He heeds not, lost in thought, the flight of time,
And deeper in the wood is lost his track,
Until the bell, with holy vesper chime,

To serious cloister-duties calls him back.

He reaches with swift steps the gate; the hand
Of an unknown one answers now the bell;

He starts but sees the church all lighted stand,
And hears the friars the holy chorus swell.

Then, entering, to his seat he straightway goes,
But strange to tell, he finds it occupied ;
He looks upon the monks in their long rows,
He sees all strangers, there, on every side.

The staring one is stared at all around,

They ask his name, and why he there appears; He tells, — low murmurs through the chapel sound! "None such has lived here these three hundred years.

"The last who bore the name," out spake the crowd, "A doubter was, and disappeared one day; None, since, to take that name has been allowed" He hears the word, and shudders with dismay.

He names the abbot now, and names the year:
They call for the old cloister-book, and lo!
A mighty miracle of God is clear:

"T is he was lost three hundred years ago!

The terror palsies him, his hair grows gray,—

A deathly paleness settles on his face,

-

He sinks, while breath enough is left to say:

"God is exalted over time and space!

"What he had hid, a miracle now clears;
Think of my fate, believe, adore, obey!
I know a day is as a thousand years
With God, a thousand years are as a day!

Karl Wilhelm Müller. Tr. C. T. Brooks.

Hirschau, the Abbey.

THE SCRIPTORIUM.

FRIAR PACIFICUS transcribing and illuminating.

T is growing dark! Yet one line more,

IT

And then my work for to-day is o'er.
I come again to the name of the Lord!
Ere I that awful name record,

That is spoken so lightly among men,
Let me pause awhile, and wash my pen;
Pure from blemish and blot must it be
When it writes that word of mystery!

Thus have I labored on and on,
Nearly through the Gospel of John.
Can it be that from the lips

Of this same gentle Evangelist,

That Christ himself perhaps had kissed,

Came the dread Apocalypse!

It has a very awful look,

As it stands there at the end of the book,
Like the sun in an eclipse.

Ah me! when I think of that vision divine,
Think of writing it, line by line,

I stand in awe of the terrible curse,

Like the trump of doom, in the closing verse.
God forgive me! if ever I

Take aught from the book of that Prophecy,
Lest my part too should be taken away
From the Book of Life on the Judgment Day.

This is well written, though I say it!
I should not be afraid to display it,
In open day, on the selfsame shelf
With the writings of St. Thecla herself,
Or of Theodosius, who of old
Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold!
That goodly folio standing yonder,
Without a single blot or blunder,
Would not bear away the palm from mine,
If we should compare them line for line.

There, now, is an initial letter!

Saint Ulrich himself never made a better !
Finished down to the leaf and the snail,
Down to the eyes on the peacock's tail!
And now, as I turn the volume over,
And see what lies between cover and cover,
What treasures of art these pages hold,

All ablaze with crimson and gold,
God forgive me! I seem to feel
A certain satisfaction steal

Into my heart, and into my brain,
As if my talent had not lain
Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain.
Yes, I might almost say to the Lord,
Here is a copy of thy Word,
Written out with much toil and pain;
Take it, O Lord, and let it be

As something I have done for thee!

He looks from the window.

How sweet the air is! How fair the scene!
I wish I had as lovely a green

To paint my landscapes and my leaves !
How the swallows twitter under the eaves!
There, now, there is one in her nest;

I can just catch a glimpse of her head and breast,
And will sketch her thus, in her quiet nook,
For the margin of my Gospel book.

He makes a sketch.

I can see no more. Through the valley yonder
A shower is passing; I hear the thunder
Mutter its curses in the air,

The Devil's own and only prayer!
The dusty road is brown with rain,
And, speeding on with might and main,
Hitherward rides a gallant train.
They do not parley, they cannot wait,
But hurry in at the convent gate.

What a fair lady! and beside her
What a handsome, graceful, noble rider!
Now she gives him her hand to alight;
They will beg a shelter for the night.
I will go down to the corridor,

And try to see that face once more;

It will do for the face of some beautiful Saint,
Or for one of the Marys I shall paint.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

A

Hochheim.

THE GERMANS ON THE HEIGHTS OF HOCHHEIM.

BRUPTLY paused the strife; the field throughout, Resting upon his arms, each warrior stood, Checked in the very act and deed of blood, With breath suspended, like a listening scout. O Silence! thou wert mother of a shout That through the texture of yon azure dome Cleaves its glad way, a cry of harvest-home Uttered to Heaven in ecstasy devout!

The barrier Rhine hath flashed, through battle-smoke, On men who gaze heart-smitten by the view,

As if all Germany had felt the shock!

- Fly, wretched Gauls! ere they the charge renew Who have seen - themselves now casting off the yoke— The unconquerable stream his course pursue.

William Wordsworth.