immediate neighbours felt a cold shudder come over them; they drew back, or stepped aside, increasing, by their evident horror, the fear of those who, by their defalcation, came to stand next to the stranger. Some soldiers were bold enough to address the apparition, and sought to drive her from the procession; but she melted in their grasp, and next moment was seen advancing with the funeral train. The anxious avoidance of all to whom she came near brought her at last in contact with Bertalda. She now walked gently behind the widow, who did not seem aware of her presence.

But when the funeral procession, on reaching the churchyard, formed a circle round the grave, Bertalda observed the unbidden guest, and, half angry, half afraid, commanded her to leave undisturbed the knight's bed of lasting rest. The veiled one waved with her head a gentle negative, and raised her hands so imploringly, that Bertalda needs must think of Undine's friendly proffer of the necklace. At the same moment, a gesture of Father Heilmann implored silence during the prayer he was about to offer up while the grave was filling. Bertalda knelt down in silence, as did all, even the gravediggers, as soon as their task was at an end. When the assembled multitude again arose, the pale stranger had disappeared, and, on the spot where she had knelt, a silvery spring bubbled up among the grass, almost encircling the grave of the knight, and then falling into a quiet tarn, which bounded the churchyard on one side. And even to our day, the villagers cherish the belief that this streamlet is the poor, forsaken Undine, who thus continues to hold her lover in her arms.

THE DEAD.

[LUDOVIC COLQUHOUN, ESQ.]

As the cloud is consumed, and vanisheth away; so he that goeth down to the grave shall come up no more. - JOB.

ARISE! arise, ye dead!

Unseal your closed eyes!

Ye have linger'd long in your narrow bed;
From the sleep of death arise !

Would ye not look upon

The things ye loved while here?
O brightly gleams the glorious sun
In the ocean's mirror clear;

The gorgeous sky is loud

With the ringing voice of mirth,
And the sounds of joy have overflow'd
This fair and fruitful earth:

Would ye not look once more

On the scene of bliss and bloom
Ye left for a land where joy is o'er,-
The dank and dreary tomb?

Ye answer not! The flowers
Of spring are glancing fair,

Nursed by the warm and welcome showers
That southern breezes bear;

The wild bird's mellow song,
From her leafy solitude,
Pours in a rapturous flood along
The green and sunlit wood;

All, all around us seems

Without a taint of wo,

Bright as the lovely clime his dreams

To the sinless hermit show:

Joy is over the earth,

Joy is over the sky,

Would ye not mix with the sons of mirth,
And the festal revelry?

What! silent still? May none

Of these things win your praise;

Not the smiling earth, nor the glittering sun, Nor the wild bird's sweetest lays ?

The friends ye prized of old,

May not they your greeting crave; Or waxeth the hand of friendship cold In the chill and cheerless grave?

Long ye not yet to press

To your hearts each once loved form,
Or reck ye less of love's embrace
Than the clasp of the slimy worm?

Arise! arise! for they

Invite to the banquet hall;

Rend, then, your mouldering shrouds away,

And burst the charnel's thrall!

Ye linger! Sleep ye yet

In the narrow house of fear?

The feast is spread, and the guests are met, But still ye come not here!

The young, the fair, are sped

To the banquet in their pride;
The wine is sparkling, ruby red,
O'er the goblet's jewel'd side;

The song of pleasure rings
From joyous hearts on high,

And the minstrel wakes the golden strings
Of his lyre to melody :

Would ye not know the mirth

That lits each burning soul?

Then shake off the weary weight of earth,
And spurn the grave's control!

Still silent! Then 'tis vain
For man to call ye back

To pass the bourne of death again,
And retrace life's shining track :

As the rainbow is consumed,
And vanisheth away,

So were ye in your springtime doom'd
To fade from the light of day;

To sink in that dark sea

Where fear and hope are o'er,
And a breathless calm eternally
Broods o'er a tideless shore :

Slumber, then, yet, ye dead!

Till the hour when earth and sky
Shall echo the angel's voice of dread,
And the tyrant Death must die!

ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF w. MÜLLER.*

My task is done, my song has ceased, my theme
Has died into an echo.
CHILDE HAROLD.

[LORD FRANCIS LEVESON GOWER.]

Seven-and-thirty funeral shots! for whom? I fain would know. Are they seven-and-thirty fields in which he met and smote the foe? Are they seven-and-thirty wounds which on his breast the hero bears? Name me the mighty dead whose loss his country's grief declares.

The author of this poem is the same Muller, whose tragedy of Guilt has been so well translated by Mr R. P. Gillies.

It speaks no wounds, no victories, that thunder's sullen roar,
Which from Missolunghi's ramparts high rolls deepening to the shore,
And which, like a dungeon's echo, summons up to life again

The heart which sorrow's tidings had benumb'd with fear and pain.
Seven-and-thirty years 'tis this those number'd thunders say.
Byron, Byron! thine the years of life which Hellas weeps to-day.
Are they years that thou hast lived and pass'd?—No, those no tear
shall claim,

For they live, and shall for ever, in the quenchless light of fame;
On the eagle wings of song upborne, whose never wearied stroke
The souls of sleeping heroes e'en with their rustling woke.
No! I weep the years through which your course was fated not

to run,

The years of all the glory which for Greece you fain had won. Such years, such months, such days, to me those funeral sounds recall.

Alas! what strains, what conflicts, what wounds, and what a fall!

A fall, in victory's thrilling hour, in storm'd Byzantium's town, Thy head with freedom's wreath entwined, thy feet upon a crown!

Noble warrior, thou wert worthy of the cause so nobly fought,
In which 'twas thine to battle with the two-edged sword of thought;
With the iron tongue of song, whose clang can pierce the polar
clime,

Can sound where'er the sun describes his march of light and time.
Thou hast battled with the tiger's rage the tyrant's frantic mood,
Thou hast battled in Lernean swamps with all the snaky brood,
Which, coil'd in blind corruption's nest, so fiercely loathes the day,
That it scatters gall and poison round whene'er it feels a ray.
Thou hast battled that the world at large might live on freedom's
breath,

And for Greece's infant freedom like a hero courting death.
With prescient glance, thou sawest her oft upon the mountain stand,
While vales below still groan'd beneath the tyrant's iron hand.
Thou heard'st the rustling laurels sound, approaching victories thrill,
And battle's premature delight e'en then thy breast could fill.
And when the fated hour drew near so long before descried,
You shrunk not, and you quail'd not; as the bridegroom to his bride,
You flew into the arms of Greece, wide open'd to receive.
"Is Tyrtæus then restored to me? May Hellas cease to grieve?
Though the kings of all the earth look down in surly wrath on me,
Though their minions mock, their priests insult, my struggles to be
free.

A poet's warrior flag I see far streaming o'er the deep;
Around his gallant vessel's sides a thousand dolphins leap;
The waves before his keel seem proud their glittering spray to fling,
Against the mast the bard reclines, and sweeps the golden string.
Freedom sings he from the lofty deck, and Freedom we reply;
Freedom burns upon his glowing cheek, and blazes from his eye.

"Welcome, hero of the lyre ! welcome, hero of the lance! Arise, Tyrtæus, rise, and bid my warrior sons advance !"

From the vessel's side descending, light he bounded to the land,
And press'd his lips in silence to the smooth shore's yielding sand.
As mute as though alone he trode, he pass'd the shouting throng,
Which, downward to the ocean's verge, to meet him roll'd along.
Ah! I saw the dark death-angel's form upon our rampart stand,
With dank wing overshading him, e'en as he kiss'd the strand :
But the hero trembled not to see the summoner so near-
Face to face he gazed upon him—" Seek'st thou me ? Behold me
here!

"One fight, 'tis all I ask of thee, but one victorious fight For Greece's infant freedom won, and into thy long night

I pursue, without an instant's pause, pale friend, thy solemn signI have wept and laugh'd life's drama through without a sigh am thine."

Coward death! thou foul assassin, for his prayer thou hast not staid;

Thou hast mutely crept behind him, as he stoop'd to whet his blade; Thou hast breathed a breath around his head with fell corruption rife, And from his breast, with vampyre lips, hast suck'd the flame of life.

Thus is the hero fallen, without crash, without a stroke,
And faded ere his season, like a winter-blighted oak;
Or, as when the worms that crawl to life in one short sultry hour,
Have doom'd the forest monarch to the death that fits a flower:
Thus is the hero fallen ere his youth had reach'd its date,
Girt for his newly chosen race e'en at the barrier's gate,-
While his eye the course was measuring, while yet the goal was

seen

To greet his ardent vision with its wreath of deathless green.
Ah! though he could not grasp it, lay it on his pallid brow!
Death, thou canst never snatch it thence. Where is thy triumph

now?

Thou hast but given it sooner, and without the risk to fail,

And the laurel glows the greener, where the brow it twines is pale.

Seven-and-thirty funeral shots thunder, thunder through the world, And toss them o'er your wastes, ye waves, on all your billows hurl'd.

To the native land that rear'd him, bear the sound o'er ocean's bed-
Though she banish'd forth the living, let her still lament the dead;
All the wrongs that she has done to us, in counsel or in deed,
To wipe them from our memory for Byron was decreed.
O'er his bier the hand of friendship to his country we extend
Land of the free, accept it, be our refuge and our friend!

[Janus, 1826.]

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