It was a messenger of woe << 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, 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. He 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, a 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 Holy 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. O, WILL you hear a knightly tale Of old Bohemian day, It was the noble Moringer In wedlock bed he lay; He halsed and kiss'd his dearest dame, That was as sweet as May, And said, «Now, lady of my heart, II. <<'T is I have vow'd a pilgrimage Unto a distant shrine, And I must seek Saint Thomas-land, And leave the land that 's mine; Here shalt thou dwell the while in state, So thou wilt pledge thy fay, That thou for my return wilt wait Seven twelvemonths and a day.»> III. Then out and spoke that lady bright, Sore troubled in her cheer, << Now, tell me true, thou noble knight, What order takest thou here; And who shall lead thy vassal band, IV. Out spoke the noble Moringer, The trustiest shall rule my land, And be a guardian tried and true V. « As Christian man, I needs must keep And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve, But grant thy Moringer his leave, It was the noble Moringer From bed he made him bowne, And met him there his chamberlain, With ewer and with gown: He flung the mantle on his back, 'T was furr'd with miniver, He dipp'd his hand in water cold, And bathed his forehead fair. VII. << Now hear,>> he said, «Sir Chamberlain, True vassal art thou mine, And such the trust that I repose In that proved worth of thine, For seven years shalt thou rule my towers, And pledge thee for my lady's faith VIII. The chamberlain was blunt and true, And sturdily said he, << Abide, my lord, and rule your own, The noble baron turn'd him round, To whom he spoke right anxiously, The Moringer he started up As one from spell unbound, << I know my father's ancient towers, He leant upon his pilgrim staff, XXI. land The miller answer'd him again, Her husband died in distant land, « 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 It was the noble Moringer And stood before the bolted gate « Now help me, every saint in heaven, To gain the entrance of my hall, XXIV. His very knock it sounded sad, His call was sad and slow, For heart and head, and voice and hand, Were heavy all with woe; And to the warder thus he spoke : A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land XXV. << I've wander'd many a weary step, I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, It was the stalwart warder then << A pilgrim worn and travel-toil'd And prays, for sweet Saint-Thomas' sake, For harbour and for dole, And for the sake of Moringer, XXIX. Then up the hall paced Moringer, 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.»> XXXI. Then spoke the youthful bridegroom there, As he sat by the bride, « My merry minstrel folks,» quoth be, Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay, And well his guerdon will I pay « Chill flows the lay of frozen age,>> With all her charms, was mine. << 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, And mingle with your bridal mirth XXXIV. It was the noble lady there Iler eye was dimm'd with tears; She bade her gallant cup-bearer A golden beaker take, XXXV. It was the noble Moringer That dropp'd, amid the wine, "T was with that very ring of gold He pledged his bridal truth. Nennius. Is not peace the end of arms? Caratach. Not where the cause implies a general conquest. Had we a difference with some petty isle, Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks, The taking in of some rebellious lord, Or making head against a slight commotion, After a day of blood, peace might be urged: But where we grapple for the land we live on, The liberty we hold more dear than life, It must not be.-No! as they are our foes, Let's use the peace of honour-that's fair dealing; Bonduca. THE following War-song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers, to which it was addressed, was raised in 1797, consisting of gentlemen, mounted and armed at their own ex pense. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the Honourable Lieutenant-Colonel Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure, of arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was nowhere more successful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a regiment of cavalry, from the city and county, and two corps of artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus: « Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et posteros cogitate.» Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn; And, foaming, gnaw the chain;— O! had they mark'd the avenging call' Their brethren's murder gave, Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown, Nor patriot valour, desperate grown, Sought freedom in the grave! Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, Or brook a victor's scorn? No! though destruction o'er the land For gold let Gallia's legions fight, Or plunder's bloody gain; Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, To guard our King, to fence our Law, Nor shall their edge be vain. If ever breath of British gale With rapine foul, and red with blood, Then farewell home! and farewell friends! Resolved, we mingle in the tide, To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; High sounds our bugle call; 'The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss Guards, on the fatal 10th August, 1792. It is painful, but not useless, to remark, that the passive temper with which the Swiss regarded the death of their bravest countrymen, mercilessly slaughtered in discharge of their duty, encouraged and authorized the progressive injustice by which the Alps, once the seat of the most virtuous and free people upon the Continent, have, at length, been converted into the citadel of a foreign and military despot. A state degraded is half enslaved. |