Thyself Earth's ROSY STAR, and of the Dawn
Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?
Who fill'd thy Countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee Parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Who call'd you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged Rocks,
For ever shatter'd, and the same for ever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ?

And who commanded, (and the silence came,)
Here let the Billows stiffen, and have Rest?

Ye Ice-falls! ye that, from the Mountain's brow,
Adown enormous Ravines slope amain-
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice,
And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless Torrents! silent Cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven
Beneath the keen full Moon? Who bade the Sun
Clothe you with Rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?.
GOD! Let the Torrents, like a Shout of Nations,
Answer! and let the Ice-plains echo, GOD!
GOD! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!
Ye Pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they too have a voice, yon piles of Snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, GOD!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal Frost !
Ye wild goats sporting round the Eagle's nest!
Ye Eagles, playmates of the Mountain-Storm!
Ye Lightnings, the dread arrows of the Clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the element !
Utter forth GOD, and fill the Hills with Praise !

Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing Peaks, Off from whose feet the Avalanche, unheard,

Shoots downward, glittering through the pure Serene
Into the depth of Clouds, that veil thy breast,-

Thou too, again, stupendous Mountain! thou,
That, as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low
In adoration, upward from thy Base

Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,
To rise before me- Rise, O ever rise;

Rise like a cloud of Incense from the Earth!

Thou kingly Spirit, throned among the hills,
Thou dread Ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent Sky,
And tell the Stars, and tell yon rising Sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises GOD.

UNDINĖ: A TALE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF

FREDERICK BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUE.

[WILLIAM WEIR.]

CHAPTER I.

How the Knight came to the Fisherman.

MANY hundred years ago, a good old fisherman sat before his door one fine evening, mending his nets. He inhabited a charming spot of earth. The green field upon which his hut was built extended into a great lake, so that one could not help fancying that the little peninsula had pushed forward into the pure transparent flood out of sheer love, and that the water, on the other hand, had passionately flung its arms around the lovely meadow, its herbs, and flowers, and the fresh shade of its trees. They embraced lovingly, enhancing each other's charms. It is true, that, with the exception of the fisherman and his wife, you met few human beings at this pretty place. For, behind the meadow lay a wild wood, which most people regarded with too much terror-on account of its tangled brakes and darkness, and also on account of the strange beings and sorceries which haunted it-to pass it, except on urgent business. Our pious fisherman, however, crossed it unharmed many a time, carrying to a town, a little way on the other side of it, the delicate fish which he caught in the lake. This was an easy matter to him, for he entertained none but godly thoughts, and was accustomed, as soon as he entered the dreary wood, to begin singing some pious hymn, with a clear voice, and honest heart.

Thus, then, as we have already said, he sat one evening mending his nets, and thinking no harm. He was startled by a noise, as of a horse and rider, from the dark wood, which still seemed to draw nearer and nearer, when it flashed across his memory, how, in the night, he had often dreamed of the secrets of the forest, and among them, of an immensely tall snow-white man, who incessantly nodded with his head after a strange fashion. Nay, as he lifted his eyes in the direction of the wood, it almost seemed to him that he saw this figure glimmering through the interstices of the leaves. He strengthened himself, however, by the recollection that nothing serious had ever occurred to him in the wood, and that the evil spirit must necessarily have still less power over him at home. By this time, he was able to repeat, manfully, a text from the Bible; and, his boldness being thus restored, he laughed to see the cause of

K

his error. The white nodding man had suddenly become a wellknown rivulet, which issued, foaming, from the recesses of the wood, and fell into the lake. But the cause of the noise appeared in a well-dressed knight, who rode out from beneath the trees. A scarlet mantle hung over his violet gold-embroidered doublet; red and violet feathers rolled from his glittering cap; and a good sword glanced at his golden belt. The white steed which bore him was of more slender frame than the generality of war-horses, and trode so lightly over the grass, that scarcely a blade seemed to bend beneath him. The old fisherman still felt somewhat eerie, although he began to be of opinion, that so pleasing an apparition was not likely to bode evil; he therefore respectfully moved his hat to the stranger, and remained quietly sitting beside his nets. The newcomer stopped, and asked, Whether he could, for that night, obtain shelter for himself and horse? "As for your horse, fair sir," replied the fisherman, " I can afford him no better stall than this sheltered meadow- -no better provender than the grass that grows on it. But yourself I will gladly receive into my house, and bestow upon you such a supper and bed as the like of me can afford. The knight was well contented with his proffer, and dismounted; and the fisherman assisted him to take saddle and bridle from the horse, which done, they turned him loose upon the meadow. The stranger then addressed his host: "Even though I had found you less hospitable, my good fisherman, you would scarcely have got rid of me to-night. I see a broad lake lies before me; and to ride back in the twilight into the thick wood,-may God preserve me from such a necessity!" "We will not speak too much about it," said the fisherman, as he ushered his guest into the hut.

The fisherman's aged wife sat upon a great chair beside the hearth, from which a moderate fire spread an uncertain light through the clean room. At the entry of the guest she rose and welcomed him in a friendly manner, but immediately resumed her seat. Her husband said, laughing," You must not take it amiss, young gentleman, that she keeps the most comfortable seat to herself; it is customary with us poor people to reserve it exclusively for the old." "Ay, man,” replied the old lady with a quiet smile, "what thinkst thou of? Our guest is a Christian too, and how could he think of pushing old people from their stools. Sit down, young sir," she continued, turning to the knight, "there is a capital seat in the corner there, if you do not handle it too rudely, for one of the legs is not very firm." The knight carried the stool cautiously towards the fire, and as he seated himself, he felt as if he were related to this little family, and just returned home from a far journey.

Our three good people were soon engaged in a friendly and confidential conversation. The old man, it is true, was unwilling to admit that he knew much about the wood, respecting which the knight made anxious inquiries; and, at any rate, he was of opinion, that it was a bad subject of conversation for the time of night. the married people made ample amends to their tongues by enlarging upon their household economy; and listened gladly to the stories of

But

their guest's travels, and how he possessed a fair castle near the sources of the Danube, and was called Sir Hildebrand of Ringstetten. In the midst of all this talk, the stranger had several times remarked a rustling at the window, as if some one were squirting water against it. At each repetition of this noise the old man knit his brows in displeasure; but when at length a great gush came at once against the window, and broke through the weak frame-work into the room, he rose in anger, and cried with a threatening voice in the direction of the window, "Undine, wilt thou never have done with thy childish tricks? to-day, too, when there is a stranger gentleman with us!" All was at once quiet without; only a small laugh was audible; and the fisherman said, as he returned to the fireside, "You must bear with this, my honoured guest, and perhaps with many more follies; but indeed she means no harm. It is our foster-daughter, Undine, who cannot lay aside her childish conduct, although now in her eighteenth year. But, as I have said, she is good at the heart.” "It's well for you to speak," replied the old woman, shaking her head. "Her tricks may be amusing enough to you, when you return from fishing, or from some journey. But to have her upon one's neck the whole day long, and not to hear one word of sense; and then, instead of finding her helpful as I grow older, daily to need more caution lest her folly should ruin us- -that is a different story, and the patience of a saint might at last give way." "Tut, tut," laughed the landlord," you are teased by Undine, and I by the lake. It often destroys my dams and nets, and yet I love it, as you, plague though she be, the playful child." "One cannot be altogether angry with her," replied the old lady, with an approving smile.

At this the door flew open, and a fair girl glided laughingly into the room, and said "You have but joked with me, father: where is this guest of yours?" The same moment she was aware of the knight, and stood lost in astonishment before the handsome youth. Hildebrand gazed delighted at the delicate form, and sought to impress her features carefully on his memory, thinking that her surprise alone afforded him the opportunity, and that she would immediately shrink away from him with double bashfulness. He was mistaken. For after a long look at him, she approached him with confidence, and placing herself upon her knees before him, said, playing with a golden medal that hung at his breast:Ay, my fair and friendly guest, art thou come at last to our poor hut? was it then needful that thou shouldst wander so many years about the world before visiting us? comest thou from the dreary wood, fair friend?" The old woman left him no time to answer. She reminded the maiden to withdraw modestly and attend to her work, Undine, however, drew a little footstool towards Hildebrand's seat, sat down with her knitting, and said good-humouredly, "I will work here." The old man did as people generally do with spoiled children he pretended not to notice Undine's wilfulness, and began to speak of something else. But this the maiden would not admit of. She said, "I have asked our fair guest whence he comes, and he has not answered me." "I come out of the wood, fair one,"

replied Hildebrand, and she went on : "Then you must tell me how you came into it, for most men avoid it; and what wonderful adventures you encountered, for without such no one quits it." Hildebrand felt a slight shudder as she spoke, and turned involuntarily towards the window, half expecting to see one of the strange forms which crossed his path in the forest, grinning in upon him. He saw nothing but the deep black night which lay upon the glass. He collected himself, and was about to begin his story, when the old man interrupted him,-" Not so, sir knight; this is no time for such a subject." Undine sprang angrily from her seat, pressed her hands against her sides, placed herself close before the fisherman, exclaiming," He shall not tell us, father? do you say shall not? but I will -he shall, he shall though." And thereupon she stamped with her tiny foot, preserving all the time a playful, winning elegance, that Hildebrand found himself less able to turn away his eyes from her in her angry than in her friendly mood. But now all the old man's repressed anger broke out. He scolded Undine vehemently for her disobedience and for her forward bearing towards the stranger, and the good old woman joined with him. Then said Undine,—“If you will cross me, and not do as I wish, why then sleep alone in your old, smoky hut!" and like an arrow she was out of the door and lost in the darkness.

CHAPTER II.

How Undine first came to the Fisherman.

Hildebrand and the fisherman sprang from their seats to hasten after the angry maiden. But before they reached the door, Undine had disappeared in the darkness, and no sound of her footsteps betrayed the direction of her flight. Hildebrand looked inquiringly at his host; it almost seemed to him that the lovely apparition, so suddenly lost again in the night, could be nothing else than a continuation of the strange forms, which had flitted illusively around him in the forest; but the old man muttered in a low voice, "It is not the first time she has played us this trick. Now one is sure of an anxious heart and sleepless eyes the whole night; for who knows but she may meet with harm some time or another wandering in the dark wood till daybreak?" "Let us follow her then, father, in God's name!" cried Hildebrand. The old man answered," To what end? It were a sin in me to allow you to follow the silly girl alone through the night and solitude, and my old legs have no chance with her. —even if we knew which way she went." "We must at least call aloud, and beg her to return," said Hildebrand, and began with plaintive voice to cry, " Undine! ah, Undine! return!" The old man shook his head: "All this clamour is of no avail; the knight is not aware how stubborn the little one is." And yet he could not keep from crying aloud into the dark night, " Undine! dear Undine! return this once!"

It turned out, however, just as the fisherman had foretold. Nothing was seen or heard of Undine; and, as the old man would