THE BLACK KNIGHT.

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.

"TWAS Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness,
When woods and fields put off all sadness.
Thus began the king and spake:
"So from the halls

Of ancient Hofburg's walls,

A luxuriant spring shall break."

Drums and trumpets echo loudly,
Wave the crimson banners proudly.
From balcony the king looked on;
In the play of spears,

Fell all the cavaliers,

Before the monarch's stalwart son.

To the barrier of the fight

Rode at last a sable knight,

"Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon, say!" "Should I speak it here,

Ye would stand aghast with fear;

I am a prince of mighty sway!"

When he rode into the lists,

The arch of heaven grew black with mists,
And the castle 'gan to rock.

At the first blow

Fell the youth from saddle-bow,
Hardly rises from the shock.

Pipe and viol call the dances,

Torch-light through the high halls glances;
Waves a mighty shadow in;

With manner bland

Doth ask the maiden's hand,

Doth with her the dance begin;

Danced in sable iron sark,
Danced a measure weird and dark,
Coldly clasped her limbs around.
From breast and hair

Down fall from her the fair

Flowerets, faded, to the ground.

To the sumptuous banquet came

Every knight and every dame.

'Twixt son and daughter all distraught,

With mournful mind

The ancient king reclined,

Gazed at them in silent thought.

Pale the children both did look,
But the guest a beaker took;

"Golden wine will make you whole!" The children drank,

Gave many a courteous thank;

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Oh, that draught was very cool!"

Each the father's breast embraces,
Son and daughter; and their faces
Colourless grow utterly.
Whichever way

Looks the fear-struck father gray,
He beholds his children die.

"Woe! the blessed children both
Takest thou in the joy of youth;
Take me, too, the joyless father!"
Spake the grim guest,

From his hollow, cavernous breast;
Roses in the spring I gather!"

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SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.

FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS.

INTO the Silent Land!

Ah! who shall lead us thither?

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.
Who leads us with a gentle hand

Thither, oh, thither,

Into the Silent Land?

Into the Silent Land!

To you, ye boundless regions

Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions

Of beauteous souls! The future's pledge and band! Who in life's battle firm doth stand,

Shall bear hope's tender blossoms

Into the Silent Land!

O Land! O Land!

For all the broken-hearted

The mildest herald by our fate allotted,

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand

To lead us with a gentle hand

Into the land of the great departed,

Into the Silent Land!

THE LUCK OF EDENHALL.

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.

The tradition upon which this ballad is founded, and the "shards of the Luck of Edenhall," still exist in England. The goblet is in the possession of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall, Cumberland; and is not so entirely shattered as the ballad leaves it.]

Or Edenhall the youthful lord

Bids sound the festal trumpet's call;
He rises at the banquet board,

And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all,
"Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!"

The butler hears the words with pain,
The house's oldest seneschal,
Takes slow from its silken cloth again
The drinking-glass of crystal tall;
They call it the Luck of Edenhall.

Then said the lord, "This glass to praise,
Fill with red wine from Portugal!"

The grey-beard with trembling hand obeys;
A purple light shines over all,

It beams from the Luck of Edenhall.

Then speaks the lord, and waves it light,
"This glass of flashing crystal tall
Gave to my sires the fountain-sprite;
She wrote in it, If this glass doth fall,
Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall!

""Twas right a goblet the fate should be
Of the joyous race of Edenhall!
Deep draughts drink we right willingly;
And willingly ring, with merry call,
Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall!

"First rings it deep, and full, and mild,
Like to the song of a nightingale;
Then like the roar of a torrent wild;
Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall,
The glorious Luck of Edenhall.

"For its keeper takes a race of might,
The fragile goblet of crystal tall;
It has lasted longer than is right;

Kling! klang!-with a harder blow than all
Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!"

As the goblet ringing flies apart,
Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall;

And through the rift the wild flames start;
The guests in dust are scattered all,
With the breaking Luck of Edenhall!

In storms the foe, with fire and sword;
He in the night had scaled the wall,
Slain by the sword lies the youthful lord,
But holds in his hand the crystal tall,
The shattered Luck of Edenhall.

On the morrow the butler gropes alone,
The grey-beard in the desert hall,
He seeks his lord's burnt skeleton,
He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall
The shards of the Luck of Edenhall.

"The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall aside,
Down must the stately columns fall;
Glass is this earth's luck and pride;
In atoms shall fall this earthly ball
One day like the Luck of Edenhall!"

THE ELECTED KNIGHT.

FROM THE DANISH.

[The following strange and somewhat mystical ballad is from Nyerup and Rahbek's Danske Viser of the middle ages. It seems to refer to the first preaching of Christianity in the north, and to the institution of knight-errantry. The three maidens I suppose to be Faith, Hope, and Charity. The irregularities of the original have been carefully preserved in the translation.]

SIR OLUF he rideth over the plain,

Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide,

But never, ah, never can meet with the man
A tilt with him dare ride.

He saw under the hill-side

A knight full well equipped;

His steed was black, his helm was barred;
He was riding at full speed.

He wore upon his spurs

Twelve little golden birds;

Anon he spurred his steed with a clang,

And there sat all the birds and sang.

He wore upon his mail

Twelve little golden wheels;

Anon in eddies the wild wind blew,

And round and round the wheels they flew.

He wore before his breast

A lance that was poised in rest;
And it was sharper than diamond-stone,
It made Sir Oluf's heart to groan.

He wore upon his helm

A wreath of ruddy gold;

And that gave him the Maidens Three,
The youngest was fair to behold.

Sir Oluf questioned the knight eftsoon If he were come from heaven down; "Art thou Christ of heaven?" quoth he, "So will I yield me unto thee."

"I am not Christ the great,

Thou shalt not yield thee yet;

I am an unknown knight,

Three modest maidens have me bedight."

"Art thou a knight elected,

And have three maidens thee bedight!
So shalt thou ride a tilt this day,
For all the maidens' honour!"

The first tilt they together rode,
They put their steeds to the test;
The second tilt they together rode,
They proved their manhood best.

The third tilt they together rode,
Neither of them would yield;
The fourth tilt they together rode
They both fell on the field.

Now lie the lords upon the plain,
And their blood runs unto death;
Now sit the maidens in the high tower,
The youngest sorrows till death.