Chapter VII: Letter LXI: Of the Sorrows of Werter, Versified (4)

Among the newest and most delightful miscellanies, lately received from England, may be ranked a poetical work, entitled "_Tales of Terror_." This is partly intended as a burlesque of the various ballads in Lewis's celebrated romance, "_The Monk_." We well remember, that this member of the British parliament has amused himself, and alarmed his readers, by resorting to the cells of Gothic superstition, and invoking all the forms of German horror, to appal every timid heart. Hence, we have been haunted by ghosts of all complexions; and "_Cloud Kings_," and "_Water Kings_," and "_Fire Kings_," have been crowned by this poetical magician, to rule with despotism in the realms of Fancy. A lively satirist, endowed with the gifts of Genius, easy in versification, pleasant in his humour, and inimitably successful in parody, has, in some of his "_Tales of Terror_" undertaken to mock the doleful tones of Mr. Lewis's muse, or shall we rather say the hoarse caw of the German raven. The midnight hour has been beguiled, by transcribing the following sarcasm, founded on a well-known nursery story, and our readers will thank us for sitting up so late for their amusement.

THE WOLF KING;
OR
LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD.
An Old Woman's Tale.

Veteres avias tibi de pulmone revello _Persius_.

Translated from the Danish of the author of the Water King, etc., and respectfully inscribed to M. G. Lewis, Esq., M.P., as an humble attempt to imitate his excellent version of that celebrated ballad.

The birds they sung, the morning smil'd
The mother kiss'd her darling child,
And said ... "My dear, take custards three,
And carry to your grandmummie."

The pretty maid had on her head
A little riding hood of red,
And as she pass'd the lonely wood,
They call'd her small red riding hood.

Her basket on her arm she hung,
And as she went thus artless sung:
"A lady lived beneath a hill,
Who if not gone, resides there still."

The wolf king saw her pass along,
He ey'd her custards heard her song,
And cried "That child and custards three
This evening shall my supper be!"

Now swift the maid pursu'd her way,
And heedless trill'd her plaintive lay;
Nor had she pass'd the murky wood,
When lo! the wolf king near her stood.

"Oh! stop my pretty child so gay!
Oh! whither do you bend your way?"
"My little self and custards three
Are going to my grandmummie."

"While you by yonder mountain go,
On which the azure blue bells grow,
I'll take this road; then haste thee, dear,
Or I before you will be there.

"And when our racing shall be done,
A kiss you forfeit, if I've won;
Your prize shall be, if first you come,
Some barley sugar and a plumb."

"Oh! thank you, good sir Wolf," said she,
And dropt a pretty courtesie:
The little maid then onward hied,
And sought the blue bell mountain side.

The wolf sped on o'er marsh and moor,
And faintly tapp'd at granny's door:
"Oh! let me in, grandmummy good,
For I am small red riding hood."

"The bobbin pull (the grandam cried),
The door will then fly open wide."
The crafty wolf the bobbin drew,
And straight the door wide open flew.

He pac'd the bed room eight times four,
And utter'd thrice a hideous roar;
He pac'd the bed room nine times three,
And then devour'd poor grandmummie.

He dash'd her brains out on the stones,
He gnaw'd her sinews, crack'd her bones;
He munch'd her heart, he quaff'd her gore,
And up her lights and liver tore.[41]!!!!

Grandmummy's bed he straight got in,
Her night-cap tied beneath his chin;
And, waiting for his destin'd prey,
All snug between the sheets he lay.

Now at the door a voice heard he,
Which cried ... "I've brought you custards three;
Oh! let me in, grandmummy good,
For I am small red riding hood."

"The bobbin pull (the wolf king cried),
The door will then fly open wide."
The little dear the bobbin drew,
And straight the door wide open flew.[42]

She plac'd the custards on the floor,
And sigh'd ... "I wish I'd brought you _four_.[43]
I'm very tir'd, dear grandmummie;
Oh! may I come to bed to thee?"

"Oh come! (the wolf king softly cried),
And lie, my sweet one, by my side:"
Ah! little thought the child so gay
The cruel wolf king near her lay!

"Oh! tell me, tell me, granny dear,
Why does your _voice_ so gruff appear?"
"Oh! hush, sweetheart (the wolf king said),
I've got a small cold in my head!"

"Oh! tell me, grandmummie so kind,
Why you've a _tail_ grows out _behind_?"
"Oh! hush thee, hush thee, pretty dear,
My pincushion I hang on there!"

"Why do your _eyes_ so glare on me?"
"They are your pretty face to see."
"Why do your _ears_ so long appear?"
"They are your pretty voice to hear."

"Oh! tell me, granny, why to-night
Your teeth appear so long and white?"[44]
Then, growling, cried the wolf so grim,
"They are to tear you limb from limb!"

His hungry teeth the wolf king gnash'd,
His sparkling eyes with fury flash'd,
He op'd his jaws all sprent with blood,
And fell on small red riding hood.

He tore her bowels out one and two,
"Little maid, I will eat you!"
But when he tore out three and four,
The little maid she was no more!

Take warning hence, ye children fair;
Of wolves' insidious arts beware;
And, as you pass each lonely wood,
Ah! think of small red riding hood!

With custards sent, nor loiter slow,
Nor gather blue bells as you go;
Get not to bed with grandmummie,
Lest she a ravenous wolf should be!

_Port Folio_, II-173, June 5, 1802, Phila.

[Footnote 41: This stanza is borrowed from an affecting and
sanguinary description in a German ballad by Professor Von
Spluttbach, called Skulth den Balch, or Sour Mthltz; in
English, as far as a translation can convey an idea of the
horror of the original, "The Bloody Banquet, or the Gulph of
Ghosts!!!" a very terrible and meritorious production.]

[Footnote 42: Repetition is the soul of ballad writing.]

[Footnote 43: The reader will do my heroine the justice to
remember that she set out with only _three_, consequently her
wish that another had been added, arose from a motive purely
affectionate and characteristic. This benevolent trait,
ingeniously insinuated, excites the interest of the reader
for her, and adds horror to the catastrophe.]

[Footnote 44: Our heroine is here lost in _double_
astonishment; not only the _length_, but the _whiteness_ of
her grandmother's teeth excites her wonder and suspicion.]

The following piece of singular and original composition was found amongst the papers of an old Dutchman, in Albany. The manuscript has suffered considerably from the tooth of time, and from several marks of antiquity about it, it may be safely inferred, that a century at least has elapsed since it was written. It is hardly necessary to inform the judicious reader, that this piece is no other than a billet doux, or love epistle, sent by some Dutch swain in the country, to the girl of his heart, who, it seems, had gone to reside some time in the city of Albany.

HANS LETTER TO NOTCHIE.

Mine Cot, vat vose does Hans se feel,
Vile lufly Notchie is avay,
Vat is de matter, vat de deel,
Does make you zo vorever stay.

I sleep none in de day, nor nite,
Mit such impashuns I duz burn,
Zo, when de shell drake vings hur vlite,
Pore Frow she mornes vor his return.

Zo owls will hoot, und cats will mew,
Und dogs will howl; und storms will ney,
Und zhall not I more anguish sho,
Vile lufly Notchie is avay.

A shacket I has lately bot,
Und brokenbrooks zo zoft as zilk,
Stripd as your under petticote,
Und vite as any buttermilk.

Make hase, mine dere, und quikly cum,
Mine vaders goin to di, you zee,
Und Yacups cot his viddle home,
Und we shall haf a daring bee.

I feres zum Yanky vull uv art,
More cunnin, as de ferry dele,
Vill git away yorn little hart,
Zo as da will our horshes stele.

If any wun yore hart shool blunder,
Mine horshes Ill do vaggon yoke,
Und ghase him quickly by mine dunder,
I vly zo zwift as any zpoke.

Vhen yonk Vontoofen, my coot frend
Zhall cum to zee you vhare you be,
Dese skarlet carters I zhall zend,
O die dem on, und dink on me.

_Port Folio_, II-176, June 5, 1802, Phila.

["se feel" (stanza I). "se" is no Dutch word and the verb "feel" (voelen) is not reflexive in Dutch. In stanzas III and VI "mill" appears in the place of "will." This is most likely a misprint, since "_w_ in Dutch is a particularly tenacious sound" and is not replaced by _m_, as is sometimes the case in German. "Brokenbrooks" is a coined word.

The author is indebted for the above information to Professor Wm. H. Carpenter, of Columbia University, and to Arnold Katz, the Dutch vice-consul at Philadelphia.]

HRIM THOR, OR THE WINTER KING.
A Lapland Ballad.

I shall not soon tire of copying ballads from the "Tales of Terror." They are the legitimate offspring of genius. We are conducted by a versatile guide, sometimes into the vale of tears, and sometimes into the hall of mirth. But let him lead us where he will, we cheerfully follow and always find ourselves with a sensible and tuneful companion. I am half inclined to suspect that Mr. Lewis himself is the concealed author. We know how he brilliantly travestied his own ballad, Alonzo the Brave, and it is probable that in this collection he is alter et idem.

[The poem follows.]

_Port Folio_, II-195, June 26, 1802, Phila.

[M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Terror_, 1799, Kelso. Cf. p. 18.]

GRIM, KING OF THE GHOSTS,
OR THE DANCE OF DEATH.

_Port Folio_, II-199, June 26, 1802, Phila.

[M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Terror_. Cf. p. 18.]

ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED ONLY SON.
Translated from a Danish Inscription.
By T. CAMPBELL, Esq.

_Port Folio_, II-352, Nov. 1802, Phila.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY, IN AUTUMN, 1801.

Hail, deadly Autumn, and thy fading leaf,
I love thee, drear and gloomy as thou art;
Not joyful Spring, like thee can soften grief,
Nor gaudy Summer soothe the aching heart;
But in thy cheerless, solitary bower,
Beneath the varied shade, I love to lie,
When dusky Evening's melancholy hour
With boding clouds obscures the low'ring sky,
And tuneless birds and fading flowers appear
In grief to hang their heads, and mourn the parting year.

'Tis not the gloomy sky, the parting year,
'Tis not the Winter's dreary reign I mourn,
But absent friends--and _one_ than life more dear,
And joys departed, never to return!
O gentle Hope, that 'mid Siberia's snows,
Can cheer the wretched exile's lingering year,
And where the sun on curs'd Oppression glows,
Can check the sigh, and wipe the falling tear,
Thy gentle care--thy succour I implore;
O raise thy heavenly voice, and bid me weep no more.

Thou hears't my prayer--I feel thy holy flame--
And future joys in bright succession rise,
And mutual love and friendship--sacred name!
And home and all the blessings that I prize.
Thou, Memory, lendst thy aid, and to my view
Each friend I love, and every scene most dear,
In forms more bright than ever painter drew,
Fresh from thy pencil's magic tint appear.
Roll on, ye lingering hours, that lie between,
Till Truth shall realize, and Virtue bless, the scene.

--R.

_N. E. Quarterly Mag._, No. III-271, Oct.-Dec. 1802, Boston.

ALBERT OF WERDENDORFF.
OR,
THE MIDNIGHT EMBRACE.
A German Romance.

Nocturnus occurram furor. Hor.

_Port Folio_, IV-334, Oct. 20, 1804, Phila.

[M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Terror_, 1799, Kelso.]

ON THE DEATH OF MR. HANDEL.

In the midst of the performance of his Lent Oratorio, (1759) of the Messiah, nature exhausted, he dropt his head upon the keys of the organ he was playing upon, and with difficulty raised up again. He recovered his spirits, and went on with the performance until the whole was finished. He was carried home, and died.

To melt the soul, to captivate the ear,
(Angels such melody might deign to hear,)
To anticipate on earth the joys of heav'n,
'Twas Handel's task: to him that pow'r was giv'n.

Ah, when he late attuned Messiah's praise,
With sound celestial, with melodious lays:
A last farewell, his languid looks express'd,
And thus, methinks, th' enraptur'd crowd addrest.

"Adieu, my dearest friend, and also you,
"Joint sons of sacred harmony, adieu!
"Apollo whispering, prompts me to retire,
"And bids me join the bright seraphic choir:

"Oh! for Elijah's car!" great Handel cry'd:
Messiah heard his voice, and Handel died.

_Boston Weekly Mag._, II-208, Oct. 20, 1804, Boston.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS
OF THE CENTURY, BY W. WORDSWORTH.

_Port Folio_, IV-342, Oct. 27, 1804, Phila.

[William Wordsworth, _idem_.

"The Reader must be apprised, that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick arms."]

A HUMBLE IMITATION OF SOME STANZAS,
WRITTEN BY W. WORDSWORTH, IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF
THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY.

'A fig for your languages, German and Norse,
Let me have the song of the _kettle_
And the _tongs_ and the _poker_.'--W. W.

[The poem, which contains no references to Germany, follows.]

_Port Folio_, IV-342, Oct. 27, 1804, Phila.

AGAINST FAUSTUS.

In scorn of writers, Faustus still doth hold,
Nought is now said, but hath been said of old;
Well, Faustus, say my wits are gross and dull,
If for that word I give thee not a Gull:
Thus then I prove thou holdst a false position;
I say thou art a man of fair condition,
A man true of thy word, tall of thy hands,
Of high descent and left good store of lands;
Thou with false dice and cards hast never play'd,
Corrupted never widow, wife or maid,
And, as for swearing, none in all this realm,
Doth seldomer in speech curse or blaspheme.
In fine, your virtues are so rare and ample,
For all our Song thou mayst be made a sample.
This, I dare swear, _none ever said before_,
This, I may swear, _none ever will say more_.

_Port Folio_, IV-383, Dec. 1, 1804, Phila.

THE CELEBRATED SWISS AIR,
RANZ DES VACHES.

"This air, so dear to the Swiss," says Rousseau, "was forbidden by the French government to be played among the Swiss soldiers, employed in the service of France, under pain of death; because it excited such a fond remembrance of the scenes they had witnessed in their own native country, and such a strong desire of seeing them again, that it caused them to shed tears, to desert, or, if they despaired of this, to commit suicide."

Quand reverrai-je, en un jour,
Tous les objets de mon amour?
Nos claires ruisseaux,
Nos couteaux [_sic_],
Nos hameaux,
Nos montagnes,
Et l'ornament de nos campagnes,
La si gentille Isabeau?
A l'ombre d'un ormeau,
Quand danserai-je au son du chalumeau?

Quand reverrai-je, en un jour,
Tous les objects de mon amour?
Mon pere,
Ma mere,
Mon frere
Ma soeur,
Mes agneaux
Mes troupeaux,
Ma bergere?
Quand reverrai-je, en un jour,
Tous les objet de mon amour?

LITERAL TRANSLATION.

When shall I behold again, in one day, all the pleasing objects of my affection?--our clear streams, our cottages [_sic_], our hamlets, our mountains, and the ornament of our fields, the gentle Isabelle?--Under the shade of a spreading elm, when shall I dance again to the sound of the tabor?

When shall I behold again, in one day, all pleasing objects of my love?--my father, mother, brothers, sisters, my lambs, my flocks, and my faithful shepherdess?--When shall I behold again, in one day, all the pleasing objects of my affection?

Boston, Jan. 30, 1805.

_Boston Weekly Mag._, III-60, Feb. 2, 1805, Boston.

For the Port Folio.
THE SCANDINAVIAN HERO.

SKOGUL.

From midst the dusty fields of war
To realms beyond the northern star,
To loud Valhalla's echoing halls,
I bear the hero ere he falls;
The valiant dwell in those abodes,
And sit amid carousing gods;
Not goblets rich, nor flasks of gold,
But skulls of mantling mead they hold;
The coward while he gasps for breath,
Sinks darkling to Hela beneath.

HAROLD.

O be it mine, from conflict borne,
To reach the realms of endless morn;
At Odin's board my lips I'll lave
In the foam'd bev'rage of the brave.

ODIN.

Who breaks the dusty fields of war,
Death travels by his clattering car;
Perch'd on the whirlwind's thund'ring tower,
On comes the sable tempest's power;
Ye warriors rise, ye chiefs give room,
A godlike guest in youthful bloom,
Harold from fields of battle see,
Begin th' immortal revelry.

S.

_Port Folio_, V-120, Apr. 20, 1805, Phila.

WERTER'S EPITAPH.

_Phila. Repos._, V-164, May 25, 1805, Phila.

[Also in _Amer. Museum_, I-474, May 1787, Phila.]

PRAYER OF FREDERICK II IN BEHALF OF POETS.

Ye Gods! from whom each favour'd bard
Receives those talents verse requires,
O teach them truth! for sure 'tis hard
They should be all such wicked liars.

_Boston Mag._, I-12, Nov. 9, 1805, Boston.

A SKETCH OF THE ALPS, AT DAYBREAK.

The sun-beams streak the azure skies,
And line with light the mountain's brow;
With hounds and horns the hunters rise,
And chase the roebuck through the snow.

From rock to rock, with giant-bound,
High on their iron poles they pass;
Mute, lest the air, convuls'd by sound,
Rend from above a frozen mass.

The goats wind slow their wonted way,
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude;
Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey,
From desert cave or hanging wood.

And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts peep o'er the morning cloud,
Perch'd, like an eagle's nest, on high.

_Evening Fireside_, II-74, Feb. 8, 1806, Phila.

In the following exquisite Parody, the sentiments are not less admirable than the talents of the author. We have often expressed our contempt for German plays, and we are happy to fortify our opinion of the Teutonic Muse, with the wit of a man of genius, and a polite scholar.

ODE TO THE GERMAN DRAMA,
By Mr. SEWARD.
A Parody of Gray's Ode to Adversity.

Daughter of night, chaotic Queen!
Thou fruitful source of modern lays,
Whose turbid plot, and tedious scene,
The monarch spurn, the robber raise.
Bound in thy necromantic spell
The audience taste the joys of hell,
And Briton's sons indignant grown
With pangs unfelt before, at crimes before unknown.

When first, to make the nation stare,
Folly her painted mask display'd,
Schiller sublimely mad was there,
And Kotz'bue lent his leaden aid.
Gigantic pair! their lofty soul
Disdaining reason's weak control,
On changeful Britain sped the blow,
Who, thoughtless of her own, embraced fictitious woe.

Aw'd by thy scowl tremendous, fly
Fair Comedy's theatric brood,
Light satire, wit, and harmless joy,
And leave us dungeons, chains and blood.
Swift they disperse, and with them go,
Mild Otway, sentimental Rowe;
Congreve averts the indignant eye,
And Shakespeare mourns to view the exotic prodigy.

Ruffians, in regal mantle dight,
Maidens immers'd in thoughts profound,
Spectres, that haunt the shades of night,
And spread a waste of ruin round.
These form thy never-varying theme,
While, buried in thy Stygian stream,
Religion mourns her wasted fires
And Hymen's sacred torch low hisses, and expires.

O mildly on the British stage,
Great Anarch! spread thy sable wings;
Not fired with all the frantic rage,
With which thou hurl'st thy darts at kings.
As thou in native garb art seen,
With scattered tresses, haggard mien,
Sepulchral chains and hideous cry
By despot arts immur'd in ghastly poverty.

In specious form, dread Queen! appear;
Let falsehood fill the dreary waste;
Thy democratic rant be here,
To fire the brain, corrupt the taste.
The fair, by vicious love misled,
Teach me to cherish and to wed,
To low-born arrogance to bend,
Establish'd order spurn, and call each outcast friend.

_Port Folio_, I-92, Feb. 15, 1806, Phila.

THE SWEDISH COTTAGE.
From Carr's Northern Summer.

Here, far from all the pomp ambition seeks,
Much sought, but only whilst untasted prais'd,
Content and Innocence, with rosy cheeks,
Enjoy the simple shed their hands have rais'd.

On a gay rock it stands, whose fretted base
The distant cataract's murm'ring waters lave;
Whilst, o'er its grassy roof, with varying grace,
The slender branches of the white birch wave.

Behind, the forest fir is heard to sigh,
On which the pensive ear delights to dwell;
And, as the gazing stranger passes by,
The grazing goat looks up and rings his bell.

Oh! in my native land, ere life's decline,
May such a spot, so wild, so sweet, be mine!

_Weekly Visitant_, I-63, Feb. 22, 1806, Salem.

[Sir John Carr, _A Northern Summer; or Travels round the Baltic in 1804_, London, 1805.]

ODE TO DEATH.
By Frederick II, King of Prussia. Translated from the French by Dr.
Hawkesworth.

_Polyanthos_, I-270, Mar. 1806, Boston.

[Also in _New Haven Gaz. and Conn. Mag._, I-339, Dec. 7, 1786, New Haven.]

THE DANCING BEAR. A FABLE.

[Perhaps suggested by Gellert's fable of the same title, but differing much in content. Cf. _Port Folio_, I-400, Dec. 12, 1801, Phila., where a translation of Gellert's poem is given.]

_Emerald_, I-118, July 5, 1806, Boston.

The following song by M. G. Lewis Esq. is, as we are apprized by that gentleman, derived from the _French_, though the swain who figures in it appears to be a German. The thought is pretty and the measure flowing.

A wolf, while Julia slept, had made
Her favorite lamb his prize;
Young Casper flew to give his aid,
Who heard the trembler's cries.
He drove the wolf from off the green,
But claim'd a kiss for pay.
Ah! Julia, better 'twould have been,
Had Casper staid away.

While grateful feelings warm'd her breast,
She own'd she loved the swain;
The youth eternal love professed,
And kiss'd and kiss'd again.
A fonder pair was never seen;
They lov'd the live long day:
Ah! Julia, better 'twould have been,
Had Casper staid away.

At length, the sun his beams withdrew,
And night inviting sleep,
Fond Julia rose and bade adieu,
Then homeward drove her sheep.
Alas! her thoughts were chang'd, I ween,
For thus I heard her say;
Ah! Julia, better 'twould have been,
Had Casper staid away.

_Port Folio_, II-94, Aug. 16, 1806, Phila.

EXTRACTS FROM "THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND"
by James Montgomery, London, 1806.

_Port Folio_, II-369, 412, Dec. 20, 31, 1806, Phila.

[James Montgomery, _The Wanderer of Switzerland and Other Poems_, London, 1806. The first American edition from the second London edition--N. Y., 1807.

Extracts from Parts VI and I respectively. Cf. Preface.]

RUNIC ODE.
THE HAUNTING OF HAVARDUR.
By C. Leftly, Esq.

Son of Angrym, warrior bold,
Stay thy travel o'er the wold;
Stop, Havardur, stop thy steed;
Thy death, thy bloody death's decreed.
She, Coronzon's lovely maid,
Whom thy wizard wiles betray'd,
Glides along the darken'd coast,
A frantic, pale, enshrouded ghost.
Where the fisher dries his net,
Rebel waves her body beat;
Seduc'd by thee, she toss'd her form
To the wild fury of the storm.
Know thou feeble child of dust,
Odin's brave, and Odin's just;
From the Golden Hall I come
To pronounce thy fatal doom;
Never shall thou pass the scull
Of rich metheglin deep and full:
Late I left the giant throng,
Yelling loud thy funeral song;
Imprecating deep and dread
Curses on thy guilty head.
Soon with Lok, thy tortur'd soul,
Must in boiling billows roll;
Till the God's eternal light
Bursts athwart thy gloom of night;
Till Surtur gallops from afar,
To burn this breathing world of war.
Bold to brave the spear of death,
Heroes hurry o'er the heath:
Hasten to the smoking feast--
Welcome every helmed guest,
Listen hymns of sweet renown,
Battles by thy fathers won;
Frame thy face in wreathed smiles,
Mirth the moodiest mind beguiles.--
Yet I hover always nigh,
Bid thee think,--and bid thee sigh;
Yet I goad thy rankling breast;--
Never, never, shalt thou rest.
What avails thy bossy shield?
What the guard thy gauntlets yield?
What the morion on thy brow?
Or the hauberk's rings below?
If to live in anguish fear,
Danger always threatening near:
Lift on high thy biting mace,
See him glaring in thy face;
Turn--yet meet him, madd'ning fly,
Curse thy coward soul, and die.
Not upon the field of fight
Hela seals thy lips in night;
A brother, of infernal brood,
Bathes him in thy heart's hot blood;
Twice two hundred vassals bend,
Hail him as their guardian friend;
Mock thee writhing with the wound,
Bid thee bite the dusty ground;
Leave thee suffering, scorn'd alone,
To die unpitied and unknown.
Be thy nacked carcase strew'd,
To give the famish'd eagles food;
Sea-mews screaming on the shore,
Dip their beaks, and drink thy gore.
Be thy fiend-fir'd spirit borne,
Wreck'd upon the fiery tide,
An age of agony abide.
But soft, the morning-bell beats one,
The glow-worm fades; and, see, the sun
Flashes his torch behind yon hill.
At night, when wearied nature's still,
And horror stalks along the plain,
Remember--we must meet again.

_Port Folio_, II-415, Dec. 31, 1806, Phila.

Buerger's beautiful ballad,

Earl Walter winds his bugle horn,
To horse! to horse! halloo! halloo!.

has given rise in England to a very humorous

PARODY.
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

Earl Walter kicks the waiter's rump,
Down stairs! down stairs! halloo, halloo!
They sally forth, they wheel, they jump,
And fast the scampering watch pursue.

The jolly bucks from tavern freed,
Dash fearless on through thick and thin,
While answering alleys, as they speed,
Loudly re-echo to their din.

Saint Dunstan's arm, with massy stroke
The solemn midnight peal had rung,
And bawling out, "Past twelve o'clock,"
Loud, long and deep the watchman sung.

The clamorous Earl Walter guides,
Huzza, Huzza, my merry men,
When, puffing, holding both their sides,
Two strangers haste to join his train.

The right-hand stranger's locks were grey,
But who he was I cannot tell;
The left was debonnair and gay,
A dashing blood I know full well.

He wav'd his beaver hat on high,
Cried, "Welcome, welcome, noble lord!
What joys can earth, or sea, or sky,
To match our midnight sports afford?"

"Methinks," the other said, "'twere best
To leave, my friends, your frantick joys,
And for the balmy sweets of rest,
Exchange such rude discordant noise."

But still Earl Walter onward hies,
And dashing forward, on they go,
Huzza, huzza, each toper cries,
"Hark forward, forward, hollo ho!"

The jovial band Earl Walter guides,
Along the Fleet, up Ludgate-Hill,
And puffing, holding both their sides,
His boon companions follow still.

From yonder winding lane out springs
A phantom, white as snow,
And louder still Earl Walter sings,
"Hark forward, forward, hollo, ho!"

A quaker prim has crossed the way,
He sprawls their nimble feet below,
But what care they for _yea_-and-_nay_,
Still forward, forward, on they go.

See, at the corner of yon street,
A humble stall, with apples crown'd!
See, scatter'd by Earl Walter's feet,
The woman's apples rolling round.

"O Lord! have mercy on my stall,
Spare the hard earnings of the poor,
The helpless widow's little all,
The fruit of many a watchful hour."

Earnest the right hand stranger pleads,
The left still pointing to the prey,
The impatient Earl no warning heeds,
But furious holds the onward way.

"Away, thou poor old wither'd witch,
Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!"
Then loud he sung and wav'd his switch,
"Hark forward, forward, hollo ho!"

So said, so done; one single bound
Clears the _green grocer's_ humble stall;
While through the apples scatter'd round,
They hurry, hurry, one and all.

And now behold the tim'rous prey,
Beyond the reach of Comus' crew,
Still lightly trip along the way,
Unconscious who her steps pursue.

Again they wheel, their nimble feet
The devious way still quickly trace,
Down Ludgate-Hill, along the Fleet,
The unwearied Earl pursues the chase.

The watch now muster strong and dare
Dispute the empire of the field;
They wave their cudgels high in air,
"Now yield thee, noble Baron yield."

"Unmanner'd vagabonds! in vain
You strive to mar our nightly game;
Come on! come on! my merry men,
The raggamuffins we can tame."

In heaps the victims bite the dust,
Down sinks Earl Walter on the ground,
Now run who can, and lie who must,
For loud the _watchmen's rattles_ sound.

Now to the justice borne along,
In sullen majesty they go;
The place receives the motley throng,
And echoes to their hollo ho!

All mild amid the rout profane,
The _justice_ solemn thus began:
"Forebear your knighthood thus to stain,
Revere the dignity of man.

The meanest trull has rights to plead,
Which wrong'd by cruelty or pride,
Draw vengeance on thy guilty head,
Howe'er by titles dignified."

Cold drops of sweat in many a trill,
Adown Earl Walter's temples fall,
And louder, louder, louder still,
The surly watch for vengeance call.

The right-hand stranger anxious pleads;
The clamours of the mob increase,
The _riot act_ the justice reads,
And binds the Earl to keep the peace.

The court broke up, they sally out,
And raise a loud, a last huzza;
Then sneak'd away and hung his snout,
Each disappointed dog of law.

Muttering full many a curse, and fast
Homeward to slumber now they go;
Yet spite of all that now has passed,
You'll hear next night their hollo ho!

This is the Earl, and this his train,
That oft the awaken'd _Cockney_ hears;
With rage he glows in every vein
When the wild din invades his ears.

The dreaming maid sighs sad and oft,
That she her visions must forego,
When waken'd from her slumbers soft,
She hears the cry of hollo ho!

_Port Folio_, III-44, Jan. 17, 1807, Phila.

[Parody on G. A. Buerger's poem _Der wilde Jaeger_. Cf. pp. 34, 85.]

THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND.
By JAMES MONTGOMERY.

_Emerald_, II-108, Feb. 28, 1807, Boston.

[James Montgomery, _op. cit._ Extracts given. Cf. Preface.]

SWISS PEASANT.

Turn we, to survey
Where rougher climes a nobler race display;
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread,
Yet still, e'en here, Content can spread a charm,
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.
Though poor the peasant's hut his feast though small,
He sees his little lot, the lot of all;
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose,
Breathes the keen air, and carrols as he goes.
At night returning, every labour sped,
He sits him down, the monarch of his shed;
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys,
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze;
While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard,
Displays her cleanly platter on her board;
And haply too, some pilgrim, hither led,
With many a tale repays the nightly bed.

_Emerald_, II-119, Mar. 7, 1807, Boston.

RUNIC ODE.
THE HAUNTING OF HAVARDUR.
By C. LEFTLY, Esq.

_Balance and Columbian Repos._, VI-144, May 5, 1807, Hudson, N. Y.

[Also in _Port Folio_, II-415, Dec. 31, 1806, Phila.]

FOREIGN POETICAL, POLITICAL SUMMARY.

PRUSSIA.

* * * * *
Still like a Bur she clings and sticks;
To Russia tho she grins and kicks,
Holds by the fur, which yet may fail,
For bears, alas, have got no tail.
* * * * *

HOLLAND.

Let Mynheer Vanderschoffeldt flout,
And swear and rave for sour krout;
Nay kick his frow with solemn phiz,
To make her feel how goot it ish.
Yet after he has gorg'd his maw
With puttermilks and goot olt slaw,
Let him remember times are such,
The French have Holland, not the Dutch.

GERMANY.

With roaring blunderbuss and thunder
All Germany is torn asunder;
How num'rous circles near and far
Encircl'd in the arms of war;
Her Hessian bullies one and all,
Pay homage to the spurious Gaul;
And John Bull's farm, a goodly station,
Makes soup to please the Gallic nation.

_Norfolk Repos._, II-232, May 26, 1807, Dedham, Mass.

ON THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.
By T. CAMPBELL.

_Weekly Inspector_, II-272, June 20, 1807, N. Y.

[Thomas Campbell, _idem_.

Battle of Hohenlinden, Bavaria, was fought Dec. 3, 1800, between the Austrians under Archduke John and the French under General Moreau.]

THE SORROWS OF SWITZERLAND.

Helvetian vales! Where freedom fix'd her sway;
And all the social virtues lov'd to stray;
Soft blissful seats of undisturb'd repose,
Rever'd for ages by contending foes,
What envious demon, ranging to destroy,
Has marr'd your sports, and clos'd your song of joy?
What horrid yells the affrighted ear assail!
What screams of terror load the passing gale!
See ruffian hordes, with tiger rage advance,
The shame of manhood, and the boast of France!
See trampled, crush'd and torn in lustful strife
The loathing virgin and indignant wife!
While wanton carnage sweeps each crowded wood,
And all the mountain torrents swell with blood!
Lo! Where yon cliff projects its length of shade
O'er fields of death, a wounded chief is laid!
Around the desolated scene he throws
A look, that speaks insufferable woes:
Then starting from his trance of dumb despair,
Thus vents his anguish to the fleeting air:
"Dear native hills, amidst whose woodland maze,
I pass'd the tranquil morning of my days,
On whose green tops malignant planets scowl,
Where hell hounds ravage, and the furies howl;
Though chang'd, deform'd, still, still ye meet my view,
Ye still are left to hear my last adieu!
My friends, my children, gor'd with many a wound,
Whose mangled bodies strew the ensanguin'd ground,
To parch and stiffen in the blaze of day,
Consign'd to vultures, and to wolves a prey,
Your toils are past; no more ye wake to feel
Lust's savage gripe, or rapine's reeking steel!
And Thou, to whom my wedded faith was given,
On earth my solace, and my hope in heaven,
Approv'd in manhood, as in youth ador'd,
Belov'd while living, as in death deplor'd,
O stay thy flight! Around this dreary shore
A moment hover, and we part no more--
On thy poor corpse, thy bleeding husband hangs,
Counts all thy wounds, and feels thy ling'ring pangs--
O righteous fathers! Thou whose fostering care
Sustains creation, hear my dying prayer!
Look down, look down on this devoted land,
O'er my poor country stretch thy saving hand!
O let the blood that streaming to the skies,
Still flows in torrents--let that blood suffice!
To thee the dreadful recompense belongs--
To thy just vengeance I consign my wrongs;
O vindicate the rights of nation's sway,
And sweep the monsters from the blushing day!"

_Weekly Inspector_, II-288, June 27, 1807, N. Y.

POETRY.
Original.

Gentlemen,

It has been remarked, that the poetick department of the Anthology abounds rather in selected than original productions; whether this be the result of choice or necessity, the following lines will not be considered inapplicable since they partake the nature of both characters, and hence, if in other respects worthy to appear, it is presumed they will not be rejected.

FROM THE RUNIC.

'The power of Musick is thus hyperbolically commemorated in one of the songs of the Runic Bards.'[45]

I know a Song, by which I soften and enchant the arms of my enemies, and render their weapons of no effect.

I know a Song, which I need only to sing when men have loaded me with bonds, for the moment I sing it, my chains fall in pieces, and I walk forth at liberty.

I know a Song, useful to all mankind, for as soon as hatred inflames the sons of men, the moment I sing it they are appeased.

I know a Song of such virtue, that were I caught in a storm, I can hush the winds and render the air perfectly calm.

_Mo. Anthology_, IV-602, Nov. 1807, Boston.

[Footnote 45: See Godwin's _Life of Chaucer_.]

THE SONG OF A RUNIC BARD.

Imitated in English verse.

I.

I know a Song, the magick of whose power
Can save the Warrior in destruction's hour;
From the fierce foe his falling vengeance charm,
And wrest the weapon from his nervous arm.

II.

I know a Song, which, when in bonds I lay,
Broke from the grinding chain its links away.
While the sweet notes their swelling numbers rolled,
Back flew the bolts, the trembling gates unfold;
Free as the breeze the elastic limbs advance,
Course the far field, or braid the enlivening dance.

III.

I know a Song, to mend the heart design'd,
Quenching the fiery passions of mankind;
When lurking hate and deadly rage combine,
To charm the serpent of revenge is mine;
By heavenly verse the furious deed restrain,
And bid the lost affections live again.

IV.

I know a Song, which when the wild winds blow
To bend the monarchs of the forests low,
If to the lay my warbling voice incline,
Waking its various tones with skill divine,
Hush'd are the gales, the spirit of the storm
Calms his bleak breath, and smooths his furrow'd form,
The day look up, the dripping hills serene
Through the faint clouds exalt their sparkling green.

CAMBRIA.

_Mo. Anthology_, IV-602, Nov. 1807, Boston.

THE SQUEAKING GHOST.

A tale imitated from the German, according to the true and genuine principles of the horrifick.

The wind whistled loud! farmer Dobbin's wheat stack
Fell down! The rain beat 'gainst his door!
As he sat by the fire he heard the roof crack!
The cat 'gan to mew and to put up her back!
And the candle burnt--_just as before_!
The farmer exclaimed with a piteous sigh,
"To get rid of this curs'd noise and rout,
"Wife gi'e us some ale." His dame straight did cry,
Hemed and coughed three times three, then made this reply--
"I can't mun! Why? 'cause the cask's out!"
By the side of the fire sat Roger Gee-ho
Who had finished his daily vocation,
With Cicely, whose eyes were as black as a Sloe,
A damsel indeed who had never said No,
And because _she ne'er had an occasion_!
All these were alarmed by the loud piercing cries,
And were thrown in a terrible state,
Till open the door, with wide staring eyes,
They found to their joy, no less than surprise,
"_'Twas the old sow fast stuck in a gate!_"

_Charms of Lit. in Prose and Verse_, p. 350, 1808, Trenton.

THE DESCENT OF ODIN.

_Port Folio_, V-406, June 25, 1808, Phila.

[In a review of _Odes from the Norse and Welch Tongues_ by Thomas Gray.

Also in _New Haven Gaz. and Conn. Mag._, III-No. 21, May 29, 1788, New Haven.]

THE DESCENT OF ODIN.

_Port Folio_, VI-55, 57, July 23, 1808, Phila.

[Thomas Gray, _idem_. A literal trans.; not the same as the above. Criticism and reprint.]

THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND.
By JAMES MONTGOMERY.

_Gleaner_, I-78 etc., Oct. 1808, Lancaster (Penn.).

[James Montgomery, _op. cit._ Entire poem reprinted. Cf. Preface.]

The following imitation of the celebrated Swiss air "Ran des Vaches," in which there is great simplicity and sweetness, is from the pen of the Editor of the Sheffield Iris, author of the Wanderer of Switzerland.

THE SONG OF THE SWISS IN A STRANGE LAND.

O when shall I visit the land of my birth,
The loveliest land on the face of the earth?
When shall I those scenes of affection explore,
Our forests, our fountains,
Our hamlets, our mountains,
With the pride of our mountains, the maid I adore?
O when shall I dance on the daisy white mead,
In the shade of an elm, to the sound of the reed?

When shall I return to thy lowly retreat,
Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet?
The lambs and the heifers that follow my call;
My father, my mother,
My sister, my brother,
And dear Isabella, the joy of them all?
O when shall I visit the land of my birth?
'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.

--J. M.

SHEFFIELD, June 1808.

_Emerald_, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.

[_Ranz des Vaches._

James Montgomery, _The West Indies and Other Poems_, 3rd. ed., Phila., 1811 (London, 1810).

P. 84, _The Swiss Cowherd's Song, in a Foreign Land_. "Imitated from the foregoing," _i. e._, the French verses.]

THE SONG OF THE SWISS, IN A STRANGE LAND

_Lit. Mirror_, I-148, Oct. 29, 1808, Portsmouth, N. H.

[Also in _Emerald_, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.]

THE SONG OF THE SWISS IN A STRANGE LAND.

_Balance and Columbian Repos._, VII-176, Nov. 1, 1808, Hudson, N. Y.

[Also in _Emerald_, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.]

SONG OF THE SWISS IN A STRANGE LAND.

_Norfolk Repos._, III-392, Nov. 8, 1808, Dedham, Mass.

[Also in _Emerald_, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.]

THE SONG OF THE SWISS, IN A STRANGE LAND.

By the Author of "The Wanderer of Switzerland."

_Lady's Weekly Misc._, VIII-128, Dec. 17, 1808, N. Y.

[Also in _Emerald_, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.]

APPOINTMENT DISAPPOINTED!
OR,
VON SCHLEMMER, AND "POT LUCK."

An Englishman invited once
A German friend to dine
On plain _pot luck_,--for such his phrase--
And drink some good port wine.

Mein Herr repaired at proper time
With stomach for the treat:
The viands on the table placed,
Von Schlemmer took his seat.

Soup, turkey, beef, by turns were serv'd,
Mein Herr declin'd each one:
Fowls, turtle, sauce, they follow'd next,
Von Schlemmer tasted none.

His host at length, by kindness urged,
Press'd him to taste some duck:
"Ach nein!" with groans Von Schlemmer said,
"I vait for de POT LUCK."

--QUIZ.

_Select Reviews_, I-71, Jan. 1809, Phila.

On singing to a piano with a friend, the pathetic ballad of Mozart's "Vergiss me nicht,"[46] a few days previous to quitting my native country.

"Forget me not," nor yet the song,
Its plaintive notes our tears beguiling,
The fatal words died on my tongue,
And as you touch'd the trembling keys along,
Through lucid gems I saw you sadly smiling.

"Forget me not," ah! song of wo!
For never more our joys uniting,
With Sorrow's sigh no more to glow;
No more shall Pity's tear together flow,
Our love, our hopes, our joys forever blighting.

"Forget me not," oh! ever dear,
Let thrilling mem'ry o'er my fancy stealing,
As next you sing "Forget me not," a tear
Shall gently fall, my beating heart to cheer;
I'll never thee forget while I have life and feeling.

Julia Francesca.

_Port Folio_, VII (n. s. I)-272, Mar. 1809, Phila.

[Footnote 46: The German of "Forget me not."]

THE SOLDIER OF THE ALPS.

In the vallies yet lingered the shadows of night,
Though red on the glaciers the morning sun shone,
When our moss-covered church-tower first broke on my sight,
As I cross'd the vast oak o'er the cataract thrown.

For beyond that old church-tower, embosomed in pines,
Was the spot which contained all the bliss of my life,
Near yon grey granite rock, where the red ash reclines,
Stood the cottage where dwelt my loved children and wife.

Long since did the blasts of the war-trumpet cease,
The drum slept in silence, the colours were furled,
Serene over France rose the day-star of Peace,
And the beams of its splendour gave light to the world.

When near to the land of my fathers I drew,
And the drawn light her features of grandeur unveiled,
As I caught the first glimpse of her ice-mountains blue,
Our old native Alps with what rapture I hailed.

"Oh! soon, I exclaimed, will those mountains be passed,
And soon shall I stop at my own cottage door,
There my children's caresses will greet me at last,
And the arms of my wife will enfold me once more.

"While the fulness of joy leaves me powerless to speak,
Emotions which language can never define,
When her sweet tears of transport drop warm on my cheek,
And I feel her fond heart beat once more against mine.

"Then my boy, when our tumults of rapture subside,
Will anxiously ask how our soldiers have sped,
Will flourish my bay'net with infantile pride,
And exultingly place my plumed cap on his head.

"Then my sweet girl will boast how her chamois has grown;
And make him repeat all his antics with glee,
Then she'll haste to the vine that she claims as her own,
And fondly select its ripe clusters for me.

"And when round our fire we assemble at night,
With what interest they'll list to my tale of the war,
How our shining arms gleamed on St. Bernard's vast height,
While the clouds in white billows rolled under us far.

"Then I'll tell how the legions of Austria we braved,
How we fought on Marengo's victorious day,
When the colours of conquest dejectedly wave
Where streamed the last blood of the gallant Dessaix."

'Twas thus in fond fancy my bosom beat light
As I crossed the rude bridge where the wild waters roll,
When each well-known scene crowded fast on my sight,
And Hope's glowing visions came warm to my soul.

Through the pine-grove I hastened with footsteps of air
Already my lov'd ones I felt in embrace,
When I came--of my cot not a vestige was there--
But a hilloc of snow was heap'd high in its place.

The heart-rending story too soon did I hear--
An avalanche, loosed from the near mountain's side,
Our cottage o'erwhelmed in its thundering career,
And beneath it my wife and my children had died.

--IMOGEN.

_Port Folio_, VII (n. s. I)-350, Apr. 1809, Phila.

BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.
By THOMAS CAMPBELL, Esq.

_Visitor_, I-47, Apr. 22, 1809, Richmond.

[Also in _Weekly Inspector_, II-272, June 20, 1807, N. Y.]

COW BOY'S CHAUNT.

Sweet, regretted, native shore;
Shall I e'er behold thee more,
And all the objects of my love:
Thy streams so clear,
Thy hills so dear,
The mountain's brow,
And cots below,
Where once my feet were wont to rove?

There with Isabella fair,
Light of foot, and free from care,
Shall I to the tabor bound?
Or at eve, beneath the dale,
Whisper soft my artless tale,
And blissful tread on fairy ground?

Oh! when shall I behold again
My lowly cot and native plain,
And every object dear;
My father, and my mother,
My sister and my brother,
And calm their anxious fear.

(European Mag.)

[The above is preceded by the music and the French words of the _Ranz des Vaches_. Cf. p. 156.]

_Visitor_, I-72, June 3, 1809, Richmond.

THE SONG OF THE SWISS, IN A STRANGE LAND.

_Gleaner_, I-471, June 1809, Lancaster (Penn.).

[Also in _Emerald_, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.]

CHARLOTTE AT THE TOMB OF WERTER.

With sorrow of heart I draw near,
The tomb where my Werter's at rest,
Soft pity oh, give me a tear
I will lighten the woes of my breast.

Sleep on thou dear shade, rest in peace,
Undisturbed by the woes of my breast,
For sure the soft slumber would cease
If with grief you know me opprest.

The meadow, the valley, the field,
Recesses that once gave delight,
Alas now how changed! for they yield
Nothing gayful or joyous to sight.

On the terrace I often remain,
And the loss of my Werter deplore,
While by the pale moon I complain,
Her beams, his loved image restore.

It was here the fond hope was inspired,
That with gladness enlivens my heart
That when this dull life is expired
We shall meet again never to part.

Yes, Werter, thy presage was just;
To cherish the hope be my care,
For should it forsake me, how must
I combat with grief and despair.

--A.

_Visitor_, I-136, Sept. 23, 1809, Richmond.

THE SQUEAKING GHOST.
A tale imitated from the German.

_Select Reviews_, II-357, Nov. 1809, Phila.

[Also in _Charms of Lit. in Prose and Verse_, p. 350, 1808, Trenton.]

To those who have admired the singular poems of Lewis, Walter Scott, and others, under the whimsical titles of "The Cloud-King," "The Fire-King," etc., the following burlesque ballad may afford some amusement.

THE PAINT-KING.

Fair Ellen, was once the delight of the young;
No damsel could with her compare;
Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue,
And bards without number in extacies sung
The beauties of Ellen, the Fair.

But Ellen, though lovers in regiments threw
The darts of their eyes at her heart,
From the sorrow no pitying sympathy knew;
For, cold as an icicle-shower, they drew
Not a drop from that petrified part.

Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore
A something that could not be found;
Like a sailor it seem'd on a desolate shore,
With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound, but the roar
Of breakers high-dashing around.

From object to object, still, still would she stray
Yet nothing, alas! could she find;
Through Novelty's mazes she rambled all day,
And even at midnight, so restless, they say,
In sleep would run after the wind.

Nay, rather than sit like a statue so still,
When the rain made her mansion a pound,
Up and down would she go like the sails of a mill,
And pat every stair, like a wood-pecker's bill,
From the tiles of the roof to the ground.

One morn, as the maid from her casement reclin'd,
Pass'd a youth with a frame in his hand.
The casement she clos'd; not the eye of her mind;
For do all she could, no, she could not be blind;
Still before her she saw the youth stand.

"And what can he do," said the maid with a sigh,
"Ah! what with that frame can he do?
I wish I could know it." When suddenly by
The youth pass'd again; and again did her eye
The frame, and a sweet picture view.

"Oh! sweet, lovely picture!" the fair Ellen sigh'd,
"I must see thee again or I die;"
Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied,
And after the youth and the picture she hied,
Till the youth, looking back, met her eye.

"Fair damsel," said he (and he chuckled the while),
"This picture, I see, you admire;
Then take it, I beg you, perhaps 'twill beguile
Some moments of sorrow: (pray pardon my smile)
Or, at least, keep you home by the fire."

Then Ellen the gift, with delight and surprise,
From the cunning young stripling receiv'd.
But she knew not the poison that enter'd her eyes,
When beaming with rapture they gazed on her prize:
Yet thus was fair Ellen deceiv'd!

'Twas a youth o'er the form of a statue inclin'd;
And the sculptor he seem'd of the stone;
Yet he languish'd, as though for its beauty he pin'd,
And gaz'd, as the eyes of the statue so blind
Reflected the beams of his own.

'Twas the tale of the sculptor, Pygmalion of old;
Fair Ellen remember'd and sigh'd,
"Ah! could'st thou but lift from that marble so cold,
Thine eyes so enchanting, thy arms should enfold,
And press me this day as thy bride."

She said: when, behold, from the canvass arose
The youth ... and he stepp'd from the frame;
With a furious joy, his arms did enclose
The love-plighted Ellen; and, clasping, he froze
The blood of the maid with his flame!

She turn'd and beheld on each shoulder a wing
"Oh! heaven!" cried she, "who art thou?"
From the roof to the ground did his fierce answer ring,
When frowning, he thunder'd, "I am the Paint-King!
And mine, lovely maid, thou art now!"

Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift
The loud-screaming maid, like a blast;
And he sped through the air, like a meteor swift,
While the clouds, wand'ring by him, did fearfully drift
To the right and the left as he pass'd.

Now, suddenly sloping his hurricane flight,
With an eddying whirl he descends;
The air all below him becomes black as night,
And the ground where he treads, as if mov'd with affright,
Like the surge of the Caspian bends.

"I am here!" said the fiend, and he thundering knock'd
At the gates of a mountainous cave:
The gates open'd wide, as by magick unlock'd,
While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, rock'd,
Like an island of ice on the wave.

"Oh! mercy!" cried Ellen, and swoon'd in his arms.
But the Paint-King, he scoff'd at her pain.
"Prithee, love," said the monster, "what mean these alarms?"
She hears not, she sees not the terrible charms
That wake her to horror again.

She opens her lids; but no longer her eyes
Behold the fair youth she would woo:
Now appears the Paint-King in his natural guise;
His face, like a palette of villainous dies,
Black and white, red and yellow, and blue.

On a bright polish'd throne, of prismatical[47] spar,
Sat the mosaick fiend like a clod;
While he rear'd in his mouth a gigantick cigar
Twice as big as the light-house, though seen from afar,
On the coast of the stormy Cape Cod.

And anon, as he puff'd the vast volumes, were seen,
In horrid festoons on the wall,
Legs and arms, head and bodies, emerging between;
Like the drawing room grim of the Scotch Sawney Beane,
By the Devil dress'd out for a ball.

"Ah me!" cried the damsel, and fell at his feet,
"Must I hang on these walls to be dried?"
"Oh, no!" said the fiend, while he sprung from his seat,
"A far nobler fortune thy person shall meet;
Into paint will I grind thee, my bride!"