would rather fall,
The long-deserted Mill.

Its engines, coated with moss and mould,
Bide silent all the day;

And its mildewed walls and windows old
Are crumbling fast away."

August Schnezler. Tr. J. C. Mangan.