FREDERICK AND ALICE. FRED'RICK leaves the land of France, 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; Mourned o'er love's fond contract torn, Mark her breast's convulsive throbs! Wild she cursed, and wild she prayed; Death in pity brought his aid, As the village bell struck four. Far from her, and far from France, Heard ye not the boding sound, Told the fourth, the fated hour? Starts the steed, and snuffs the air, Struck with strange mysterious fears. Desp'rate, 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, wo the while! Ceaseless care, and causeless fright, Urge his footsteps many a mile. Dark the seventh sad night descends; Weary, wet, and spent with toil, Where his head shall Fred'rick hide? Where, but in yon ruined aisle, By the lightning's flash descried? To the portal, dank and low, Fast his steed the wand'rer bound; Down a ruined staircase slow, Next his darkling way he wound. Long drear vaults before him lie; Glimm'ring lights are seen to glide! "Blessed Mary, hear my cry! Deign a sinner's steps to guide !” Often lost their quiv'ring beam, Thund'ring voices from within, Mixed with peals of laughter, rose As they fell, a solemn strain Lent its wild and wondrous close! 'Midst the din, he seemed to hear Voice of friends, by death removed; Well he knew that solemn air, Hark! for now a solemn knell Four times on the still night broke; Four times, at its deadened swell, Echoes from the ruins spoke. As the lengthened clangors die, Coffins for the seats extend; All with black the board was spread Girt by parent, brother, friend, Long since numbered with the dead! Alice, in her grave-clothes bound, High their meagre arms they wave, Wild their notes of welcome swell; Welcome, traitor, to the grave! Perjured, bid the light farewell! " THE WILD HUNTSMEN. THE Wildgrave winds his bugle-horn, And thronging serfs their lord pursue. The eager pack, from couples freed, Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake ; While answ'ring hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake. The beams of God's own hallowed day Loud, long, and deep, the bell had tolled: But still the Wildgrave onward rides; Who was each stranger, left and right, The right-hand horseman, young and fair, |