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Sore sigh'd the charm'd sword, for its virtue was o'er, It sprung from his grasp, and was never seen more; But true men have said, that the lightning's red wing Did waft back the brand to the dread Fire-King.
He clench'd his set teeth, and his gauntleted hand; He stretch'd, with one buffet, that Page on the strand;As back from the stripling the broken casque roll'd, You might see the blue eyes, and the ringlets of gold.
Short time had Count Albert in horror to stare On those death-swimming eyeballs, and bloodclotted hair;For down came the Templars, like Cedron in flood,
And dyed their long lances in Saracen blood.
The Saracens, Curdmans, and Ishmaelites yield To the scallop, the saltier, and crossleted shield: And the eagles were gorged with the infidel dead, From Bethsaida's fountains to Naphthali's head.
The battle is over on Bethsaida's plain.—
Oh, who is yon Paynim lies stretch'd 'mid the slain?
And who is yon Page lying cold at his knee ?—
The lady was buried in Salem's bless'd bound,
Yet many a minstrel, in harping, can tell, How the Red-cross it conquer'd, the Crescent it fell:
FREDERICK AND ALICE.
This tale is imitated, rather than translated, from a fragment introduced in Goethe's "Claudina Von Villa Bella," where it is sung by a member of a gang of banditti, to engage the attention of the family, while his companions break into the castle. It owes any little merit it may possess to my friend Mr. Lewis, to whom it was sent in an extremely rude state; and who, after some material improvements, published it in his "Tales of Wonder."
Frederick leaves the land of France,
Careless casts the parting glance
Joying in his prancing steed,
Hope's gay dreams theToldier lead
Helpless, ruin'd, left forlorn,
Lovely Alice wept alone;
Hope, and peace, and honour flown.
Mark her breast's convulsive throbs!
See, the tear of anguish flows! —
Loud the laugh of frenzy rose.
Wild she cursed, and wild she pray'd;
Seven long days and nights are o'er; Death in pity brought his aid,
As the village bell struck four.
Far from her, and far from France,
Starts the steed, and snuffs the air,
Struck with strange mysterious fears. VOL. vi. 13
Desperate, as his terrors rise,
From himself in vain he flies;
Seven long days, and seven long nights,
Ceaseless care, and causeless fright,
Dark the seventh sad night descends;
Rivers swell, and rain-streams pour; While the deafening thunder lends
All the terrors of its roar.
Weary, wet, and spent with toil,
Where his head shall Frederick hide?
Where, but in yon ruin'd aisle,
To the portal, dank and low,
Fast his steed the wanderer bound:
Down a ruin'd staircase slow, Next his darkling way he wound.
Long drear vaults before him lie!
Glimmering lights are seen to glide! — "Blessed Mary, hear my cry!
Deign a sinner's steps to guide!"