Right where his charge had made a lane, His valiant comrades burst, With sword, and axe, and partizan, 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, The cloister vaults at Konigsfield It was the Archduke Leopold, So lordly would he ride, But he came against the Switzer churls, And they slew trim in his pride. The heifer said unto the bull, « And shall I not complain? There came a foreigu nobleman To milk me on the plain. « One thrust of thine outrageous horn An Austrian noble left the stour, He and his squire a fisher call'd (His name was Ilans Von Rot), « For love, or meed, or charity, Receive us in thy boat.»> Their anxious call the fisher heard, And while against the tide and wind The fisher's back was to them turn'd, He 'whelm'd the boat, and as they strove, « Two gilded fishes in the lake This morning have I caught, Their silver scales may much avail, Their carrion flesh is naught.» A pun on the Unus, or wild bull, which gives name to the can ton of Uri. 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 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 ded 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. I. 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, Here shalt thou dwell the while in state, Then out and spoke that lady bright, Sore troubled in her cheer, «Now, tell me true, thou noble knight, What order takest thou here; IV. Out spoke the noble Moringer, The trustiest shall rule my laud, And be a guardian tried and true 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, But grant thy Moringer his leave, 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, He dipp'd his hand in water cold, 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, « Thou trusty squire to me, 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 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 XVII. « O good Saint Thomas, hear,» he pray'd, «< My patron saint art thou, A traitor robs me of my land That was so pure of name, And must endure the shame.» XVIII. It was the good Saint Thomas, then, That it o'erpower'd his care; 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, XX. He leant upon his pilgrim staff, « Good friend, for charity, 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 And when Saint Martin's tide comes round, And millers take their toll, The priest that prays for Moringer 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.» «Chill flows the lay of frozen age,» T was thus the pilgrim sung, « Nor golden meed, nor garment gay, And by my side as fair a bride, With all her charms, was mine. << But time traced furrows on my face, For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, I tread life's latest stage, And mingle with your bridal mirth XXXIV. And bear it to the palmer poor XXXV. It was the noble Moringer T was with that very ring of gold XXXVI. Then to the cup-bearer he said, « Do me one kindly deed, To yonder bride so gay, And crave her, of her courtesy, The cup-bearer was courtly bred, Nor was the boon denied, The golden cup he took again, The ring hath caught the lady's eye, Then might you hear her shriek aloud, « The Moringer is here!» Then might you see her start from seat, While tears in torrents fell, But whether 't was for joy or woe, The ladies best can tell. |