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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. 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,
Attend the words I say.

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,
And hold thy lordly sway,
And be thy lady's guardian true
When thou art far away!»

IV.

Out spoke the noble Moringer,
<< Of that have thou no care,
There's many a valiant gentleman
Of me holds living fair;

The trustiest shall rule my land,
My vassals and my state,

And be a guardian tried and true
To thee, my lovely mate.

V.

« As Christian man, I needs must keep
The vow which I have plight;
When I am far in foreign land,
Remember thy true knight:

And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve,
For vain were sorrow now,

But grant thy Moringer his leave,
Since God hath heard his vow.»>
VI.

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 lead my vassal train,

And pledge thee for my lady's faith
Till I return again.>>

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?

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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
What tidings may there be?»>

XXI.

land

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.

« 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.»>

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 :
<< Friend, to thy lady say,

A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land
Craves harbour for a day.

XXV.

<< I've wander'd many a weary step,
My strength is well nigh done,
And if she turn me from her gate
I'll see no morrow's sun;

I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake,
A pilgrim's bed and dole,
And for the sake of Moringer's,
Her once loved husband's soul.»
XXVI.

It was the stalwart warder then
He came his dame before,

<< A pilgrim worn and travel-toil'd
Stands at the castle-door;

And prays, for sweet Saint-Thomas' sake,

For harbour and for dole,

And for the sake of Moringer,

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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.»>

XXXI.

Then spoke the youthful bridegroom there,

As he sat by the bride,

« My merry minstrel folks,» quoth be,
<< Lay shalm and harp aside;

Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay,
The castle's rule to hold;

And well his guerdon will I pay
With garment and with gold.»>
XXXII.

« 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

Iler 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 burnish'd 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.

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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,
The gods we worship, and, next these, our honours,
And, with those, swords, that know no end of battle-
Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour,
Those minds, that, where the day is, claim inheritance,
And, where the sun makes ripe the fruit, their harvest,
And, where they march, but measure out more ground
To add to Rome-

It must not be.-No! as they are our foes,

Let's use the peace of honour-that's fair dealing;
But in our hands our swords. The hardy Roman,
That thinks to graft himself into my stock,
Must first begin his kindred under ground,
And be allied in ashes.

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.»

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Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown
Dull Holland's tardy train;

Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn;
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn,

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,
In Freedom's temple born,
Dress our pale cheek in timid smile,
To hail a master in our isle,

Or brook a victor's scorn?

No! though destruction o'er the land
Come pouring as a flood,
The sun, that sees our falling day,
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway,
And set that night in blood.

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
Shall fan the tri-color,
Or footstep of invader rude,

With rapine foul, and red with blood,
Pollute our happy shore,-

Then farewell home! and farewell friends!
Adieu each tender tie!

Resolved, we mingle in the tide,
Where charging squadrons furious ride,
To conquer, or to die.

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.

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