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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?

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And who is yon Page lying cold at his knee ?—
Oh, who but Count Albert and fair Rosalie!

The lady was buried in Salem's bless'd bound,
The Count he was left to the vulture and hound:
Her soul to high mercy Our Lady did bring;
His went on the blast to the dread Fire-King.

Yet many a minstrel, in harping, can tell, How the Red-cross it conquer'd, the Crescent it fell:
And lords and gay ladies have sigh'd, 'mid their glee,
At the tale of Count Albert and fair Rosalie.

FREDERICK AND ALICE.

[1801.]

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,
Homeward hastes his steps to measure,

Careless casts the parting glance
On the scene of former pleasure.

Joying in his prancing steed,
Keen to prove his untried blade,

Hope's gay dreams theToldier lead
Over mountain, moor, and glade.

Helpless, ruin'd, left forlorn,

Lovely Alice wept alone;
Mourn'd o'er love's fond contract torn,

Hope, and peace, and honour flown.

Mark her breast's convulsive throbs!

See, the tear of anguish flows! —
Mingling soon with bursting sobs,

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,
Faithless Frederick onward rides;Marking, blithe, the morning's glance
Mantling o'er the mountain's sides. Heard ye not the boding sound,
As the tongue of yonder tower, Slowly, to the hills around, Told the fourth, the fated hour?

Starts the steed, and snuffs the air,
Yet no cause of dread appears;Bristles high the rider's hair,

Struck with strange mysterious fears. VOL. vi. 13

Desperate, as his terrors rise,
In the steed the spur he hides;

From himself in vain he flies;
Anxious, restless, on he rides.

Seven long days, and seven long nights,
Wild he wandered, woe the while!

Ceaseless care, and causeless fright,
Urge his footsteps many a mile.

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,
By the lightning's flash descried.

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!"

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