THE OAK'S DEATH SONG.

A ring round the king of the forest glen!
Navies are waiting our work, my men!
Now may the veteran look his last

O'er the sombre width of the forest waste;
For never more shall he spread the leaf
For Autumn to dye with its hues of grief;
Never again shall his bare head nod,

As he smiles at old Winter's ruthless rod ;
His grave is made--

Behold the blade!

Strike the first stroke in the name of God!
There he stands, like a bull at bay,

Close to whose haunches the lean dogs lay;
And here our eager axes grin,

Hungry to plunge their edges in.

Oak! could we break the spell,
Thy life could preach full well!
Oh, wert thou but vocal, thou forest sage,
To give us the tale of thy greener age,
What chronicles might there be!
But now there's only a sighing wail,
That speechlessly murmurs along the gale-
Spare, spare the old oak tree!

Yes-wrung like the heart of powerless pride,
Each tortured branch from his antique side
The loftiest point would gain,

And lifting its head where its home hath been,
Looks for leagues o'er the ocean of green
For succour-but looks in vain!

Ah me! how blithe in morning's quivering motion,
Unnumbered dew-drops from his temples hung,
This desert priest, in Nature's rapt devotion,
Has through a thousand throats his anthem sung!

Ah me! how oft in Autumn's gorgeous glory,
The robe of purple, and the golden crown,
This monarch of the forest, hale though hoary,
Hath worshipped as the sun, his life, went down!

E'en o'er his dream, when night held high dominion,
Oft hath there stolen a spirit, like to prayer,
Which in his depths, perchance, upraised one pinion,
A dove's, like hope, reposing calmly there!

Perchance t'were harm to learn the charm!
Bare the rough chest, the ridgy arm,
Each hindering band undo;
There like a whirlwind aim the blow,
And full on the twisted stem below,
Let the iron ring sharp and true.

In faith thou'rt tough and strong, old tree---
Loth is thy place to part with thee!

No wonder-here thy life hath sped,

Thy rood of ground thou hast sheltered and fed;
Fed with leaves in the famine of frost ;

Sheltered with leaves when the sunbeams crossed;
With thy kind alone

Thou hast spread and grown,

Sublime, without one mind to know it,
Not a line of thy face

Ever limner did trace,

An epic, unsung by bard or poet !

See ye, where, southward, the mountains lower?
On one bleak point is a lonely tower,

Hapsburg-within it Count Rodolph stood,-
He weighed in the scales of a doubtful mood

The tower of his fathers 'gainst Germany's throne-
That day dropped the acorn-behold what hath grown!

How many a year, with downward tide,
Hath swept off its dead, and poured in its born,
Since Rodolph lived, and Rodolph died!
Yet up to the dawn of this fatal morn,
None crossed over this rood of ground,

In that lapse of years, but one straggling hound,
When the bay of the wolf was on before,
And far behind him the yagers roar ;
So far he reached by the fall of day,
The hum of the hunt passed faint away;
Close by the brink of you stream he fell,
None but the vultures heard his yell.
The gathering waters swept him-where?
Break up the floor of the deep-he's there.

Now rest, it is noon, and the shadows flee
Close to the stem of the sheltering tree.
Long have we quitted the household hearth
In search of a stem so huge in girth;
Deep have we plunged 'midst the palaces green,
Ere the cords of the Emperor's tent were seen.
Rest, and relaxed in the sultry hour,

Think of your homes, where Carlsruhe's tower
Opens a fold in the Earth's green breast,
And offers a spot for the sun to rest.

Our homes are there!

Home to which wayfarers hearts will strain,
The homes of our blessed and bright Allemayne-
The vine-covered porch, and that juice divine,
And the wives of our bosoms, sweeter than wine!
Thence are our memories, thither our hopes,
There are our prayers, as the sunbeam slopes;
In the leafy silence we watch for wings,
Bringing us tidings of household things;
A voice from our sister, a kiss from our child,
A press from the heart of our first-born wild;
Or perchance a lock of the silver wire
That crowns with moonlight our aged sire :-
Sweet when a moment for thought we gain,
But oh, 'twould be torture to homeless men! -

Brother, brother, tell us a tale!
Willingly. Far from this quiet vale

Where Heidelberg standeth, tower and town,
One with a smile, and one with a frown,
Dwelt by the Neckar a damsel fair,
Bright was her eye, rich was her hair;
Small skill have I to recount her charms;
Poets have raved of her neck and arms;
But none ever saw such a happy face,

Nor a hand that relieved with so sweet a grace;
Strangers could boast that their hearts were lost,
But 'twas Thekla's friends that loved her most.

Low was her home on the river's side;
High was the castle aloft in pride,
And as far removed from the gentle rank
Was the maid who dwelt by the river bank.
But the quietest stream will reflect most clear
The tower-or the mountain, that rises near;
And wherefore not, since the sun lights both?
True if it stand as the mountain doth—
It may hold in its bosom the vision vast,
Yet go on its humble pilgrimage past;
But let it approach, and but kiss its feet,
'Tis sure to bring down on the bright deceit,
In some evil hour, the mass o'erweighed,
And whelm with the substance the fragile side.
Thekla loved. Count Otho's lance

Still in the battle held advance;
And never appeared in a lady's bower
Knight more gentle in festive hour.
Thekla loved 'twas the guileless passion,
Unsought by arts, unwon by persuasion,-
For Thekla loved, ere the Baron knew
That so lovely a weed 'neath his castle grew.
Otho of Heidelberg made prepare

To hie with his host to the seat of war.
As he rode from the low-browed porch in arms,
He spied her, pale in her peerless charms;
He turned his head, with his tall plumes flowing,
But down she had sunk, for her life was going.
Fierce was the flame that burned his breast,
As, down from his horse, the damsel he pressed,
And inly swore, by the Kings of Cologne,
The maid that so loved him he'd make his own.

A month, and the pair at an altar stood,

An altar of workmanship quaint and rude,

In a vaulted chamber within that tower

Which frowned, toward the mountain, in marble power; A hidden chamber, with double doors,

Stone were its walls, and roof, and floors,

Then rarely entered-in ages gone

'Twas the place of the secret orison;

There to her peace was the death-blow dealt;

Though a lady arose where a peasant knelt,

Yet Death looked on by the feeble light

Of the bridal taper that fatal night.

Things grew dark at the seat of war,
Germany wavered, no Otho there-
Sneers on his noble name were heard,

Till at length his slumbering pride was stirred;

He buckled his steel on his manly chest,
And rushed to the camp with his lance in rest.
There did he stay a year and a day,

While his sorrowing bride she pined away--
Pined in the gloom of that guarded tower,
Lonely and low, from hour to hour--
Oft she gazed down on her former home,
And wept at the height of her altered doom.
A knight came near, and a page in his train--
'Tis Otho, her husband, home again!
Oh, what a moment, that first embrace!
But ah, there is care in the altered face.
Tell me, my Otho, ah, could it be,

Was absence as bitter to thee as to me?
Lay by thy helmet, it presses thy brow,
Which must only repose on this bosom now.
Sir Page, cried the knight, there's refreshment near,
Away in the hall they will give thee cheer.
Thekla! for that which my counsels must say,
'Twere better, in sooth, that boy were away.
Love! by the hand of my shield we were wed;
But free is the right--so hath Germany said;
Thine is that hand that is nearest my heart,
But in honours another is doomed to have part.
Catherine of Stolzenfels comes to my tower,
With a seignory broad for her marriage dower;
Yonder's her page, that chesnut-haired youth,
Who followed me, maugre my wish, in sooth
She vowed, in a moment of pleasantry,
That he'd serve her best, when he went with me.
The name of wife the Countess may hold,
But thine is my heart as true as gold.
Here is thy dwelling, murmur who will,
And Otho will lie in thy bosom still.

;

Dire was the blow on poor Thekla's heart--
Not a tear from her eye was seen to start,
But her face was white with a deadly light,
As she went from the chamber that fatal night.
She was met by the page in the dark corridor--
None of the menials could answer more.
Morning came, but the lady was gone,
And far from the castle, as day wore on,
Scoured the Count and his vassals round,
In search of the lost that was never found.
Still the knight rode from town to town,
Steed after steed he galloped down;
But not a hint that of Thekla spoke,
On his mad pursuit for a moment broke.
Furious at first, at length the Count
Went forth to war, or the chace, as wont ;
But not, though much urged, tradition tells,
Wed he with Catherine of Stolzenfels.
He built up the chapel-door, as loth
To enter the place of the broken troth;
And against it his iron couch was placed.

Here gloomily brought he his days to waste;
Pleasure, unwelcomed, turned and fled,
Silence sat down in the halls instead ;
He fasted to famine--the tun below
Ne'er for his fainting lips did flow.