They sang of love and springtime, of golden days of

youth,

Of freedom, knightly doings, of holiness and truth: They sang of all that winneth from mortal breast a sigh, They sang of all that lifteth the mortal heart on high.

The fawning flattering courtiers forgot each mocking word,

The king's rough, careless soldiers bowed down before the Lord.

The queen she wept, she knew not if for sorrow or

for joy;

She flung the rosebud from her breast unto the

minstrel boy.

'Ye have allured my people, my queen ye seek

for now,'

The monarch cried in anger, with passion-clouded brow;

I

He flung his sword that through the breast of that

young minstrel sped :

Instead of golden ditties, forth sprang a stream blood-red.

As though by storm-winds scattered, the hearers fled

away,

A corpse within his master's arms, the fair boy

minstrel lay.

He wrapped his mantle o'er him, and bound him firm

and fast

Upon his horse in silence, and from the hall he passed.

But ere he left the castle he halted at the door,

And seized his harp, more precious than e'er was harp

before;

Upon a marble pillar that much-loved harp he broke, Then in a weird and thrilling tone these fatal words

he spoke :

'Woe to thee, stately castle; woe to you, lofty halls! No more the minstrel's harp and song shall echo through your walls;

No! only sighs and moanings, and slaves' sad footsteps hush'd,

Until the spirit of revenge has ground you into

dust.

Woe to you, blooming gardens, all bathed in sunny

light;

Look, look upon this death-cold face, and shudder

at the sight:

That sealed be every fountain, that ev'ry flower

may die,

And that in after years these lands may bare and

stony lie.

'Woe to thee, hated murd'rer, who bear'st a monarch's

name,

In vain shall be thy striving for wreaths of bloody

fame;

Thy name shall be forgotten, of thee no bard

shall sing

In after years, no one shall know thou wast a mighty

king.'

The minstrel's words were spoken, the Lord from

heaven heard ;

The castle lies in ruins, fulfilling thus His word.

Only one marble pillar tells of that lofty hall;

E'en this, already crumbling, before the night may fall.

The garden's now a desert, all stony, rough, and bare; No tree gives grateful shelter, no flowers perfume the air;

The monarch's name no chronicle records, or minstrel's

verse,

For evermore forgotten! Such was the Minstrel's Curse.

THE HOSTESS' DAUGHTER.

THREE youths crossed over the river Rhine,
In an ancient tavern they called for wine :
'Hast, hostess, yet of thy wine so rare ?

What does thy daughter, that maiden fair?'