Right where his charge had made a lane,

His valiant comrades burst,

With sword, and axe, and partizan,
And hack, and stab, and thrust.

The daunted Lion 'gan to whine.

And granted ground amain,

The mountain Bull, he bent his brows, And gored his sides again.

Then lost was banner, spear, and shield,
At Sempach in the flight,

The cloister vaults at Konigsfield
Hold many an Austrian knight.

It was the Archduke Leopold,
So lordly would he ride,

But he came against the Switzer churls,
And they slew him in his pride.

The heifer said unto the bull,

« And shall I not complain? There came a foreign nobleman

To milk me on the plain.

« One thrust of thine outrageous horn
Has gall'd the knight so sore,
That to the church-yard he is borne,
To range our glens no more.»>

An Austrian noble left the stour,
And fast the flight 'gan take;
And he arrived in luckless hour
At Sempach on the lake.

He and his squire a fisher call'd (His name was Hans Von Rot), « For love, or meed, or charity,

Receive us in thy boat.»>

Their anxious call the fisher heard,
And, glad the meed to win,
His shallop to the shore he steer'd,
And took the flyers in.

And while against the tide and wind
Hans stoutly row'd his way,
The noble to his followers sign'd
He should the boatman slay.

The fisher's back was to them turn'd,
The squire his dagger drew,
Hans saw his shadow in the lake,
The boat he overthrew.

He 'whelm'd the boat, and as they strove,
He stunn'd them with his oar;
«Now, drink ye deep, my gentle sirs,
You'll ne'er stab boatman more.

«Two gilded fishes in the lake

This morning have I caught,

Their silver scales may much avail,

Their carrion flesh is naught.»>

1 A pun on the Unus, or wild bull, which gives name to the can

ton of Uri.

It was a messenger of woe

Has sought the Austrian land; « Ah! gracious lady, evil news! My lord lies on the strand.

« At Sempach, on the battle-field, His bloody corpse lies there.>>

« Ah, gracious God!» the lady cried, « What tidings of despair!»>

Now, would you know the minstrel wight,
Who sings of strife so stern,
Albert the Souter is he hight,
A burgher of Lucerne.

A merry man was he, I wot,
The night he made the lay,
Returning from the bloody spot,
Where God had judged the day.

THE NOBLE MORINGER:

AN ANCIENT BALLAD, TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.

THE original of these verses occurs in a collection of German popular songs, entitled Sammlung Deutschen Volkslieder, Berlin, 1807, published by Messrs Busching and Von der Hagen, both, and more especially the last, distinguished for their acquaintance with the ancient popular poetry and legendary history of Germany.

In the German editor's notice of the ballad, it is stated to have been extracted from a manuscript Chronicle of Nicolaus Thomann, chaplain to St Leonard in Weisenhorn, which bears the date 1533; and the song is stated by the author to have been generally sung in the neighbourhood at that early period. Thomann, as quoted by the German editor, seems faithfully to have believed the event he narrates. lle quotes tombstones and obituaries to prove the existence of the personages of the ballad, and discovers that there actually died on the 11th May, 1349, à Lady Von Neuffen, Countess of Marstetten, who was by birth of the house of Moringer. This lady he supposes to have been Moringer's daughter mentioned in the ballad. He quotes the same authority for the death of Berckhold Von Neuffen in the same year. The editors, on the whole, seem to embrace the opinion of Professor Smith, of Ulm, who, from the language of the ballad, ascribes its date to the 15th century.

The legend itself turns on an incident not peculiar to Germany, and which perhaps was not unlikely to happen in more instances than one, when crusaders abode long in the floly Land, and their disconsolate dames received no tidings of their fate. A story very similar in circumstances, but without the miraculous machinery of Saint Thomas, is told of one of the ancient lords of Haigh-hall, in Lancashire, the patrimonial inheritance of the late Countess of Balcarras; and the particulars are represented on stained glass upon a window in that ancient manor-house.

VIII.

The chamberlain was blunt and true,

And sturdily said he,

« Abide, my lord, and rule your own, And take this rede from me; That woman's faith 's a brittle trust

Seven twelvemonths didst thou say?
I'll pledge me for no lady's truth
Beyond the seventh fair day,>>
IX.

The noble baron turn'd him round,
His heart was full of care,
His gallant esquire stood him nigh,
He was Marstetten's heir,
To whom he spoke right anxiously,

<«< Thou trusty squire to me,
Wilt thou receive this weighty trust
When I am o'er the sea?

XV.

<< Thy tower another banner knows,

Thy steeds another rein,

And stoop them to another's will

Thy gallant vassal train;

And she, the lady of thy love,

So faithful once and fair,

This night, within thy father's hall,

She weds Marstetten's heir.»

XVI.

It is the noble Moringer

Starts up and tears his beard,

"Oh would that I had ne'er been born!

What tidings have I heard!

To lose my lordship and my lands
The less would be my care,

But, God! that e'er a squire untrue
Should wed my lady fair!

XVII.

« O good Saint Thomas, hear,» he pray'd, My patron saint art thou,

A traitor robs me of my land

Even while I pay my vow! My wife he brings to infamy

That was so pure of name,
And I am far in foreign land,

And must endure the shame.»>
XVIII.

It was the good Saint Thomas, then,
Who heard his pilgrim's prayer,
And sent a sleep so deep and dead

That it o'erpower'd his care;
He waked in fair Bohemian land,
Outstretch'd beside a rill,
High on the right a castle stood,
Low on the left a mill.

XIX.

The Moringer he started up

As one from spell unbound,
And, dizzy with surprise and joy,
Gazed wildly all around;

<< I know my father's ancient towers,
The mill, the stream I know,
Now blessed be my patron saint
Who cheer'd his pilgrim's woe!»
XX.

He leant upon his pilgrim staff,
And to the mill he drew,
So alter'd was his goodly form,
That none their master knew;
The baron to the miller said,

« Good friend, for charity,
Tell a poor palmer in your land
What tidings may there be?»
XXI.

The miller answer'd him again,
« He knew of little news,
Save that the lady of the land
Did a new bridegroom chuse ;
Her husband died in distant land,
Such is the constant word,
His death sits heavy on our souls,
He was a worthy lord.

XXII.

« Of him I held the little mill Which wins me living free, God rest the baron in his grave,

He still was kind to me;

And when Saint Martin's tide comes round,
And millers take their toll,

The priest that prays for Moringer
Shall have both cope and stole.»>
XXIII.

It was the noble Moringer

To climb the hill began,

And stood before the bolted gate
A woe and weary man;

«Now help me, every saint in heaven,
That can compassion take,

To gain the entrance of my hall,
This woful match to break.>>

XXIX.

Then up the hall paced Moringer,
His step was sad and slow,
It sat full heavy on his heart,
None seem'd their lord to know;
He sat him on a lowly bench,

Oppress'd with woe and wrong,
Short space he sat, but ne'er to him
Seem'd little space so long.
XXX.

Now spent was day, and feasting o'er,
And come was evening hour,

The time was nigh when new-made brides
Retire to nuptial bower;

« Our castle's wont,» a brides-man said,
« Hath been both firm and long,
No guest to harbour in our halls

Till he shall chaunt a song.»

«Chill flows the lay of frozen age,»> "T was thus the pilgrim sung,

« Nor golden meed, nor garment gay,
Unlocks her heavy tongue;

Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay,
At board as rich as thine,

And by my side as fair a bride,

With all her charms, was mine.
XXXIII.

<< But time traced furrows on my face,
And I grew silver-hair'd,

For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth,
She left this brow and beard;
Once rich, but now a palmer poor,
I tread life's latest stage,

And mingle with your bridal mirth
The lay of frozen age.»

XXXIV.

It was the noble lady there
This woful lay that hears,
And for the aged pilgrim's grief
Her eye was dimm'd with tears;
She bade her gallant cup-bearer
A golden beaker take,
And bear it to the palmer poor
To quaff it for her sake.

XXXV.
It was the noble Moringer

That dropp'd, amid the wine, A bridal-ring of burning gold, So costly and so fine; Now listen, gentles, to my song, It tells you but the sooth, T was with that very ring of gold He pledged his bridal truth,

«Yes, here I claim the praise," she said, << To constant matrons due,

Who keep the troth that they have plight

So stedfastly and true;

For count the term howe'er you will,
So that you count aright,
Seven twelvemonths and a day are out
When bells toll twelve to-night.»
XLI.

It was Marstetten then rose up,
His falchion there he drew,
He kneel'd before the Moringer,
And down his weapon threw ;
My oath and knightly faith are broke,»
These were the words he said,

« Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, And take thy vassal's head.>>

XLII.

The noble Moringer he smiled,

And then aloud did say,

« He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd
Seven twelvemonths and a day.
My daughter now hath fifteen years,
Fame speaks her sweet and fair,
I give her for the bride you lose,
And name her for my heir.