"Well saw I the ancient parents, Without the crown of pride; They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, THE BLACK KNIGHT. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 'Twas Pentecost, the feast of gladness, When woods and fields put off all sadness,— Thus began the King and spake ; "So from the halls Of ancient Hofburg's walls, A luxuriant Spring shall break." Drums and trumpets echo loudly, Fell all the cavaliers, Before the monarch's stalwart son. To the barrier of the fight "Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon say!" "Should I speak it here, Ye would stand aghast with fear! I am a Prince of mighty sway!" When he rode into the lists, The arch of heaven grew black with mists, And the castle 'gan to rock. At the first blow, Fell the youth from saddle-bow, Pipe and viol call the dances, Torch-light through the high hall glances; Waves a mighty shadow in ; With manner bland Doth ask the maiden's hand, Doth with her the dance begin. Danced in sable iron sark, Danced a measure weird and dark, Down fall from her the fair Flowerets, faded, to the ground. To the sumptuous banquet came 'Twixt son and daughter all distraught, With mournful mind The ancient King reclined, Gazed at them in silent thought. Pale the children both did look, "Golden wine will make you whole!" The children drank, Gave many a courteous thank; "Oh, that draught was very cool!" Each the father's breast embraces, Looks the fear-struck father grey, "Woe ! the blessed children both From his hollow cavernous breast, "Roses in the spring I gather!" FROM "THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER." FROM THE SWEDISH OF BISHOP TEGNER. [ESAIAS TEGNÉR, the author of this poem, was born in the parish of By, in Wärmland, in the year 1782. In 1799 he entered the University of Lund, as a student; and in 1812 was appointed Professor of Greek in that institution. In 1824 he became Bishop of Wexiö. He is the glory and boast of Sweden, and stands first among all her poets, living or dead. His principal work is "Frithiofs Saga."] (The village church, where the children are to be confirmed.) PENTECOST, day of rejoicing, had come. The church of the village Gleaming stood in the morning's sheen. On the spire of the belfry, Tipped with a vane of metal, the friendly flames of the spring-sun Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles aforetime. Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her cap crowned with roses, Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the wind and the brooklet Murmured gladness and peace, God's-peace! with lips rosy-tinted Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry on balancing branches Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to the Highest. Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned like a leaf-woven arbour Stood its old-fashioned gate; and within, upon each cross of iron, Hung was a fragrant garland, new twined by the hands of affection. Even the dial, that stood on a hillock among the departed, (There full a hundred years had it stood,) was embellished with blossoms. Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and the hamlet, Who on his birth-day is crowned by children and children's children, So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of iron Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the time and its changes, While all round at his feet an eternity slumbered in quiet, |