MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS

The Student of Jena.

Once--'twas when I lived at Jena-- At a Wirthshaus' door I sat; And in pensive contemplation Ate the sausage thick and fat; Ate the kraut that never sourer Tasted to my lips than here; Smoked my pipe of strong canaster, Sipped my fifteenth jug of beer; Gazed upon the glancing river, Gazed upon the tranquil pool, Whence the silver-voiced Undine, When the nights were calm and cool, As the Baron Fouque tells us, Rose from out her sh.e.l.ly grot, Casting glamour o'er the waters, Witching that enchanted spot.

From the shadow which the coppice Flings across the rippling stream, Did I hear a sound of music-- Was it thought or was it dream?

There, beside a pile of linen, Stretched along the daisied sward, Stood a young and blooming maiden-- 'Twas her thrush-like song I heard.

Evermore within the eddy Did she plunge the white chemise; And her robes were loosely gathered Rather far above her knees; Then my breath at once forsook me, For too surely did I deem That I saw the fair Undine Standing in the glancing stream-- And I felt the charm of knighthood; And from that remembered day, Every evening to the Wirthshaus Took I my enchanted way.

Shortly to relate my story, Many a week of summer long Came I there, when beer-o'ertaken, With my lute and with my song; Sang in mellow-toned soprano All my love and all my woe, Till the river-maiden answered, Lilting in the stream below:-- "Fair Undine! sweet Undine!

Dost thou love as I love thee?"

"Love is free as running water,"

Was the answer made to me.

Thus, in interchange seraphic, Did I woo my phantom fay, Till the nights grew long and chilly, Short and shorter grew the day; Till at last--'twas dark and gloomy, Dull and starless was the sky, And my steps were all unsteady For a little flushed was I,-- To the well-accustomed signal No response the maiden gave; But I heard the waters washing And the moaning of the wave.

Vanished was my own Undine, All her linen, too, was gone; And I walked about lamenting On the river bank alone.

Idiot that I was, for never Had I asked the maiden's name.

Was it Lieschen--was it Gretchen?

Had she tin, or whence she came?

So I took my trusty meerschaum, And I took my lute likewise; Wandered forth in minstrel fashion, Underneath the louring skies: Sang before each comely Wirthshaus, Sang beside each purling stream, That same ditty which I chanted When Undine was my theme, Singing, as I sang at Jena, When the shifts were hung to dry, "Fair Undine! young Undine!

Dost thou love as well as I?"

But, alas! in field or village, Or beside the pebbly sh.o.r.e, Did I see those glancing ankles, And the white robe never more; And no answer came to greet me, No sweet voice to mine replied; But I heard the waters rippling, And the moaning of the tide.

The Lay of the Levite.

There is a sound that's dear to me, It haunts me in my sleep; I wake, and, if I hear it not, I cannot choose but weep.

Above the roaring of the wind, Above the river's flow, Methinks I hear the mystic cry Of "Clo!--Old Clo!"

The exile's song, it thrills among The dwellings of the free, Its sound is strange to English ears, But 'tis not strange to me; For it hath shook the tented field In ages long ago, And hosts have quailed before the cry Of "Clo!--Old Clo!"

Oh, lose it not! forsake it not!

And let no time efface The memory of that solemn sound, The watchword of our race; For not by dark and eagle eye The Hebrew shall you know, So well as by the plaintive cry Of "Clo!--Old Clo!"

Even now, perchance, by Jordan's banks, Or Sidon's sunny walls, Where, dial-like, to portion time, The palm-tree's shadow falls, The pilgrims, wending on their way, Will linger as they go, And listen to the distant cry Of "Clo!--Old Clo!"

Bursch Groggenburg.

[AFTER THE MANNER OF SCHILLER.]

"Bursch! if foaming beer content ye, Come and drink your fill; In our cellars there is plenty; Himmel! how you swill!

That the liquor hath allurance, Well I understand: But 'tis really past endurance, When you squeeze my hand!"

And he heard her as if dreaming, Heard her half in awe; And the meerschaum's smoke came streaming From his open jaw: And his pulse beat somewhat quicker Than it did before, And he finished off his liquor, Staggered through the door;

Bolted off direct to Munich, And within the year Underneath his German tunic Stowed whole b.u.t.ts of beer.

And he drank like fifty fishes, Drank till all was blue; For he felt extremely vicious-- Somewhat thirsty too.

But at length this dire deboshing Drew towards an end; Few of all his silver groschen Had he left to spend.

And he knew it was not prudent Longer to remain; So, with weary feet, the student Wended home again.

At the tavern's well-known portal Knocks he as before, And a waiter, rather mortal, Hiccups through the door-- "Master's sleeping in the kitchen; You'll alarm the house; Yesterday the Jungfrau Fritchen Married baker Kraus!"

Like a fiery comet bristling, Rose the young man's hair, And, poor soul! he fell a-whistling Out of sheer despair.

Down the gloomy street in silence, Savage-calm he goes; But he did no deed of vi'lence-- Only blew his nose.

Then he hired an airy garret Near her dwelling-place; Grew a beard of fiercest carrot, Never washed his face; Sate all day beside the cas.e.m.e.nt, Sate a dreary man; Found in smoking such an eas.e.m.e.nt As the wretched can;

Stared for hours and hours together, Stared yet more and more; Till in fine and sunny weather, At the baker's door, Stood, in ap.r.o.n white and mealy, That beloved dame, Counting out the loaves so freely, Selling of the same.

Then like a volcano puffing, Smoked he out his pipe; Sighed and supped on ducks and stuffing, Ham and kraut and tripe; Went to bed, and, in the morning, Waited as before, Still his eyes in anguish turning To the baker's door;

Till, with ap.r.o.n white and mealy, Came the lovely dame, Counting out the loaves so freely, Selling of the same.

So one day--the fact's amazing!-- On his post he died!

And they found the body gazing At the baker's bride.

Night and Morning.

[NOT BY SIR E. BULWER LYTTON.]

"Thy coffee, Tom, 's untasted, And thy egg is very cold; Thy cheeks are wan and wasted, Not rosy as of old.

My boy, what has come o'er ye?

You surely are not well!

Try some of that ham before ye, And then, Tom, ring the bell!"

"I cannot eat, my mother, My tongue is parched and bound, And my head, somehow or other, Is swimming round and round.

In my eyes there is a fulness, And my pulse is beating quick; On my brain is a weight of dulness: Oh, mother, I am sick!"

"These long, long nights of watching Are killing you outright; The evening dews are catching, And you're out every night.

Why does that horrid grumbler, Old Inkpen, work you so?"

(TOM--_lene susurrans_)