A page goes behind with his weapons of chase;
And soon he has reached a verdant place

On the stately steed that bore him,
And is made of a distant bell aware;
A priest with the sacred host was there,
And the sacristan walked before him.

"The count, to the ground he bows him low,
Bare-headed in adoration,

To worship with meek devotion's glow
The Author of man's salvation.

But a torrent through the meadow roars,
By a cataract swollen above its shores,
The traveller's path bestriding;

And the priest lays down that blesséd food,
While he looses his sandal to cross the flood,
With care for his charge providing.

"What is it thou doest?' the count began,
As with wondering eye he views him.
'I go, sir, to shrive a dying man,

Ere heaven from earth unloose him.

But the bridge that was wont the waters to stay,
The force of the torrent has swept away,
And deep in the whirlpool tossed it;
So, rather than keep from the thirsty soul
This saving grace, though the big wave roll,
I shall barefoot soon have crossed it.'

"The count hath him set on his knightly steed, In his hands the rich bridle placing,

That the sick may not fail, at his utmost need,
Of that holy help's embracing.

Himself mounts the page's hackney the while,
And follows the chase with a cheerful smile;
The priest, on his way proceeding,

At morning's dawn brings back again
That princely steed, by the golden rein
With grateful reverence leading.

Now, God so please!' cried devoutly the count,
Shall no man ever persuade me,

For the chase or the fight that steed to mount,
Which has carried the Lord that made me.
And, if thou hast earned it not for thine own,
Then let it remain for God's service alone,
I thus to Him decreeing

From whom all honor and earthly good

I hold as lent; and body and blood,
And life and breath and being.'

"O, so may God who heareth prayer,
And grants what is asked for duly,
To honor bring thee both here and there,
In that thou hast served him truly.

Thou ownest now a count's command,

For knighthood famed through the Schweizerland, -
With six fair daughters blooming.
May they six crownéd matrons shine,'
Enrapt he sang, 'thy princely line
To latest age illuming.""

And with thoughtful brow sat the Cæsar there,
Revolving days long ended;

But when he beheld that bright eye's glare,
The riddle he comprehended.

For the priest's true features he there has traced,
And he raises his purple mantle in haste,

To hide the tears fast rising;

While all on the Cæsar fix their eyes,
And the minstrel's hero recognize,

And revere their chief, God-prizing.

Friedrich Schiller. Tr. J. H. Merivale.

Altenahr.

THE KNIGHT'S LEAP.

the foeman has fired the gate, men of mine,

"And the water is spent and done;

Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine;
I never shall drink but this one.

"And fetch me my harness, and saddle my horse, And lead him me round to the door:

He must take such a leap to-night perforce
As horse never took before.

"I have lived by the saddle for years two score, And if I must die on tree,

The old saddle-tree, which has borne me of yore, Is the properest timber for me.

"I have lived my life, I have fought my fight,
I have drunk my share of wine;

From Trier to Cöln there was never a knight
Led a merrier life than mine.

"So now to show bishop and burgher and priest How the Altenahr hawk can die,

If they smoke the old falcon out of his nest,
He must take to his wings and fly.”

He harnessed himself by the clear moonshine,
And he mounted his horse at the door,
And he drained such a cup of the red Ahr-wine
As never man drained before.

He spurred the old horse, and he held him tight,
And he leapt him out over the wall;

Out over the cliff, out into the night,
Three hundred feet of fall.

They found him next morning below in the glen, And never a bone in him whole;

But Heaven may yet have more mercy than men On such a bold rider's soul.

Charles Kingsley.

Augsburg.

MAX AND DÜRER.

RINCE, soldier-lad, knight, and swindler in the

PRINCE city of Augsburg meet,

In the hall the councillors brawling, and the people in the street;

While want is abroad in the land, here crowds in the taverns riot;

This thing, what do you call it? It is the Imperial Diet.

Max stood at the window gazing — on the tumultuous

scene,

When entered in homely doublet a man of modest mien; "Why, Master Dürer, God bless you!" said Max with a joyous start,

"How comes my Apelles to Babel? To the Diet how cometh Art?"

"I've only one favor to beg, my lord," the modest master said,

"And may it be kindly granted," and he humbly bowed his head;

"I would once more paint your portrait, and make of it, in sooth,

The double of its original, in honesty and truth."

The emperor in sadness his hand to the artist extends: "With me 't is the dusk of evening, and before dark night descends