The miller answered him again, "He knew of little The Lady's gentle heart was moved, "Do up the

news,

Save that the Lady of the land did a new bridegroom choose;

Her husband died in distant land, such is the constant word,

gate," she said,

"And bid the wanderer welcome be to banquet

and to bed;

And since he names my husband's name, so that he lists to stay,

His death sits heavy on our souls, he was a worthy These towers shall be his harborage a twelveLord.

XXII.

month and a day."

XXVIII.

"Of him I held the little mill which wins me living It was the stalwart warder then undid the portal free, broad, God rest the Baron in his grave, he still was kind | It was the noble Moringer that o'er the threshold to me!

And when Saint Martin's tide comes round, and millers take their toll,

strode ;

"And have thou thanks, kind heaven," he said, "though from a man of sin,

The priest that prays for Moringer shall have both That the true lord stands here once more his cope and stole."

XXIII.

It was the noble Moringer to climb the hill began, And stood before the bolted gate a woe and weary man;

"Now help me, every saint in heaven that can

compassion take,

To gain the entrance of my hall this woeful match Short space he sat, but ne'er to him seem'd little to break."

His very knock it sounded sad, his call was sad Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, and come and slow,

For heart and head, and voice and hand, were heavy all with woe;

And to the warder thus he spoke: "Friend, to thy

was evening hour,

The time was nigh when new-made brides retire to nuptial bower;

"Our castle's wont," a brides-man said, "hath been both firm and long,

A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land craves harbor No guest to harbor in our halls till he shall chant

Lady say,

for a day.

"I've wander'd many a weary step, my strength Then spoke the youthful bridegroom there as he

And for the sake of Moringer's, her once-loved And well his guerdon will I pay with garment and husband's soul."

"A pilgrim, worn and travel-toil'd, stands at the "Nor golden meed nor garment gay, unlocks his

castle-door;

And prays, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, for harbor and for dole,

And for the sake of Moringer, thy noble husband's soul."

heavy tongue;

Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at board as rich as thine,

And by my side as fair a bride with all her charms was mine.

'Twas with that very ring of gold he pledged his It was Marstetten then rose up, his falchion there bridal truth.

Then to the cupbearer he said, "Do me one kindly "My oath and knightly faith are broke," these were

And crave her of her courtesy to pledge the palm- The noble Moringer he smiled, and then aloud did er gray."

The ring hath caught the Lady's eye, she views it But blessings on the warder kind that oped my

Then you might hear her shriek aloud, "The Mor- For had I come at morrow tide, I came a day too inger is here!" late."

O, who rides by night thro' the woodland so wild? And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to my child.” It is the fond father embracing his child;

And close the boy nestles within his loved arm,
To hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm.

"O father, see yonder! see yonder!" he says;
"My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully gaze ?"-
"O, 'tis the Erl-King with his crown and his shroud."
"No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud."

(The Erl-King speaks.)

"O come and go with me, thou loveliest child;
By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled;
My mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy,
And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy."

"O, father, my father, and did you not hear The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear?"

1 1797.

"O father, my father, and saw you not plain, The Erl-King's pale daughter glide past thro' the rain?"

"O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon; It was the gray willow that danced to the moon."

Erl-King.

"O come and go with me, no longer delay,
Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away."-
"O father! O father! now, now keep your hold,
The Erl-King has seized me—his grasp is so cold !"

Sore trembled the father; he spurr'd thro' the wild
Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child;
He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in dread,
But, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant was dead!"

W. S."-Life, vol. i. p 378.

"To Miss Christian Rutherford.—I send a gob- ing a version of that ballad, as it has been translated by Lewis. lin story. You see I have not altogether lost the faculty of rhyming. I assure you there is no small impudence in attempt

END OF BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN.

Lyrical and Miscellaneous Pieces,

IN THE ORDER OF THEIR COMPOSITION OR PUBLICATION.

Juvenile Lines.

FROM VIRGIL.

1782.-ÆTAT. 11.

"Scorr's autobiography tells us that his translations in verse from Horace and Virgil were often approved by Dr. Adams [Rector of the High School, Edinburgh]. One of these little pieces, written in a weak boyish scrawl, within pencilled marks still visible, had been carefully preserved by his mother; it was found folded up in a cover, inscribed by the old lady-'My Walter's first lines, 1782." -LOCKHART, Life of Scott, vol. i. p. 129.

In awful ruins Etna thunders nigh,
And sends in pitchy whirlwinds to the sky
Black clouds of smoke, which, still as they aspire,
From their dark sides there bursts the glowing
fire;

At other times huge balls of fire are toss'd,
That lick the stars, and in the smoke are lost:
Sometimes the mount, with vast convulsions torn,
Emits huge rocks, which instantly are borne
With loud explosions to the starry skies,
The stones made liquid as the huge mass flies,
Then back again with greater weight recoils,
While Etna thundering from the bottom boils.

up in the shape of an apothecary's blue-buskined wife,' &c. &c. These lines, and another short piece 'On the Setting Sun,' were lately found wrapped up in a cover, inscribed by Dr. Adam, Walter Scott, July, 1783."

Loud o'er my head though awful thunders roll,
And vivid lightnings flash from pole to pole,
Yet 'tis thy voice, my God, that bids them fly,
Thy arm directs those lightnings through the sky.
Then let the good thy mighty name revere,
And harden'd sinners thy just vengeance fear.

On the Setting Sun.

1783.

THOSE evening clouds, that setting ray,
And beauteous tints, serve to display

Their great Creator's praise;
Then let the short-lived thing call'd man,
Whose life's comprised within a span,

To Him his homage raise.

We often praise the evening clouds,
And tints, so gay and bold,
But seldom think upon our God,
Who tinged these clouds with gold!'