THE YOUTH AT THE BROOK. AT the brook the youth was sitting Twining wreaths of flowers gay, And he saw them swiftly carried In the wavelets' dance away. 'Thus, alas! my days are passing As the restless water flows; Like the flowers swiftly fading, Pale and sad my spring-time grows. 'Ask not, ask not why I sorrow In my lifetime's early spring; All rejoice and all are hoping That are waking from their sleep, In my inmost heart awaken Nought but woe and sorrow deep. 'What avail the varied pleasures That the spring has brought to me? Near is one that I am seeking, Yet for ever far must be. Still my arms I spread with longing Towards that shadow-image fair; Ah! I never can attain it, And my heart is full of care. 'Come, O come, thou perfect fair one, From thy stately halls descend, Flowers that the spring has born us In thy lap their hues shall blend.' Hark! the wood resounds with singing, And the stream flows silver fair : Room is in the smallest dwelling For a happy, loving pair. THE COUNT OF HABSBURG. AT Aachen, in imperial state, Within his castle old, The noble Emp'ror Rudolf sate, A royal feast to hold. The dishes carried the Count of the Rhine, The Bohemian poured out the sparkling wine, And the seven Electors all, As the host of stars round the sun are seen, To do their office with loyal mien, Awaited their sovereign's call. . And the people filled, an exulting crowd, The balcony on high; And gaily mingled the trumpets loud With the throng's rejoicing cry. F For the bloody wars were o'er and past, And after years of horror at last A judge is over the land. No longer ruleth the iron spear, No longer the peaceful and weak need fear The lawless oppressor's hand. And the Emperor spoke in joyous mood, As the goblet of gold he seized: 'The feast is bright, and the banquet good, And my royal heart is pleased. But the bard I miss, who contentment brings, Who moves the heart, as he touches the strings With sentiments high and divine. From my youth have I owned the minstrel's might, And what I enjoyed as a simple knight, As Emperor still shall be mine.' And now behold! at the royal command, The long-robed bard appears; He holds his harp with a trembling hand, And his hair is white with years. 'Sweet music sleeps in the golden strings Of love's bright guerdon the minstrel sings. That the heart can wish or the soul desire. But say what theme can my harp inspire To grace the royal behest?' And the Emperor smiled, as he thus began: 'The bard owns not my power; He bows to one far higher than man, He obeys the inspiring hour. For as through the air the whirlwinds blow, And whence they have risen none e'er can know, |