He clenched his set teeth, and his gauntletted hand;
He stretched, with one buffet, that Page on the strand;
As back from the stripling the broken casque rolled,
You might see the blue eyes, and the ringlets of gold.

Short time had Count Albert in horror to stare

On those death-swimming eye-balls, and blood-clotted 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 crosletted 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 stretched mid the slain?
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 blessed bound,
The Count he was left to the vulture and hound:
Her soul to high mercy Our Ladye 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 conquered, the Crescent it fell; And lords and gay ladies have sighed, 'mid their glee, At the tale of Count Albert and fair Rosalie.

FREDERICK AND ALICE..

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,
Homewards 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 the soldier lead Over mountain, moor, and glade.

Helpless, ruined, 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 prayed;
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, blythe, 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.

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 ruined aisle,

By the lightning's flash descried.

K