Who rideth so late through the night-wind wild?
It is the father with his child;
He has the little one well in his arm;
He holds him safe, and he folds him warm.
"My son, why hidest thy face so shy?"
"Seest thou not, father, the Erl King nigh?
The Erlen King, with train and crown?
"It is a wreath of mist, my son."
"Come, lovely boy, come, go with me; Such merry plays I will play with thee; Many a bright flower grows on the strand,
And my mother has many a gay garment at hand.”
"My father, my father, and dost thou not hear What the Erl King whispers in my ear?"
"Be quiet, my darling,-be quiet, my
Through withered leaves the wind howls wild."
"Come, lovely boy, wilt thou go with me?
My daughters fair shall wait on thee;
My daughters their nightly revels keep;
They'll sing, and they'll dance, and they'll rock thee to sleep."
"My father, my father, and seest thou not
The Erl King's daughters in yon dim spot?
"My son, my son, I see and I know,
'Tis the old gray willow that shimmers so."
"I love thee; thy beauty has ravished my sense;
And, willing or not, I will carry thee hence."
"O, father, the Erl King now puts forth his arm!
O, father, the Erl King has done me harm!"
The father shudders; he hurries on;
And faster he holds his moaning son;
He reaches his home with fear and dread,
And lo! in his arms the child is dead!
From the German of Goethe.
THE DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And youthful virgins own their love.
No withered witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
The redbreast oft at evening's hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chase on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell;
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Beloved, till life can charm no more;
And mourned, till Pity's self be dead.
The Angel of the flowers one day
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,-
That spirit to whose charge is given
To bathe young buds in dew from heaven.
Awakening from his slight repose,
The Angel whispered to the Rose,—
"O fondest object of my care,
Still fairest found where all is fair,
For the sweet shade thou'st given me,
Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee."
Then said the Rose with deepened glow,-
"On me another grace bestow;
The Angel paused in silent thought,—
What grace was there the flower had not?
'Twas but a moment,-o'er the Rose
A veil of moss the Angel throws,
And robed in Nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that Rose exceed?
THE FAITHFUL BIRD.
The greenhouse is my summer seat,
My shrubs, displaced from that retreat,
Enjoy'd the open air;
Two goldfinches whose sprightly song
Had been their mutual solace long,
Lived happy prisoners there.
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