Far off was their murmur, it came not more nigh,
The flame burn'd unmoved, and nought else did he spy.

Loud murmur'd the priests, and amaz'd was the King, While many dark spells of their witchcraft they sing; They search'd Albert's body, and, lo! on his breast Was the sign of the Cross, by his father impress'd.

The priests they erase it with care and with pain,
And the recreant return'd to the cavern again;
But, as he descended, a whisper there fell;
It was his good angel, who bade him farewell!

High bristled his hair, his heart flutter'd and beat, And he turn'd him five steps, half resolved to retreat But his heart it was harden'd, his purpose was gone, When he thought of the Maiden of fair Lebanon.

Scarce pass'd he the archway, the threshold scarce trode,

When the winds from the four points of heaven were abroad,

They made each steel portal to rattle and ring,
And, borne on the blast, came the dread Fire-King.

Full sore rock'd the cavern whene'er he drew nigh,
The fire on the altar blazed bickering and high;
In volcanic explosions the mountains proclaim
The dreadful approach of the Monarch of Flame.

Unmeasur'd in height, undistinguish'd in form,
His breath it was lightning, his voice it was storm;
I ween the stout heart of Count Albert was tame,
When he saw in his terrors the Monarch of Flame.

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In his hand a broad falchion blue-glimmered through smoke,

And Mount Lebanon shook as the monarch he spoke; "With this brand shalt thou conquer, thus long, and

no more,

Till thou bend to the Cross, and the Virgin adore."

The cloud-shrouded Arm gives the weapon; and see! The recreant receives the charm'd gift on his knee: The thunders growl distant, and faint gleam the fires, As, borne on the whirlwind, the phantom retires.

Count Albert has arm'd him the Paynim among, Though his heart it was false, yet his arm it was strong; And the Red-cross wax'd faint and the Crescent came

on,

From the day he commanded on Mount Lebanon.

From Lebanon's forests to Galilee's wave,

The sands of Samaar drank the blood of the brave; Till the Knights of the Temple, and Knights of Saint John,

With Salem's King Baldwin, against him came on.

The war-cymbals clatter'd, the trumpets replied,
The lances were couch'd, and they closed on each side;
And horsemen and horses Count Albert o'erthrew,
Till he pierced the thick tumult King Baldwin unto.

Against the charm'd blade which Count Albert did wield,

The fence had been vain of the King's Red-cross shield; But a Page thrust him forward the monarch before, And cleft the proud turban the renegade wore.

So fell was the dint, that Count Albert stoop'd low Before the cross'd shield, to his steel saddlebow; And scarce had he bent to the Red-cross his head,"Bonne grace, Notre Dame !" he unwittingly said.

Sore sigh'd the charm'd sword, for its virtue was o'er, It sprung from his grasp, and was never seen more; But true men have said, that the lightning's red wing Did waft back the brand to the dread Fire-King.

He clench'd his set teeth, and his gauntleted hand;
He stretch'd, with one buffet, that Page on the strand;
As back from the stripling the broken casque roll'd,
You might see the blue eyes, and the ringlets of gold.

Short time had Count Albert in horror to stare On those death-swimming eyeballs, and blood-clotted hair;

For down came the Templars, like Cedron in flood,
And dyed their long lances in Saracen blood.

The Saracens, Curdmans, and Ishmaelites yield
To the scallop, the saltier, and crossleted shield;
And the eagles were gorged with the infidel dead,
From Bethsaida's fountains to Naphthali's head.

The battle is over on Bethsaida's plain.—
Oh, who is yon Paynim lies stretch'd 'mid the slain?
And who is yon Page lying cold at his knee?—
Oh, who but Count Albert and fair Rosalie !

The Lady was buried in Salem's bless'd bound,
The Count he was left to the vulture and hound:
Her soul to high mercy Our Lady did bring;
His went on the blast to the dread Fire-King.

Yet many a minstrel, in harping, can tell,
How the Red-cross it conquer'd, the Crescent it fell;
And lords and gay ladies have sigh'd, 'mid their glee,
At the tale of Count Albert and fair Rosalie.

FREDERICK AND ALICE.

[1801.]

This tale is imitated, rather than translated, from a fragment introduced in Goethe's "Claudina Von Villa Bella," where it is sung by a member of a gang of banditti, to engage the attention of the family, while his companions break into the castle. It owes any little merit it may possess to my friend MR. LEWIS, to whom it was sent in an extremely rude state; and who, after some material improvements, published it in his "Tales of Wonder."

FREDERICK leaves the land of France,
Homeward hastes his steps to measure,
Careless casts the parting glance

On the scene of former pleasure.

Joying in his prancing steed,

Keen to prove his untried blade,
Hope's gay dreams the soldier lead
Over mountain, moor, and glade.

Helpless, ruin'd, left forlorn,
Lovely Alice wept alone;
Mourn'd o'er love's fond contract torn,
Hope, and peace, and honour flown.

Mark her breast's convulsive throbs!

See, the tear of anguish flows!— Mingling soon with bursting sobs,

Loud the laugh of frenzy rose.

Wild she cursed, and wild she pray'd; Seven long days and nights are o'er; Death in pity brought his aid,

As the village bell struck four.

Far from her, and far from France,
Faithless Frederick onward rides;
Marking, blithe, the morning's glance
Mantling o'er the mountain's sides.

Heard ye not the boding sound,

As the tongue of yonder tower, Slowly, to the hills around,

Told the fourth, the fated hour?

Starts the steed, and snuffs the air,
Yet no cause of dread appears;
Bristles high the rider's hair,

Struck with strange mysterious fears.

Desperate, as his terrors rise,

In the steed the spur he hides; From himself in vain he flies;

Anxious, restless, on he rides.