BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 65 The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land: Take a message, and a token to some distant friends of mine; For I was born at Bingen,-at Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around, To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun; And 'mid the dead and dying were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, And one had come from Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my mother, that her other son shall comfort her old age; For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage. For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen,-calm Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant tread, But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die; To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honor of old Bingen,-dear Bingen on the Rhine. "There's another-not a sister; in the happy days gone by You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry,-too fond for idle scorning,— Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen, "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along,-I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk! And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,— But we meet no more at Bingen,-loved Bingen on the Rhine." His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was childish weak,— His eyes put on a dying look,-he sighed and ceased to speak; THE LORE-LEI. 67 His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,— The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn ; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine. MRS. CAROLINE NORTON. The air is cool, and it darkens, And yonder sits a maiden, The fairest of the fair; With gold is her garment glittering, With a golden comb she combs it, The boatman feels his bosom With a nameless longing move; He sees not the gulfs before him, His gaze is fixed above, 'Till over boat and boatman The Rhine's deep waters run; The Lore-Lei hath done! HEINRICH HEINE. How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he: I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew, "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through. Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other: we kept the great pace- 'Twas a moonset at starting; but while we drew near And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime-- At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun, HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS. 69 And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back By Hasselt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh; 'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop" gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!" "How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roan Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer— good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is friends flocking round, As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; |