And on his thin and pallid cheek
The morning sun burnt red,
The mother knew not how she felt:
But bent in peace her head:
"God bless thee! Holy Mother!"
Were all the words she said.

THE TWO GRENADIERS.

(Translated by Rev. W. H. Furness, D.D.) To France were traveling two grenadiers, From prison in Russia returning,

And when they came to the German frontiers,
They hung down their heads in mourning.

There came the heart-breaking news to their ears
That France was by fortune forsaken;
Scattered and slain were her brave grenadiers,
And Napoleon-Napoleon was taken.

Then wept together those two grenadiers
O'er their country's departed glory;

"Woe's me," cried one, in the midst of his tears,
"My old wound,—how it burns at the story!"

The other said: "The end has come,

What avails any longer living?
Yet have I a wife and child at home,
For an absent father grieving."

"Who cares for wife? Who cares for child?
Dearer thoughts in my bosom awaken;
Go beg, wife and child, when with hunger wild,
For Napoleon-Napoleon is taken!

'Oh, grant me, brother, my only prayer,
When death my eyes is closing:
Take me to France, and bury me there;
In France be my ashes reposing.

"This cross of the Legion of Honor bright,
Let it lie near my heart, upon me;
Give me my musket in my hand,
And gird my sabre on me.

"So will I lie, and arise no more,

My watch like a sentinel keeping,
Till I hear the cannon's thundering roar,
And the squadrons above me sweeping.

"Then the Emperor comes! and his banners wave, With their eagles o'er him bending;

And I will come forth, all in arms, from my grave, Napoleon, Napoleon attending!"

ONLY KISS AND SWEAR NO OATH.

OH! only kiss and swear no oath,
What women swear to trust I'm loth!
Thy words are sweet, yet sweeter is,
When I have taken it, thy kiss.
The one I have and know it's true-
Words are but breath and vapor too.

Oh! swear, my loved one, ever swear—
Thy simplest words oaths' force shall bear.
I lay me gently on thy breast,

And quite believe that I am blessed,
And I believe, my sweet, that me

Thou lov'st beyond eternity.

ENFANT PERDU.

(Translated by Lord Houghton.)

IN Freedom's War, of "Thirty Years" and more,
A lonely outpost have I held-in vain!
With no triumphant hope or prize in store,
Without a thought to see my home again.

I watched both day and night: I could not sleep
Like my well-tented comrades far behind,
Though near enough to let their snoring keep
A friend awake, if e'er to doze inclined.

And thus, when solitude my spirits shook,

Or fear-for all but fools know fear sometimes,— To rouse myself and them, I piped and took A gay revenge in all my wanton rhymes.

Yes! there I stood, my musket always ready,
And when some sneaking rascal showed his head,
My eye was vigilant, my aim was steady,

And gave his brains an extra dose of lead.

But war and justice have far different laws,
And worthless acts are often done right well;
The rascals' shots were better than their cause,
And I was hit-and hit again, and fell!

That outpost is abandoned: while the one
Lies in the dust, the rest in troops depart;
Unconquered-I have done what could be done,
With sword unbroken, and with broken heart.

THE DEVIL.

(Translated by Alfred Baskerville.)

I CALLED the Devil and he came,
To view him with wonder I began.
He is not ugly, and is not lame,

Far from it, he is a charming man,
A man in the vigor still of his years,
A man of the world and polite he appears.
His talent is as diplomatist great,

He speaks right well upon Church and State.
No wonder he's pale, and wrinkled his brow,
Since Sanscrit and Hegel he studies now;
His favorite poet is Fouqué still.

In criticism he does no more,

He hath abandoned for evermore
To his grandam Hecate the critic's quill.
He was glad my studies in law to view,
'Twas once his favorite study, too.

My friendship could not be, he said,

Too dear for him, then nodded his head,

And asked if we had not once before,

At the Spanish ambassador's, seen each other;

And when I looked at his face once more,
I found we already knew one another.

THE old German spirit of bright simplicity and childlike gaiety has again come to light in Joseph Victor von Scheffel (1826-86). Born at Karlsruhe, Baden, and trained for jurisprudence, his mind turned, nevertheless, to the charming romance of the past. His tale of "Ekkehard" (1855) is already a German classic. In it he painted a genial picture of courtly and monastic life in the tenth century. The hero is a monk of St. Gall, teacher of Duchess Hedwig of Suabia. He discovered their mutual love only when it was too late, and his obtuseness caused his banishment, where Scheffel feigns that he wrote "Walter of Aquitaine." (See Vol. I., p. 287.) The humor is mild in this story, but two years before Scheffel had given all his exuberant, over-bubbling fancy and nerve full play in his song-from the upper Rhine-" The Trumpeter of Sackingen," which contains all the sunlight and romance of the Black Forest. The long poem relates the artless love of young Werner, the trumpeter, for the daughter of the Baron von Schönau. The wandering musician had once been a student of law at old Heidelberg, where he fought a duel. Becoming the Baron's trumpeter, he is wounded in the Hauenstein riot, which event reveals to him Margaretha's love. The Baron will not listen to the match, however, and Werner wanders away to fight in the wars. At last he rises, by his art, to be Pope Innocent's chapel-master, and marries Margaretha. A curious character in the poem is the Baron's mystical black tom-cat, Hiddigeigei, a true philosopher.

THE BARON'S CAT HIDDIGEIGEI.

(From "The Trumpeter of Sackingen." Canto V.)
STRETCHED beside the Baron's footstool
Daintily lay the gallant tom-cat
Hiddigeigei, with the sable
Velvet coat and tail majestic.
Heirloom he left to the Baron
By his sainted, well-loved lady,
Leonor Montfort du Plessys.
Far in Hungary, Hiddigeigei

Saw the light, for he was born there
By a daughter of Angora

To a wild-cat of the Puszta.
To fair Paris, as a kitten,
Was he sent in sign of homage,
By a brave Hungarian noble,
Who in Debreczin, far distant,
Cherished still, in recollection,
Leonor's clear eyes of azure
And the rats who, like an army,
Overran her father's castle.

Hiddigeigei to the Rhineland

Came with haughty Leonora,

Loyal and trusted. Somewhat lonely

Ran the thread of his existence,

For he hated all communion

With the German vulgar cat-folk.

"Certes," he reflected proudly,

In his feline self-reliance,

"They may have good hearts, these creatures,

And a fund of kindly feeling,

All these native cats untutored,

Aboriginal and common,

In these wilds brought up and nurtured.
But in style, they're sadly lacking,

They want breeding, manners, finish.
One who gained his spurs at Paris,
Following the chase full boldly