my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head

friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen-at Bingen on the When the troops come marching home again

Rhine.

with glad and gallant tread, But to look upon them proudly with a calm

and steadfast eye,

"Tell my brothers and companions, when For her brother was a soldier too, and not they meet and crowd around

To hear my mournful story in the pleasant

vineyard ground,

afraid to die;

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in

my name

That we fought the battle bravely, and when To listen to him kindly, without regret or the day was done

shame,

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath And to hang the old sword in its place (my

"There's another-not a sister; in the happy days gone by

And one had come from Bingen-fair Bingen You'd have known her by the merriment on the Rhine.

that sparkled in her eye,

Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning.

"Tell my mother that her other son shall Oh, friend, I fear the lightest heart makes comfort her old age, sometimes heaviest morning!

For I was still a truant bird that thought his Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the

For

moon be risen

home a cage, my father was a soldier, and even as a My body will be out of pain, my soul be out child of prison)

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of I dreamed I stood with her and saw the

struggles fierce and wild;

yellow sunlight shine

And when he died and left us to divide his On the vine-clad hills of Bingen-fair Bingen

And down the pleasant river and up the | And asked of one who sat him down
To rest how long the town had stood.

slanting hill
The echoing chorus sounded through the He roused himself; 'twas but to say,
The town has stood for many a day,
And will be here for ever and aye.

evening calm and still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk;

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly,
in mine;

But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved
Bingen on the Rhine.'

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was childish weak,

His eyes put on a dying look, he sighed and ceased to speak;

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled:

A thousand years went by, and then
I went the selfsame road again.

No vestige of that town I traced,

But one poor swain his horn employed,
His sheep unconscious browsed and grazed.
I asked, "When was that town destroyed?"
He spoke, nor would his horn lay by:
"One thing may grow and another die,
But I know nothing of towns-not I."

A thousand years went by, and then

The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land I passed the selfsame place again

is dead.

she looked down

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly There, in the deep of waters cast
His nets one lonely fisherman,
On the red sand of the battlefield with bloody And as he drew them up at last
corses strewn ;
I asked him how that lake began.
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale He looked at me, and laughed to say,
"The waters spring for ever and aye,

light seemed to shine,

As it shone on distant Bingen-fair Bingen And fish are plenty every day." on the Rhine.

CHI

CAROLINE E. NORTON.

CHIDHAR THE PROPHET.

FROM THE GERMAN OF RÜCKERT.

HIDHAR, the prophet ever young,
Thus loosed the bridle of his tongue :

I journeyed through a noble town
With many a mansion fair and good,

A thousand years went by, and then

I went the selfsame road again.

I found a country wild and rude,
And, axe in hand, beside a tree,
The hermit of that solitude.

I asked how old that wood might be.
He spoke: "I count not time at all;
A tree may rise, a tree may fall;
The forest overlives us all."

A thousand years went on, and then

I passed the selfsame place again.

And there a glorious city stood,

And 'mid tumultuous market-cry

The nerve of that strong arm which used to cleave

The proudest foeman like the sapling spray! Oh, friends, the dimness of the grave doth steal

I asked, “When rose the town, where wood, Over those eyes that as the eagle dared

Pasture and lake forgotten lie?"
They heard me not, and little blame;
For them the world is as it came,
And all things must be still the same.

A thousand years shall pass, and then
I mean to try that road again.

Translation of RICHARD M. MILNES.

LAST WORDS OF AN INDIAN CHIEF.

Hear my last bidding, friends: Lay not my
bones

E cometh! Death is here. Leave Near any white man's bones. Let not his
me alone!
hand

"HE

Hence, hence! Ye shall not see me when I Touch my clay pillow, nor his hateful voice Sing burial-hymns for me. Rather than dwell

die,

If die I must. I would not that the men
Whom I have led to battle saw me yield

Starts o'er my temples!

away.

Wipe it not That pagan chief, the last strong banner

staff

Shame on your tears! Leave me alone with Of the poor Senecas. No more the flash
Death,
Of his wild eloquence shall fire their ranks

For I will meet him as a brave man should, To mortal combat. His distorted brow,
And hurl defiance at him.
And the stern grapple when he sank in