Leber Again.

W

INDILY clang the bells from the tower,
And fitfully moan the gusts above;
And I lie dreaming, mournfully dreaming,
All of my own lost love.

Months and years my grief have mellowed,
Yet still rebellion mutters low;

Then dies away in a hopeless wailing -

A burden of utter woe.

O she was young and passing fair,

(Sorrow and woe!)

Blue-bright eyes and wreathing hair,
Lovesome lips beyond compare,

Neber Again.

Ripened on them kisses rare ;

Now the grave-worm banquets there,

(Sing sorrow, sorrow and woe!)

Say, why didst thou ever leave me ? (Sing sorrow!)

Yet thou could'st never bear to grieve me(Sorrow and woe!)

No, 'twas some Fate did deceive me

With short-lived bliss, soon to bereave me,
That now nor growing years relieve me,
Nor passing joys awhile reprieve me

From sorrow and bitter woe.

Strange, I leave the mirthful throng! (Sing sorrow!)

Shun the glass and hate the song!
(Sorrow and woe!)

I only wait (Great God, how long?)
Till one more soul's death-knell be rung;
What have I now with young and strong?
(Sing sorrow, sorrow and woe!)

Now remain no hopes to gladden, (Sing sorrow!)

No fond hopes to cheer and gladden,

31

Only dull despair to sadden,

Only love's unsate to madden,

(Sing sorrow, sorrow and woe!)

So I lie dreaming, mournfully dreaming,
Dreaming all of my own lost love,
While drearily toll the bells from the tower,
And sob the gusts above.

The Wild Huntsman.

EEP silence in the forest reigns,

And willing slumber still enchains weary frames of men;

The

And far and wide no sound is heard,

Save where the cool night wind hath stirred Some leaf-strewn mountain glen.

It is the hour when spirits love

'Mid well-remembered haunts to rove
And tread the earth again.

How strangely still all nature seems,
Like the dark phantoms of our dreams
That silently flit to and fro;
Mysterious shadows fraught with woe,
Or if with bliss, bliss none may know;
None for his own obtain.

VOL. X.

But hark! what sound the stillness breaks
And the wood's slumbering echo wakes
With strange unearthly blast?

Why starts the peasant in his bed?

What fills that sturdy heart with dread,
Fearless in dangers past;

And makes his children e'en in sleep
Still closer to each other creep?

'Tis the Wild Huntsman winds his horn,
Whose echo on the breeze is borne
O'er mountain, river, hill, and dale,
And bids the stoutest courage quail.
Now through the dark and pathless shades
Of the wild forest's inmost glades

The awful blast resounds;

And ere its echo dies away

Is heard the deep and distant bay

Of the Wild Hunter's hounds!

Through brush and tangled brake they speed,

For they are not of mortal breed;

And none can check their rapid course,

Save he who rides behind;

And none outstrip them, man or horse,
Though fleeter than the wind.

Nearer they come, and louder now

Bursts forth the angry bay,