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 UNDINE : 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE WATERS.
 
 
 UNDINE: 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE WATERS. 
 
 M H>ocm, 
 
 CONTAININCx A VERSION 
 
 OF THE 
 
 Narrative by Baron de la Motte Fouque. 
 
 by 
 WILLIAM HIPSLEY. 
 
 " We are such stuff 
 As dreams are made of, and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep." 
 
 Tempest, Act iv. 
 
 LONDON : 
 ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C. 
 
 1886.
 
 479o 
 
 5i3arort Jouquc's $eb&aticrtt to the Romance 
 
 of HJntonc. 
 
 Lovely Undine ! never yet, 
 
 Since first allured by ancient story, 
 Your bright, unearthly form I met, 
 
 Hath fled the charm its light shed o'er me ; 
 As thus lamenting all your wrongs, 
 
 I see you, like some angel mild, 
 And hear your gently murmured songs, 
 
 Half-wilful, yet half-timid child !— 
 Till my guitar hath caught the tone, 
 And made thy sorrows all its own ; 
 Soon a thousand hearts shall move 
 Thy woes, immortal as thy love : — 
 You full many a heart shall win, 
 
 Despite your wayward freaks, and send 
 Away, who once your tale begin, 
 
 Right sorry when they find the end — 
 Nay, they will read it o'er again, 
 
 Your graceful image to recall ; 
 So enter, without fear or shame, 
 
 The lowly cot, the princely hall. 
 
 862210
 
 vi Dedication. 
 
 Greet the true hearts that you find there, 
 
 But chiefly, with a warm salute, 
 The lovely, gentle German fair, 
 
 Who in your praise will not be mute. — 
 But should one deign on me to glance, 
 
 Thus speak : ' He is a faithful knight, 
 
 Who seeks to serve you, ladies bright ; 
 Who bears the helmet and the lance, 
 Guitar and sword, at tourney, feast and dance !'
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 A Fisherman. 
 
 His Wife. 
 
 Bertalda, their only daughter. 
 
 Undine, their adopted child, the only daughter of a powerful 
 
 Water Prince in the Mediterranean. 
 Sir Huldbrand, Lord of Ringstetten, Undind's husband. 
 Kuhleborn, the uncle of Undind 
 Father Heilman, a Priest.
 
 ERRATA, 
 
 Page ii, II., line 4, /or " and " read " we." 
 12, V., line 8, /or "And" read " In," 
 37, XXIII., line S,/or "bring" read "fall" 
 91, XL, line 5, /or "And you " read " From you." 
 94, XIX., line 5, a period at end of line. 
 177, XV., line S, a comma at end of line.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The beautiful romance of Baron Fouque, so plainly 
 told in the original language, contains the material 
 for a poem, or at least a poetic-prose narrative after 
 the style of Fenelon's "Telemaque," or a few other 
 tales which occasionally appear from the Italian or 
 French authors, leaving an enduring charm on the 
 heart and memory of the reader. After reading part 
 of an English translation of the above romance, it 
 seemed to us so dull, so inanimate, that we could 
 only compare it to a body without a soul. This 
 consideration and similarones induced us to embody 
 the narrative in some kind of verse. We selected 
 the colloquial style of the Italian bard, Pulci ; more 
 recently used by Byron, as being adapted to the 
 humorous and commonplace portions of a story, 
 no less than to the mysterious, the solemn and the 
 sublime ; he quotes in its favour a line from Horace's 
 " Art of Poetry ":— 
 
 " With Horace and with Pulci, 
 ' Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci.' ' 
 
 In addition to blending the useful with the agreeable, 
 the Baron has also a loftier end in view ; to bring
 
 x Introduction. 
 
 in sight the veiled Christian and moral virtues 
 which underlie the surface, and contain a literal 
 sense for the natural mind, but for the spiritual a 
 sense that unveils to the intellect the veracity of the 
 symbolic language used by our Saviour for the re- 
 generate Christian ; also a celestial sense, which 
 speaks to the heart and its affections in what the 
 Apostle Paul explains as the Divine love — love of 
 God— and through this the love of the entire human 
 race. For without this our religion is no better than 
 " sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal." 
 
 In like manner John Bunyan concealed as by a 
 veil, in the "letter that killeth," "the Spirit that 
 giveth life," taking, as the basis of his narrative, 
 the Divine truth that this sin-polluted planet is 
 no permanent dwelling-place for man, but rather 
 to be trampled under foot, as he hastens, with a 
 loftier aspiration, to that Eternal Home wherein 
 God first created our spirits an " image and likeness 
 of Himself." 
 
 Does not the beautiful heroine of the Baron's in- 
 spired imagination as truthfully depict the progress 
 of an animal soul to a spiritual state? Having first, 
 in obedience to the wish of her royal sire (p. 85), 
 surrendered herself to the service of God in Christ, 
 leaving all her perishable wealth, her natural rela- 
 tions, her delusive joys, and the rightful sceptre of a 
 thousand kings, she chooses the only method re- 
 vealed to her, namely, that redemption through 
 Christ which includes not the man only nor the 
 lonely woman ; but the union of both in a holy and
 
 Introduction. xi 
 
 sacred marriage. So she accepts the man whom 
 Providence had placed within her reach. Like all 
 other pilgrims who follow Christ in the regenera- 
 tion, she had to progress through many temptations, 
 conflicts with her mortal relations, with her own 
 self-hood, still in the mere natural or animal con- 
 dition, disappointments innumerable, and at last 
 even the loss of her earthly body, by the legal 
 claim of nature. Again, she appears in the knight's 
 vision, bitterly bewailing their separation, though 
 on the verge of heaven ; still assaulted by a relic 
 of her former experience in the sphere of nature, 
 she boldly resists her assailant, cheered by the 
 joyful hope that she will ultimately appear as a 
 daughter of God, and also as a true bride, because 
 of the immortality of the Divine love. 
 
 If John Ruskin, M.A., who has laboured so long 
 and so successfully to inspire the imagination with 
 love to the fine arts, could see much more poetical 
 lucidity in the paintings of Claude and his rival- 
 pupil Turner, than the artists themselves, we sup- 
 pose, were conscious of, we can scarcely doubt that 
 the reader, provided he be not an agnostic or a self- 
 worshipper, may be strengthened to a livelier faith 
 and a nobler ideal of Christianity by the charming 
 image of the lovely Undine. Whether the chival- 
 rous Baron were altogether aware of this interior 
 significance we need not take pains to inquire. 
 " Without imagination," we have heard it affirmed, 
 " there can be no culture, no refinement, no genius." 
 We might also add, no enthusiasm, no religion that
 
 xii Introduction. 
 
 is worthy of the name. We may see a picture so 
 correctly drawn and painted, according to scholastic 
 rules, that no fault can be found in it, with still 
 a great want of attractive interest for the beholder. 
 Such a case is reported in the memoir of Sir 
 Joshua Reynolds ; who, when examining a certain 
 picture, could find no fault in it, but a want of some- 
 thing for which he could not recollect a name. 
 He said, impatiently snapping his fingers, " But it 
 wants that T We may suppose that the painter had 
 been an industrious, plodding mechanic, but not an 
 inspired artist ; for he probably had never read a 
 poem in his life. Examples of this kind may be 
 found in every profession : in law, in medicine, in 
 poetry, in music, in preaching — in every employ- 
 ment requiring skill. Industry, however, is in itself 
 a virtue we should always commend ; for some 
 people of genius have sadly marred that gift by 
 indolence, or other and worse vices. 
 
 The death of Baron de la Motte Fouque was 
 quite unexpected, and it was a remarkable coinci- 
 dence that just before he went out of his house, in 
 good health, on the 21st January, 1843, he wrote 
 thus in his journal : — 
 
 " Heil, ich fiihl' es, der Herr ist mir nah, doch nah auch der 
 
 Tod mir ; 
 Doch weil naher der Herr, heil mir der seligen Nah'."* 
 
 Welcome ! I feel that God is near me, and that death is 
 also near me ; but because God is nearer to me, welcome to 
 me is the blessed nearness.'*'
 
 Introduction. xiii 
 
 When he returned home in the evening, he was 
 seized with apoplexy on the stairs before he had 
 reached his room. He died early on the 23rd, 
 without having returned to consciousness. 
 
 Such was the Baron's EvOavaala, an easy and 
 desirable exit, peculiar, some suppose, to persons of 
 intellectual minds. The devout tone of the above 
 words is in harmony with the hidden meaning 
 attached by us to the story of Undine. 
 
 W. H.
 
 UNDINE: 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE WATERS. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 Hozu the Knight came to the Fisherman. 
 
 A FISHERMAN, some centuries ago, 
 
 Mended his nets beside his cottage door ; 
 
 No other dwelling could the landscape show, 
 Far as the eye could range the horizon o'er, 
 
 Round this lone hut and tranquil lake, whose glow 
 The image of tall trees and mountains bore : — 
 
 A strip of land with velvet turf so green, 
 
 It seemed an emerald 'mid the blue lake's sheen. 
 
 II. 
 
 The lake, with lofty mountains half surrounded, 
 Alternate with steep cliffs and heather strovvn, 
 
 Its north and west, with darker foliage bounded, 
 A gloomy wood of ancient growth, whose lone 
 
 And awful depths of shade were rarely sounded 
 By human step — so this peninsular shone 
 
 The lovelier, from the sombre gloom around, 
 
 In soft embrace of these clear waters bound. 
 
 1
 
 Undine . 
 
 III. 
 
 It is a happy calling, to beguile 
 
 The dreamy hours by silver-warbling flood ; 
 With mild persuasion of the rod and line 
 
 To lure the sportive finny tribe, or brood 
 O'er the blue depth ; but then 'tis not so fine 
 
 When you must carry through a haunted wood 
 Your captured prey in distant town to sell ; 
 For so our fisherman might say full well. 
 
 IV. 
 
 For nought but dire necessity conveyed 
 
 A mortal step through that dread forest's gloom ; 
 
 So many a strange enchantment had been played 
 On hapless traveller, who would as soon 
 
 Walk twenty miles as trust again its shade ; 
 But then our fisher kept his heart in tune 
 
 With heavenly thoughts, while ever on his way 
 
 Some holy psalm he sang, a clear melodious lay. 
 
 • V. 
 
 And since his heart was pure, no evil thing 
 
 Would dare to cross his path. — When, as was said, 
 
 He sat beside his door, a sudden sting 
 
 His nerves assailed, of strange unwonted dread ; 
 
 For in the silent w r ood he heard the ring 
 
 Of horses' hoofs, and rustling 'mid the shade 
 
 Of thick-leaved boughs, that every moment grew 
 
 Louder upon his ear, and palpable to view.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 3 
 
 VI. 
 
 He saw, moreover, what before had been 
 
 In that dread wood: a white and flickering shape 
 
 Of long-haired giant, through the quivering screen 
 Of forest leaves, that made his heart to quake. 
 
 He prayed aloud, and set his brain to glean 
 
 Strong Bible texts that Satan's power could shake. 
 
 When lo! that nodding shape proved nothing more 
 
 Than babbling brook he oft had seen before, 
 
 VII. 
 
 Bearing its waters to the calm expanse 
 Of the still lake ; but soon another sight, 
 
 Less fearful, from that shade he saw advance : 
 A knight well mounted on a courser white, 
 
 That bounded lighter than a fairy dance 
 
 O'er the green sward ; so, now bewildered quite, 
 
 He gazed, for the smooth turf seemed scarce to feel 
 
 The impress of that wondrous creature's heel. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yet a real horse it proved ; his rider wore 
 A splendid doublet of the violet's hue, 
 
 Inwrought with gold ; the chased helmet o'er 
 Waved rainbow plumes of crimson and pale blue, 
 
 While the broad girdle, bright with jewels, bore 
 The small sword hilt, and o'er him lightly flew, 
 
 As evening clouds in ruddy sunbeams rolled, 
 
 A scarlet cloak in many a varying fold. 
 
 1 — 2
 
 4 Undine : 
 
 IX. 
 
 So now convinced, the old man stood beside 
 His nets, with cap in hand, until the knight 
 
 Inquired if he were able to provide 
 
 Stranger and steed with shelter for the night ? 
 
 " My cot much poorer is than well may bide 
 A guest like you," said he ; " but if such plight 
 
 You can excuse, I give all I am able, 
 
 Also your steed this pasture for a stable." 
 
 X. 
 
 Well pleased, the knight dismounted from his steed, 
 And his kind host unloosed the girth and rein, 
 
 When, from all trammels of the harness freed, 
 He still more lightly bounded o'er the plain. 
 
 "And here, Sir Knight, your horse may safely feed." 
 The knight replied : " How long we may remain 
 
 With you, I scarce can say, for this deep flood 
 
 I dread not more devoutly than the wood." 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Heed not the wood, but to our cot retire, 
 
 And make yourself at home;" so when they came 
 
 Within the hut, beside a frugal fire, 
 
 Up rose, most courteously, an ancient dame, 
 
 As though she thought the stranger might require 
 A seat ; but down she sat upon the same, 
 
 On which her spouse, who oft her manners mended, 
 
 Besought his lordship not to be offended.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 5 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Sure," cries the dame, " you must be doting quite v 
 A noble lord like this our cot to lead in, 
 
 And not perceive that as a Christian knight 
 He can be no such stranger to good breeding, 
 
 Thus to unseat whoe'er may claim the right 
 Of age — but, pray accept," she said, "a seat in 
 
 That chair, young man, which, though 'tis somewhat 
 lame 
 
 In the fore-leg, your weight may still sustain." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The knight sat down with gentlemanly care, 
 While a new joy, despite this rustic greeting, 
 
 Thrilled through him, which to nought he could 
 compare 
 But some long-looked-for and delicious meeting 
 
 Of kindred hearts. All strangers as they were, 
 They seemed at once related ; 'twas so sweet in 
 
 A lone and lowly cottage to forget 
 
 Those carking cares which the worn heart will fret 
 
 XIV. 
 
 In strife of arms or the wide world's disorder. — 
 Sir Hulbrand told them how he left his home, 
 
 Ringstetten's Castle, on the Danube's border ; 
 And his dire perils in the forest lone 
 
 Those he essayed to speak of in their order ; 
 But oft the host, with deprecating tone, 
 
 Would check these details, striving to restore 
 
 Some topic more befitting a late hour.
 
 6 Undini : 
 
 xv. 
 
 At length he said : " 'Twere better far to quash 
 Such themes with converse cheery, and talk 
 o'er "— 
 
 Here he was interrupted by a splash 
 
 Of water on the panes, which twice before 
 
 Indeed they heard ; but this far louder dash 
 Exceeded all, and like an April shower 
 
 Our knight bedewed ; when, as he turned about, 
 
 A low and girlish titter from without, 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Of laughter half suppressed, provoked the ire 
 Of the old people, so the host cried out : 
 
 " Undine, child, once more I do desire 
 
 You will these pranks relinquish ; you're about 
 
 To drown our guest, and all our patience tire :" — 
 Begging the knight would pardon this strange 
 rout, 
 
 Since much wise care, for years well nigh fifteen, 
 
 To tame his daughter's heart had useless been. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " And maybe, I may have to beg again 
 Pardon for many an elfin prank beside 
 
 Of our adopted daughter — in the main 
 
 She is a lovely and good-hearted child !" — 
 
 " Ah, you may say as much," observed the dame ; 
 " But my experience soon would drive you wild, 
 
 With capers and mad antics the long day, 
 
 While yours is only a short evening's play."
 
 The Spirit of the Water's. 7 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " All have their cares," the old man said ; " 'tis right 
 That you should share ; but mine are with the 
 lake, 
 
 For one might fancy 'twere its chief delight 
 My dams to burst, and the best meshes break 
 
 Of my strong nets ; at times, will scarcely bite 
 Those fish, with all my care, the daintiest bait ; 
 
 Yet its bright waters still are dear to me, 
 
 As is that child to you, with all her tiresome glee." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Undine, you have sorely grieved us now 
 
 By drenching a great lord :" — with that she sprung 
 
 Into the room, and her bright merry brow 
 
 Fixed on the knight ; with look intent she clung 
 
 To this new sight, as stares the mountain doe 
 On early traveller ; at length she flung 
 
 Aside her radiant hair, and in full view, 
 
 Displayed her large and laughing eyes of blue. 
 
 xx. 
 
 A lovely miniature of woman she, 
 So fairy-like in every classic feature, 
 
 That if a little taller she could be, 
 
 And somewhat more majestic, the young creature 
 
 Might vie with Venus rising from the sea ; 
 
 Nor could one charm the Paphian goddess teach 
 her. 
 
 So thought the youth, as she before him stood, 
 
 And seemed, like her, a daughter of the flood.
 
 8 Undine 
 
 XXI. 
 
 lie used the occasion of her sweet surprise 
 
 Those wond'rous charms to scan, with such a zest 
 
 As he ne'er felt before ; deeming those eyes 
 
 Too soon would glance away, her mind oppressed 
 
 With childish fear or bashfulness, that tries 
 Young hearts in presence of a stranger guest ; 
 
 For surely ne'er before had met her sight 
 
 The splendid costume of a courtly knight. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 'Twas not as he expected ; that long look 
 Concluded, from her reverie awaking, 
 
 A little stool to the knight's feet she took, 
 
 Playing with his gold chain, as though to makehim 
 
 Her friend ; she prattled like a little brook, 
 
 And greatly marvelled where he could betake him 
 
 Through all these long, long years, that ne'er before 
 
 Their happy cot should find till this delightful hour. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 "Whence came you, pray, to find our home so late?" 
 "Fair child, I have just come," the knight replied, 
 
 " From yonder wood." " So then you must relate 
 All your adventures in that forest wide," 
 
 She said ; " it does most travellers belate 
 
 With dire enchantments, who, without a guide, 
 
 Would track its dread recesses, when alone, 
 
 The haunt of genii, evil sprite and gnome."
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 9 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Here somewhat of a tremor shook our knight, 
 As he recalled the terrors he had passed ; 
 
 And turning to the window panes, his sight 
 
 Observed the twilight shades were deepening fast, 
 
 And yet could almost fancy, in dim light, 
 Some spectral shape, of misty vapour cast, 
 
 Was grinning through the gloom ; yet he essayed 
 
 To tell the story to the curious maid. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " No, no ! good sir," the old man said, " 'tis late 
 And you are tired ;" but here Undine rose 
 
 From her low stool : — " I say he shall relate 
 
 That tale just now." She with such fervour glows, 
 
 And with such comic air her tiny feet 
 
 Stamped on the floor, as made the knight suppose 
 
 She was as charming in her childish ire 
 
 As when more graceful play her acts inspire. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 But the old fisher took a different view. 
 
 " Undine, you shall cease this tiresome sport," 
 He sharply cried ; the while his mistress threw, 
 
 In tones no milder, a severe retort, 
 To which the maid rejoined : " I see that you 
 
 Hut seek a quarrel, my desires to thwart 
 With disappointment of the promised tale, 
 Which I will hear ; or else I shall not fail
 
 I O Undiud, 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " To take my leave, and show you I am not 
 
 To be enforced :" so seeing they would not give 
 her 
 
 This boon, she straightway bounded from the cot, 
 Swift as a dart from chaste Diana's quiver, 
 
 Or rather, bow ; our verses must be brought 
 Smoothly to rhyme, and warble like a river. 
 
 "Good-bye," she said, in bounding through the door, 
 
 " For I shall see your smoky hut no more."
 
 CANTO II. 
 How Undine came to the Fisherman. 
 
 IN vain Sir Huldbrand and her sire essayed 
 To check the maiden in her mad career. 
 
 Silent and swift she vanished, as the shade 
 Of night when early morning doth appear ; 
 
 No trace of her light form their fears allayed, 
 Nor voice, nor faintest footfall could they hear. 
 
 Amazed, Sir Huldbrand looked (as to inquire 
 
 Whether the maid were mortal) on her sire ; 
 
 II. 
 
 Who with chagrin and anger muttered low, 
 
 Grinding his teeth, so, when his wrath had 
 passed, 
 
 " Tis not her first offence to serve us so," 
 
 He said, " a*fe hope each fault may be the last ; 
 
 Now must our eyes their wonted sleep forego, 
 Our hearts with anxious fears be overcast " 
 
 " Let us not linger here, in useless sorrow," 
 
 Rejoined the knight ; " but seek her till the morrow."
 
 1 2 UndirJ : 
 
 in. 
 
 " Not so," said he, " would I abuse my guest, 
 If even I thought he could the child discover, 
 
 As thus to send him in a perilous quest 
 At dreary midnight, the deep forest over ; 
 
 And my old limbs would make but sorry haste, 
 To stop the headlong flight of this wild rover." 
 
 " Undine, dear !" both voices cried amain, 
 
 And the lone rocks re-echoed the sweet name. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then all the terrors of the wood and lake 
 
 Crowd on their minds. — Not so the weary dame; 
 
 Too wise herself to trouble for the sake 
 
 Of one whose frolics she must hourly blame, 
 
 She now to rest her languid limbs did take ; 
 So when our friends the cottage roof regain, 
 
 The host desired the knight to take her seat, 
 
 While he revived the dying embers' heat. 
 
 " Now, since Undine is past our controlling, 
 One of two ways," said he, " we can pursue ; 
 
 Either on our rush-mats we may lie rolling, 
 Till the grim days our anxious toils renew ; 
 
 But rather all sad thoughts at once withholding 
 Our peace to break, 'twere wiser, in my view, 
 
 With social converse our dull cares to slaughter. 
 
 And something better than the lake's blue water.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 1 3 
 
 VI. 
 
 To them, now seated o'er a jug of wine, 
 
 Which from a dark recess the old man brought, 
 
 More swiftly flew the leaden wings of Time. 
 
 The knight, much wondering by what art they 
 caught 
 
 One who before his eyes still seemed to shine. 
 Now for her history his kind host besought ; 
 
 Since none could ere forget who once had seen 
 
 That fairy-wonder, the sweet child Undine. 
 
 VII. 
 
 At length the fisherman commenced his tale : 
 "Some fifteen summers have passed o'er our 
 nook, 
 
 Since toward the city, with a weary bale 
 Of our lake's produce, my lone way I took ; 
 
 No spectral shapes as yet my path assail, 
 
 That haunt the forest ; no forebodings shook 
 
 My heart ; but musing sweet the way beguiled, 
 
 Of various plans concerning the dear child 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Of our old age, which heaven in mercy sent, 
 A precious boon our lowly cot to cheer. 
 
 Much at that time our anxious thoughts were bent 
 On the best means our little girl to rear — 
 
 As whether, for her sake, we should consent 
 
 To leave the home that time had made most dear, 
 
 And in the crowded city, more at large 
 
 Among mankind, bring up our lovely charge.
 
 1 4 Undine : 
 
 IX. 
 
 " We did not murmur at the will of God, 
 
 Although much straitened in our low estate ; 
 
 But grateful thoughts we cherished, and when trod 
 My weary steps the forest shadows late, 
 
 Where fiends and genii make their dread abode, 
 Oft in my soul would holiest prayers awake " 
 
 Here, now uncovering his bald head, he stood 
 
 Some moments in devoutly musing mood. 
 
 And then, his cap replacing, thus spoke on ; 
 
 " 'Twas at yon entrance of the forest side 
 That grief o'ertook me — there I heard a moan, 
 
 And there my wife her streaming tears did hide 
 In her raised hands — ' Alas, alas ! she's gone !' — 
 
 And more sad words to utter vainly tried. 
 ' Where is she gone ?' quoth I, with anguish wild ; 
 ' Oh, tell me all !— Is it our only child ?' 
 
 XL 
 
 " Too well I knew — no other word we spoke, 
 But hastened to our cot ; when looking round 
 
 For what I feared to find, my wife first broke 
 The silence, by narrating how the sound 
 
 Of a sweet murmuring brook enticed to walk 
 She and our babe, till they the margin found 
 
 Of the deep lake ; and there awhile they stood, 
 
 And the child gazed delighted on the flood.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 1 5 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Then rose a mermaid, just as o'er the stream, 
 With joyous prattle, hovered our sweet babe ; 
 
 She saw her laugh ; she saw her blue eyes gleam, 
 Then sprang she to her arms, and the deep wave 
 
 Closed o'er them, and afar went every beam 
 Of hope away that we could ever save 
 
 Our treasure, or e'er find the slightest trace ; 
 
 Though many a weary hour I sought the place. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 "And thus our cot was lonelier than if ne'er 
 A babe had blessed it ; unalloyed our grief, 
 
 We sat, mute images of dull despair, 
 
 Save sobs and sighs that came to our relief. 
 
 Then a low knocking at the door, our care 
 At once was changed to solace — to be brief, 
 
 There stood a lovely child, some three years old, 
 
 In raiment richly trimmed with lace of gold, 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " And amber locks all streaming, as though she 
 Had 'scaped the perilous flood ; yet smiled with 
 mirth, 
 
 As gleams a rainbow o'er the troubled sea, 
 
 When the first sunbeams cheer the saddened 
 earth 
 
 After a night of tempest ; thus to me 
 She looked an angel, or a second birth 
 
 Of our lost treasure. — Well, we took her in, 
 
 And her rich raiment, drenched to the skin,
 
 1 6 Undine : 
 
 xv. 
 
 "Stripped off; then dried her dripping hair, and 
 brought her 
 
 To a warm bed; with cordial wine we plied, 
 Wishing the same kind care to our lost daughter ! 
 
 Widely she opened her blue eyes and smiled ; 
 But much we feared some death-chill from the 
 water, 
 
 Would nip this bud of beauty, who beguiled 
 Our grief with innocent looks that did enchant us, 
 Though not one word her cherub lips would grant us. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " The morrow found her full of life and glee, 
 And soon our curious questions we resume ; 
 
 But whether she had risen from the sea, 
 
 Or fallen, in a night shower, from the moon, 
 
 We ne'er could learn. She prattled wild and free, 
 Of boats and lakes ; so 'tis to this same tune, 
 
 E'en now she sings, in a strange, dreamy mood, 
 
 Raving of crystal domes and towers beneath the 
 flood. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Much it concerned our infant of the lake 
 
 Had she been sprinkled by some holy man ? 
 For should grim Death too soon the darling take, 
 
 We knew nought else could save her from the ban 
 Of heaven ; and so, much fearing for her sake, 
 
 Through many a day our weary converse ran : 
 Yet too much good is surely not so bad 
 As none at all, when much is to be had.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 1 7 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " So when we sought her memory of the rite, 
 No proper answer had she ever stated ; 
 
 Only, in childish language, she was quite 
 Assured she for God's glory was created, 
 
 And willed that we should do whate'er of right 
 To His sole praise and honour was related. — 
 
 Thus failing the uncertain to recall, 
 
 Safer to be twice dipp'd than not baptized at all. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " And as she was a gift of heaven, we thought 
 That Dorothea would be her fitting name ; 
 
 To this the priest agreed, whom I besought 
 With holy water to confirm the same. 
 
 But our young charge refused. In vain we sought 
 With threats and coaxing her strong will to tame ; 
 
 ' Her name,' she said, 'was that her mother gave — 
 
 Undine — ere she lost her in the wave. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Something from her wild story we could glean, 
 How once her mother took her in a boat 
 
 On the deep lake, where falling in the stream, 
 She struggled, but soon found herself afloat, 
 
 And wending to the shore, when the bright beam 
 Of moonlight to our hut the wanderer brought- 
 
 Howbeit, the priest declared he ne'er had seen 
 
 More heathen title than that name Undine.
 
 1 8 Undi 
 
 nc 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " The little maiden, with her innocent brow 
 And earnest childish pleading, still pressed on 
 
 Her suit undaunted, that we would allow 
 Her name to be unchang'd ; till one by one 
 
 Audience and priest loosing their aim, now show 
 No cause why they should still refuse to own 
 
 The name she wished ; so with good grace he said, 
 
 ' Undine,' and baptized the wilful maid. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " But all the while, with such sweet gentleness 
 The child appeared ; so full of earnest thought, 
 
 It seemed the holy things these rites express 
 Had, with their influence, her wild fancy brought 
 
 To this unwonted calm ; and would impress " 
 
 But here his listening friend the tale cut short, 
 
 By asking if that distant rushing sound 
 
 Were tempest, or the lake had burst its bound ? 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Both influences were acting, and full soon 
 The lightning flash presented to their sight 
 
 A rising flood of waters ; while a gloom 
 
 Of blackness shrouded the pale orb of night. 
 
 The stream had burst its banks and thundered 
 down 
 The rocks, as smitten with some sudden fright, 
 
 While the fierce winds with demon-fury rose, 
 
 Howl through the gloom and tear the forest boughs,
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 1 9 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And stop this canto and the conversation 
 
 Of these two friends ; both started at the sound 
 
 And sight of terror, while a dire sensation 
 
 Shot through the knight, lest his fair friend had 
 found 
 
 A watery grave amid this desolation ; 
 
 So both rushed out and widely sought around, 
 
 Calling " Undine !" loudly, o'er and o'er ; 
 
 But gained the same reply they heard before.
 
 CANTO III. 
 How they found that which was lost. 
 
 I. . 
 
 This teeming earth, with all her variation 
 Of beauteous forms, that endlessly combine, 
 
 Or differ when discordant their relation ; 
 
 As storm, and sunshine, and deep sea sublime, 
 
 Are but the symbols, in their vast mutation, 
 
 Of things that change not with all changing time. 
 
 Our very world is shadowy, the ideal 
 
 Or mirror of the spiritual and real : 
 
 II. 
 
 For with the first inbreathing spirit rose 
 The earth from chaos ; else a formless void 
 
 All nature were ; thus power and form and cause 
 Are terms to matter ever misemployed. 
 
 No cause exists in nature ; all that shows 
 Motion or life, reveals in language loud 
 
 A world beyond gross sense, in which the power 
 
 Of God creates and shapes from hour to hour.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 2 1 
 
 in. 
 
 This forming power is truth, and not that stuff 
 Mere fact, as some would lead you to suppose ; 
 
 For many hundred facts are scarce enough 
 
 One truth to drag to the clear light that glows 
 
 In the pure mind : — a test of truth less rough 
 Than quibbling logic the vain pedant stows 
 
 In youthful heads, until the entire nation 
 
 Believes in nought but facts of mere sensation. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Long sought Sir Huldbrand 'mid the dire confusion 
 To trace the footsteps of the phantom maid ; 
 
 He now half deemed the wholesome mad delusion 
 Of his bewildered senses, and the shade 
 
 Of the fiend-haunted wood began to muse on, 
 As how some sprite these elfin pranks had played ; 
 
 But now the fisher's voice appeased his qualms, 
 
 Eke the old dame's, who chanted hymns and psalms, 
 
 v. 
 
 Praying and wondering where the child would roam. 
 
 " Undine, you can find our cot no more ;" 
 For the peninsula had now become 
 
 An island, and the brook had changed its shore ; 
 Between the forest and the fisher's home 
 
 Its now unfettered waters fiercely roar ; 
 So that there is no way to gain the wood 
 But wading through the wide impetuous flocd.
 
 22 
 
 Undine : 
 
 VI. 
 
 "Heaven's mercy on our maiden!" cried the knight, 
 " If she one step within that fearful wood 
 
 Hath ventured ;" while before his inward sight 
 It seemed Undine wildly weeping stood, 
 
 Imploring help in vain, as vain her flight 
 From spectral horrors ; and the angry flood 
 
 Rolling with reckless roar o'er tree and stone, 
 
 As though all hope of her return were gone. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Sir Huldbrand scrambled o'er the fallen trees 
 And rocky fragments strown upon the shore, 
 
 But minding first a long pine staff to seize, 
 Wherewith to ford, or if too deep, swim o'er 
 
 The rushing flood — quivering, as with the breeze, 
 Beheld that tall lank figure, grim and hoar, 
 
 The same which oft had met him in the wood, 
 
 Shaking his streaming hair athwart the flood. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 White as sea foam and ghastly as the grave, 
 
 Might even a bolder than our knight have frozen 
 
 With creeping horror ; but, resolved to save 
 
 His friend, he shrank not from the path once 
 chosen. 
 
 Near the mid stream, just higher than the wave, 
 Appeared his head, as the long staff he rose on, 
 
 Or broken rock beneath, and paused to take 
 
 His breath, or soon had swept him to the lake
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 
 
 O 1 
 
 IX. 
 
 The o'er-mastering stream ; but ere to reach the shore 
 He plunged again, a low clear voice he heard, 
 
 Low, yet distinct, above the torrent's roar, 
 And sweeter than the carol of a bird. 
 
 The same dear accents, which to hear no more 
 So much he feared, besought him ere he stirred, 
 
 To pause, nor be in such a breathless hurry 
 
 To leave his bones for the old man to bury.* 
 
 x. 
 
 But though the voice he heard, he saw no shape: 
 " Oh ! tell me, lady, if you still belong 
 
 To earth, or to some spirit of the lake 
 
 Have changed your fairy being?" Now with strong 
 
 Gripe to his staff he held, resolved to make 
 
 One desperate plunge the howling waves among: 
 
 " Then since to mortal life you bid adieu, 
 
 .May I too die, and be a ghost like you ?" 
 
 XI. 
 He said : and when just plunging in the deep, 
 
 Sudden he halted at a shriller sound 
 Of the same voice : " Oh, why so madly leap 
 
 On death, rash knight? Look round, I pray, look 
 round !" 
 And turning as the death-black shadows sweep 
 
 Beyond the moon, behold a rising ground 
 Or verdant islet, gemmed with many a flower, 
 And crested with tall trees that formed a bower. 
 
 The spectre of the wood.
 
 24 Undind : 
 
 XII. 
 
 Joy took the place of pain, for here he saw 
 The child, in careless glee, reclining low 
 
 On the green turf ; for truly not a straw 
 She cared for fiend or genii : there below 
 
 The sheltering trees she lay. Awhile with awe 
 And pleasure gazed the astonished knight, and 
 now 
 
 Rushed up the stream the elfish maid to greet, 
 
 Who sweetly smiled, half rising from her seat, 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And threw with childish glee her arms around 
 Her rescued hero's neck, making him sit 
 
 On the low grassy hillock, where they found 
 A shelter from the storm. " That would befit 
 
 Their taste/' she said, "much better than the bound 
 Of that dull cottage she rejoiced to quit, 
 
 Whose cross old inmates were a ceaseless bore. 
 
 Now tell the tale you promised me before, 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Beneath this sheltering tree," she said ; so then, 
 Happier than lovers, for their love as yet 
 
 They scarcely knew, with kisses ne'er again 
 To leave his memory, her embraces met 
 
 The knight ; but with such warmth as she had been 
 Of equal rank, or his predestined mate ; 
 
 So was she, for it was not all delusion, 
 
 But a bright foretaste of the heart's infusion.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 25 
 
 xv. 
 
 Here a third partner (though they did not need it) 
 Approached, their little world of bliss to share ; 
 
 For a loud voice, as soon as they could heed it, 
 Exclaimed : "Sir Knight, you sit contented there, 
 
 Caressing my fair child, and little care 
 
 For all the kindness which you so much needed 
 
 Beneath my sheltering roof — you soon discover 
 
 What I may seek in vain the wide world over." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 'Twas the old fisherman, whose anxious quest 
 Had brought him to the margin of the stream ; 
 
 To whom, across the wave, our knight addressed 
 A quick reply : " Old father, it has been 
 
 But a mere moment since my own feet pressed 
 This happy sod, for such I well may deem 
 
 An islet which has saved your loving daughter, 
 
 And my own life, from this devouring water." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " All very fine," the old man said, " for you ; 
 
 For since with toil and watching I am spent, 
 Pray make all haste your voyage to renew, 
 
 And come on shore by the same way you went, 
 That I our reckless fugitive may view, 
 
 Still more than you, on mad adventure bent ; 
 And being on such kind terms, as you're the older, 
 The wild young bird may perch upon your 
 shoulder."
 
 26 Undind : 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " Not quite so fast ; I vow he shall not stir 
 
 An inch from this sweet island," said the maid : 
 
 " To your old dingy cot I much prefer 
 To make our dwelling in the forest shade, 
 
 Where nought to thwart my will could e'er occur ;" 
 She, with resistless sportiveness detained 
 
 The knight, to whom with fond embrace she clung, 
 
 And with clear voice a warbling carol sung : 
 
 " A brook would leave its humble vale, 
 The wide world to explore, 
 And wandering to the distant main, 
 Its weary waters bore. 
 
 " But roughly raved the roaring sea, 
 And lashed its sounding shore : — 
 Ah, woe betides thee, little rill, 
 Thou wilt return no more !" 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Floated her song like music o'er the water 
 On a still summer's eve, despite the wild 
 
 Roar of the rushing torrent ; but it caught a 
 
 Chord of the old man's heart, so now more mild 
 
 His mood became toward his reckless daughter ; 
 At length, o'erpowered, he wept, as weeps a 
 child, 
 
 That even Sir Huldbrand begged to take her over, 
 
 Since her sire's grief so little seemed to move her.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 27 
 
 xx. 
 
 She opened her large eyes in perfect wonder, 
 At this most strange proposal from a knight ; 
 
 Awhile, to muse on this apparent blunder, 
 She stood in silence, or to gain more light. 
 
 At last, with slow clear accent, but much under 
 Her usual tone, she said 'twould all be right, 
 
 Whate'er pleased him ; but then he must not fail 
 
 To gain the old man's leave to tell his tale. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 All other things to leave, she could afford .... 
 
 And somewhat more, she whispered in his ear, 
 No word of which the historian doth record — 
 
 But here the old man could no longer bear 
 His feelings, and cried out he would accord 
 
 Whate'er she wished, if she herself would tear 
 From that enchanted isle, to cross the flood ; 
 With outstretched arms, in suppliant guise, he stood. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The knight took in his arms the wayward girl, 
 Bearing her safely through the foaming stream, 
 
 Where her old sire, o'ercome, as with a whirl 
 Of joyous feelings, even as she had been 
 
 His own dear daughter, kissed her in his turn, 
 As did the dame, who from afar had seen 
 
 Their meeting ; nor one censuring word they gave, 
 
 But took her, as just rescued from the grave.
 
 28 Undind : 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Undine, too, merging her wayward will 
 In heartfelt glee, with many a fond caress 
 
 O'erwhelmed her foster parents, so they still, 
 As oft before, in her deep tenderness, 
 
 O'erlooked those jars and crosses which but ill 
 They could have borne, if they had loved her less ; 
 
 Or if that wond'rous gift she ne'er had known, 
 
 All hearts to win, nor yet to lose her own. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The mountain peaks were ruddy with the beam 
 Of morning, and the tempest died away ; 
 
 While the huge lake the same refulgent sheen 
 Displayed ; whose fiery billows caught the ray 
 
 Of the new risen sun ; but all serene, 
 
 In hushed and glassy stillness soon they lay. 
 
 The birds renewed their songs ; the perfum'd breeze 
 
 But faintly sighed among the dripping trees. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 There stood a shady bower behind the cot, 
 On the north side, between it and the lake ; 
 
 Under its leaves the good old dame set out, 
 In rustic plenty, what they well could take, 
 
 Their morning meal ; and soon Undine sought, 
 Of their good humour the best use to make ; 
 
 She begged the knight would now withhold no 
 more 
 
 The promised tale he should have told before.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 29 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The good old people, not to thwart again 
 
 The child's determined will, now give consent ; 
 
 Since nought but trouble did they ever gain, 
 
 Whene'er they crossed her wayward spirit's bent. 
 
 Now at Sir Huldbrand's feet did she regain 
 Her lowly place ; and soon to work she went, 
 
 With one resistless smile our knight to win, 
 
 And make him his long history begin.
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 How Sir Huldbrand fared in the wood, where divers 
 intern 
 notice. 
 
 interesting strangers introduce themselves to his 
 
 I. 
 
 While humbly following our great author's fame, 
 We spare ourselves the peril of invention ; 
 
 For such aspiring and presumptuous aim 
 
 Is far both from our genius and intention : — 
 
 For here, with reverence, great Shakespeare's name, 
 As a high precedent, we beg to mention, 
 
 Who oft his fertile thoughts would rather mate 
 
 With ancient story than afresh create. 
 
 II. 
 
 But, to proceed with our good knight's narration: 
 " Eight days ago," said he, " my lot was cast 
 
 In the imperial city, and its station 
 
 Lies through the forest, somewhat to the east ; 
 
 When hearing, from the buzz of conversation, 
 Of a high tournament, that was to last 
 
 Through six long days, small urging did I need, 
 
 To enter in the lists with my good steed.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 31 
 
 in. 
 
 •' The sun was hot, and like a rain of fire 
 
 Streamed from the azure sky his melting rays. 
 
 Ere long my heated armour 'gan to tire 
 
 More than the brisk encounter ; from its blaze 
 
 I turned aside, when, handing to the squire 
 My burning helmet, as I stood to gaze 
 
 On the high balconies, there met my sight 
 
 A. lady fairer than the rest, so bright, 
 
 IV. 
 
 " With costly jewels and most rich attire, 
 She looked a queen amid the stately throng 
 
 Of high-born dames. Her lineage to inquire 
 I quickly turned, and was informed by one 
 
 That to no lofty birth she could aspire ; — 
 Albeit to a rich Duke she did belong, 
 
 To whom she came, although he had not sought her, 
 
 Yet, being childless, took her for his daughter. 
 
 V. 
 
 " And she was named Bertalda. Here once more 
 
 Raising mine eyes the stately maid to view, 
 It seemed that she with curious mind did pore 
 
 On me, gazing as she would look me through 
 With her dark, piercing eyes. Now, as before 
 It oft hath happened to our knightly crew, 
 Some more decisive favour than a glance 
 Was mine ; that night I joined her in the dance."
 
 32 Undind ': 
 
 VI. 
 
 Here the knight started up, as he were stung 
 On his left finger ; for he did not deem 
 
 Just then to feel the serpent's deadly tongue, 
 Nor did he ; but his careless words had been 
 
 Unwelcome to Undine, and it hung 
 
 Too near her pearly teeth to 'scape the keen 
 
 Sense of her wounded feelings ; so a shade 
 
 O'erspread the merry features of the maid, 
 
 VII. 
 
 Of deeper gloom that she was wont to wear 
 Even in her times of sorrow : but it staid 
 
 Only a fleeting moment, with the tear 
 
 Of sadness, while sweet melancholy made 
 
 Her drooping brow still lovelier to appear, 
 
 As she looked up in the knight's face, and said 
 
 In a low tone : " You may my fault disdain, 
 
 But have I not a cause for all this pain ?" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 So then, o'ercome with bashful fear, she hid 
 
 Her face with both her hands ; the knight went on, 
 
 Though much perplexed with thoughts, of which to 
 rid 
 His boding mind he strove : " It was not long 
 
 Before I found the lady, whom I said 
 
 Was named Bertalda, a proud heart did own, 
 
 And scornful spirit ; so in truth the more 
 
 I saw, the less she pleased me than before.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " But since she favoured me above the rest, 
 I was compell'd to follow in her train 
 
 And yielded, though unwisely, tis confessed, 
 To one whose heart I never wished to gain. 
 
 To quit ungenial spirits is the best, 
 
 In all such cases ; hence soon brought me pain 
 
 My reckless conduct ; for I said one day, 
 
 ' Bertalda, give me your small glove, I pray,' 
 
 x. 
 
 " In a mere frolic ; but she did not take 
 
 My words in their light meaning ; for she said, 
 
 With gravest countenance that she could make, 
 ' If you, like a true knight, no danger dread, 
 
 Sir Huldbrand, and can value for my sake, 
 A glove ; by one sole path can you be led 
 
 To its attainment ; it shall be your own, 
 
 When you have traversed that dire wood alone, 
 
 XI. 
 
 " 'And brought me truthful tidings of the same 
 From its obscure and ill-reported shade' — 
 
 Now, for a glove, I would not spell my name ; 
 But when the words are spoke, the vow is made, 
 
 And a knight's honour must be free from stain. 
 So, by retracting, I might scarce evade, 
 
 What of a noble knight hath ne'er been heard, 
 
 To be again reminded of his word." 
 
 3
 
 34 Uiidind : 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Did you not tell me," said the laughing maid, 
 " That this Bertalda had some love for you ?" 
 
 " Why, so it seemed, if I had rightly weighed 
 Her words and actions." " Then, if it be true," 
 
 Replied Undine, " all that you just have said, 
 She must have been a foolish creature to 
 
 Drive from her one she thought so brave, so good, 
 
 And worse than all, to that ill-omened wood. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Had I been she, methinks the wood had waited, 
 For many a day, its wonders all unknown ;" 
 
 " But the next morning I was early seated," 
 Sir Huldbrand said, and smiled as he went on 
 
 (His gloom by her kind compliment abated) — 
 " On the same steed that brought me to your home. 
 
 It was a lovely morning ; at that hour, 
 
 Bright shone the sun o'er mountain, tree, and tower, 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Gilding the graceful stems of the young trees, 
 Whose rustling leaves a gentle murmur made, 
 
 That breathed a charm of confidence and ease 
 Through the delighted senses ; soon the shade 
 
 Of the cool forest, with pine-scented breeze, 
 Still more delicious than the flowery glade, 
 
 My course beguiled ; no more I feared to meet 
 
 With peril in that beautiful retreat.
 
 The Spirit of the IVatej's. 35 
 
 xv. 
 " My steed is of the fleetest that e'er trod 
 
 The battle-field, or won at tournament 
 The admiring cheers ; so, gaily as I rode, 
 
 Methought how light would be the conflict spent 
 Over a lady's glove ; the debt I owed 
 
 Would soon be paid, more lightly than was meant 
 By some, whose foolish fears had filled with gloom 
 That cheerful wood, predicting my sad doom. 
 
 XVI. 
 " While thus in tranquil confidence I mused, 
 
 The shades grew deeper round me, and the plain 
 Far in the distance vanished, which confused 
 
 My course ; but as I halted to regain 
 The sight of those bright sunbeams that refused 
 
 To pierce the thick-leaved boughs, I looked in 
 vain 
 For light ; but o'er me, in the murky air, 
 There hung a grisly phantom like a bear, 
 
 XVII. 
 ''Fast clinging to the boughs; this brought my hand 
 
 As fast to the sword-hilt ; albeit, the help 
 Of sword seemed vain, when I more closely scanned 
 
 The hideous shape of this infernal whelp, 
 Which showered the scattered twigs like drifted sand 
 
 Around my path. With a man's voice it spoke, 
 Or rather growled, outlandishly and gruff: 
 x Right soon, Sir Nosey,* we'll have wood enough 
 
 * II err Xaseweis. 
 
 3—2
 
 36 Undind: 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " ' To roast your carcase, when the sun goes down ;' 
 With that it shrieked, tearing the boughs around 
 
 Like a demoniac, and well nigh had thrown 
 My maddened steed his rider — with a bound, 
 
 Far through the rattling branches he had flown, 
 Ere I, unnerved, my scattered senses found. 
 
 To check his fury and draw back the rein, 
 
 Or give that fiendish monster its true name." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 "You must not name it," said the old man, the while 
 Crossing himself devoutly, so the dame 
 
 Seemed with like pious caution to incline 
 
 Her head, and without speaking did the same ; 
 
 Here fair Undine, with a joyous smile, 
 
 Replied: " 'Tisyet untold the best part of the game; 
 
 'Tis that they did not roast you, my sweet friend. 
 
 Now, pray go on, I long to hear the end." 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Vainly I strove my frantic steed to curb, 
 Lest he should dash me in his reckless flight 
 
 Against the massive trunks ; each quivering nerve 
 Convulsed, he seemed to tremble with the fright 
 
 Through every limb ; but soon, a sudden curve, 
 Without my aid now took him to the right, 
 
 And up a gravelly hill. Large drops, like rain 
 
 Or a thick nightdew, trickled from his mane,
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. S7 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " Nor yet had checked his speed that steep ascent, 
 Had he not met a counter-cause of fear 
 
 Athwart the road on which his course was bent — 
 A sight scarce less unwelcome than the bear, 
 
 Whose surly greeting from above had lent 
 Wings to his wonted speed. His mad career 
 
 Here stopped a figure tall, with threatening brow, 
 
 And streaming hair as white as drifted snow. 
 
 XXII. 
 " So drawing tight the reins, lest they should slip 
 
 M y hold again, the tall white man before 
 I closely viewed, and sure, no sick man's sleep 
 
 Was more delusive ; for it seemed no more 
 A man, but dreamy torrent, drip, drip, drip, 
 
 Slow tumbling o'er the rocks with sullen roar, 
 That crossed the road and checked my headlong 
 
 steed." 
 "Thank you, dear brook, for this your gentle deed," 
 
 XXIII. 
 Exclaimed Undine, with much satisfaction ; 
 
 But the old fisher shook his head, and looked 
 Vacant and grave, as if in counteraction 
 Of such ujiseemly mirth, lest some ill luck 
 £L Might bJrtflg upon them. — " Scarce my courser's 
 action," 
 Sir Huldbrand said, "had stayed this babbling 
 brook, 
 Before an uglier object met my view — 
 A wizard dwarf, and most unearthly too.
 
 38 Undine, 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " I saw him not till he was at my side, 
 And much too near for ocular deception ; 
 
 His mouth indeed, or what had rather vied 
 
 With slit of letter-box, straight, wide, and 
 stretching 
 
 From one ear to the other " — to describe, 
 No other metaphor in our collection 
 
 We find ; and therefore beg the reader's grace 
 
 For one so modern and quite out of place. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " Sometimes he seemed all mouth, and then anon 
 He seemed all nose, so staring in my face 
 
 With hideous smile he bowed and scraped so long 
 That I grew weary of the man's grimace ; 
 
 So, in few words, I thanked him and rode on, 
 Turning my trembling charger from the place, 
 
 With the now westering sun resolved to roam 
 
 In search of fresh adventure or my home. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " At the same moment sprang the fellow round, 
 Quick as a thought, and placed himself before 
 
 My horse : — ' Now clear the way, or at one bound,' 
 I sharply cried, ' my steed will trample o'er 
 
 Your body, just as lightly as this ground.' 
 
 'He will, say you ?' snarled out the hideous boor, 
 
 With a most vacant visage : ' ere you go 
 
 Draw out your purse and pay me what you owe
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 39 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " ' For stopping your mad charger ; just look down 
 That deep ravine' — he pointed to a yawning 
 
 And fearful chasm on the right— 'there thrown, 
 You and your steed,' said he, ' had been adorning 
 
 Those pointed rocks. Now say what he may own 
 As one who saved you, with a timely warning, 
 
 From such a deadly plunge?' With awkward grace 
 
 He doffed his cap, and showed his swarthy face 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " Much nearer than I wished, of dingiest hue, 
 
 Half brown, half yellow. 'Wherefore do you 
 strain 
 
 Those fearful jaws so wide V said I : and threw 
 Into his wizard cap a golden coin. 
 
 ' Take that, you imp, altho' it was not you, 
 
 But yonder brook, that did my steed restrain.' 
 
 Glad of so cheap a riddance of this bore, 
 
 I spurred my horse, hoping to meet no more. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " Soon at a loud and piercing scream behind, 
 I urged my steed to try his swiftest pace ; 
 
 Yet in a moment, fleeter than the wind, 
 Beheld again the monster's hideous face 
 
 Close at my side, and every limb he twined, 
 Even to distortion — holding up the piece 
 
 I gave him, bellowing loud, at every leap, 
 
 ' False coin, you villain, 'tis not worth a chip.'
 
 4-0 Undini : 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " His long red tongue down-dangling from his jaws, 
 Had not the creature all brute strength surpassed, 
 
 You would have thought each scream had been the 
 cause 
 Of death, and every leap had been his last. 
 
 ' What do you mean by all this deafening noise ? 
 Take one more coin, take two, you roaring beast, 
 
 Only begone ! I would not scream like you 
 
 For all the gold of Cathay or Peru.'* 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " Then he began his odious courtesy 
 
 Of scrapes and bows, and snarling through the nose: 
 ' Young gentleman, your foolish fantasy 
 
 Doth much deceive you, if you can suppose 
 That I want gold ; full soon your eyes shall see 
 
 Piles of that trash, far greater than ere glows 
 In all the mines of India.' Then a bright 
 Vision came o'er me of mine inward sight ; 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " And lo ! what seemed the flowery turf, became 
 Clearly translucent, like a globe of glass, 
 
 Of far extent, yet tinted with the same 
 
 Greenness as when I viewed the verdant grass ; 
 
 While underneath vast crowds of those whose bane 
 On earth had been the love of gold now pass 
 
 Their days, still working in the noisome mine, 
 
 There leading, what they love, the lives of swine, 
 
 :; " Bends to the golden coast of rich Cathay." — Milton.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 4 1 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " Who love nought but themselves, and who despise 
 All but what feeds their vile corporeal life 
 
 Of avarice, but who on earth disguise 
 Spiritual gluttony. In the varied strife, 
 
 Pursuing what alone their hearts can prize ; 
 Their every project with that end is rife, 
 
 Till their self-love insanity doth make, 
 
 To love the infernal for its own vile sake. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 " It was the heaven of those who doat on gold ; 
 
 For though the goblin bands more numerous 
 seemed 
 Than drifted leaves in autumn, or the untold 
 
 Waves of the vast Atlantic, yet ne'er dreamed 
 The veriest miser, or in fancy bold 
 
 Conceived such piles on piles enormous roll'd 
 Of precious metal. Yea, the very floor 
 Glittered with dust of the accursed ore. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 " Incensed with sport or jealous rage, they threw 
 Coin at each other, or of largest size, 
 
 Wedges of gold ; and every spirit blew 
 
 The glittering dust into his neighbour's eyes, 
 
 Whene'er he wished to blind him to the view 
 Of what these maniac wretches solely prize. — 
 
 My elfin compeer, half within the wood, 
 
 And half amid the infernal concourse stood,
 
 4 2 Undine: 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 " Calling to one of the demoniac crew 
 
 To reach him a small handful of their pelf; 
 
 This done, the demon held before my view, 
 
 With horrid laugh, three times, a Nabob's wealth ; 
 
 This, raised aloft, with direful scorn he threw, 
 Ringing and chinking down the abyss beneath. 
 
 ' Was this your gratitude for so much help ? 
 
 Off with your wretched pittance, sordid whelp !' 
 
 xxxvir. 
 
 " Then to his demon brethren showed the piece 
 I gave him ; when, all maddened at the sight, 
 
 Sardonic laughter and a direful hiss 
 
 Rose, as from myriad serpents, till outright 
 
 They roared throughout the measureless abyss — 
 Infernal scorn ! Then, thick as locusts li^ht 
 
 On Syrian herbage, up they swarmed to break 
 
 The crystal dome, and earth a hell to make. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 " I with an agony of fear had died, 
 
 Far direr than had seized my steed before, 
 
 Had I not plunged a spur in either side, 
 And he, like a fierce eagle, quick swept o'er 
 
 Th' enchanted ground. Right well his limbs he 
 plied, 
 As a cold sweat oozed out from every pore 
 
 Of my whole skin ; so that I never knew 
 
 How far, while in this state, my courser flew.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 43 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 '■ 'Tvvas long before I dared to halt again ; 
 
 But coming to an opening in the trees, 
 I checked his onward flight, and saw just then 
 
 The lowering sun. Here the cool freshening 
 breeze 
 Revived me, so full soon I hoped to ken 
 
 The city; and a pathway much did ease 
 My mind, concluding this meandering guide 
 Would lead us safely through the forest wide. 
 
 XL. 
 
 " But through the foliage, ever and anon, 
 
 Of this sweet shady wood, so cool, so jaunty, 
 
 Peered an unearthly visage, grim and wan, 
 
 As Charon's crew or ghost portrayed by Dante ; 
 
 Till mad with rage, I dashed my steed among 
 The quivering leaves." — Dear Muse, I pray you, 
 grant me 
 
 A rhyme for this lame stanza — " Well, a shower 
 
 Of sparkling foam upon our heads did pour. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 " For a mere waterfall the face became, 
 Whene'er I tilted at it with my steed ; 
 
 Yet, from the path by which I hoped to gain 
 The city, far away our course would lead, 
 
 And left but one way open, which amain 
 
 We followed ; then at last, from terror freed, 
 
 The white face glared behind us, nor would dare 
 
 To meet us more, the sight we could not bear.
 
 44 
 
 Undi 
 
 nc 
 
 XLII. 
 " And so our course we steered as best to keep 
 
 The dread pale face in the rear, till well nigh 
 spent 
 With toil and terror, we the border seek 
 
 Of this deep forest. Soon, the enlivening scent 
 Of flowery turf, the smooth and glassy deep 
 
 Burst on my sight, with your sweet lowly tent 
 On the peninsula. We saw no more 
 The tall white man with aspect pale and hoar." 
 
 XLIII. 
 " And heaven be praised you did not bring him here," 
 
 Said the old fisher. " Now your tale is done, 
 Methinks 'twere wise to plan how you may steer 
 
 Your homeward track, for sure your friends must 
 mourn." 
 On which, so slyly, that you scarce could hear, 
 
 Undine tittered to herself; but soon, 
 Sir Huldbrand said : " I thought my tarriance here 
 Had given you joy ; then why do you appear 
 
 XLIV. 
 " Thus pleased, when we are planning my departure ?" 
 
 " Because you plan in vain," the maiden said. 
 " Pray try to cross the stream with that fine 
 creature, 
 
 Your horse, or try a boat ; if you succeed, 
 My name is not Undine. Than such a venture, 
 
 I had much rather you would take good heed ; 
 For soon the floating trunks and pointed stones 
 Would in a thousand fragments break your bones.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 45 
 
 XLV. 
 
 " For even my father, from that swollen lake, 
 In his small wherry, dares not venture out 
 
 Six yards to gain a kingdom ; for the sake 
 Of your dismissal, 'twould be madness quite." 
 
 Said Huldbrand: "Let us rise, and should we make 
 The case appear as your strange thoughts indite, 
 
 Why then, my fate is fixed that I need not 
 
 Ere seek a happier home than your sweet cot." 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 So all set out the country to explore, 
 
 Save the old dame ; and very soon they found 
 
 That even Undine might have pictured more 
 Opposing perils, and still kept the ground 
 
 Of truth. So whispered Muldbrand in her ear, 
 " Now are you sorry that my flight is bound ?" 
 
 " 'Tis well," said she, " my timely bite prevented 
 
 All the fine things you of Bertalda hinted."
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 Hoiv the knight fared on the peninsula. 
 
 There is a bliss which dazzles to deceive, 
 Haply, dear reader, not to you unknown : 
 
 The desolate heart, too ready to believe 
 Its vanished joys are not for ever flown, 
 
 Nor deem them so ; though you no more receive, 
 Than broken harp its long departed tone, 
 
 The charms that now seem lost — or but remain 
 
 A blight on all you seek, on all you hope to gain ; 
 
 II. 
 
 But cherish yet their memory, if it be 
 
 Unstained with ought your conscience would 
 forget. 
 A few short moments from those clouds may free 
 
 In which your sun of hope too darkly set; 
 That sun may rise where you no more can see 
 
 Deceit or sorrow. When the dews may wet 
 More brightly the fresh flowers upon your tomb, 
 Than if your death had been a monarch's doom.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 47 
 
 in. 
 
 The heart's desires were ever deemed divine, 
 Whate'er excite them, odours, flowers, or gems, 
 
 Perceived as symbols of that bliss sublime 
 Which the prophetic spirit oft foretells. 
 
 'Twas Schiller's maxim never to decline 
 
 From the high dreams of youth ; for what 
 remains, 
 
 Worldly ambition, honour, gold, or fame, 
 
 Are but the spirit's bond, colder than iron chain. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Recall now, if you can, young love's first dream, 
 While yet the phantom hovered in your sight, 
 
 When thoughts long buried in the hazy gleam 
 Of early childhood rose again all bright 
 
 With innocence and beauty ; as would seem 
 This second spring of joy, with clearer light, 
 
 And holier warmth, your riper years to bless 
 
 Than its mysterious dawn in childish tenderness. 
 
 V. 
 
 Then may you feel the bliss that warmed the heart 
 Of our young knight, and wiled his hours away ; 
 
 How with what joy, thus severed from all part 
 In the world's strife, he witnessed, day by day, 
 
 The increasing flood, unwilling to depart, 
 Enlarge its banks and still prolong his stay; 
 
 So far from the great world their dwelling tear, 
 
 From all its hateful pride, its rivalry and care.
 
 48 Undine, 
 
 VI. 
 
 A broken cross-bow, from a dusty corner, 
 He soon repaired, and many a happy hour 
 
 He wandered with it on the lake's lone border ; 
 And many a feathered life that ne'er before, 
 
 Had seen these savage proofs of man's disorder, 
 Cut short, bore witness to his deadly power ; 
 
 So, what to some would seem but right and fit, 
 
 Its idle pleasures paid for on the spit. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But when Undine saw the vanquished game, 
 With drooping wing, supine before her lie, 
 
 With sharp rebukes the cruel knight would blame ; 
 She had much rather see them soar on high, 
 
 Their fleeting lives all free from care and pain, 
 Full- blest in the blue water or the sky : 
 
 And o'er her much-loved friends, alas, in vain ! 
 
 Her heartfelt tears would fall like April rain : 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But just as transient and as quickly dried, 
 In pleasant sunshine of her wonted mirth ; 
 
 For did her friend return, his patience tried 
 With ill success, she deemed him little worth ; 
 
 Nor credit gave she, for being on the side 
 
 Of virtue ; but deplored their larder's dearth. 
 
 "Oh, aimless sportsman, have you nothing found ? 
 
 You make us keep our Lent the whole year 
 round."
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 49 
 
 IX. 
 
 But whether words of love or reckless banter 
 Between them passed, 'twas plainly to be seen, 
 
 That never trivial word or act did want a 
 
 Loophole through which the unerring archer 
 keen, 
 
 Who joys on the most hostile ground to plant a 
 Masked battery, might shoot in brilliant stream 
 
 Those unsuspected darts, that seem to borrow 
 
 Power from celestial bliss and earthly sorrow. 
 
 X. 
 
 Sorrow came not as yet, nor envious blight, 
 Their half-unconscious sympathy to slay, 
 
 Which grew like tenderest flush of orient light 
 In the grey dawn ; but then the martial neigh 
 
 Of the proud steed saluted our good knight ; 
 
 The sword, the escutcheon's chivalrous display — 
 
 Heraldic tracery of a glorious name — 
 
 Recalled to nobler deeds of high ancestral fame. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The recent tournament would also balk 
 His softer feelings, for 'tis hard to smother 
 
 (When silvery trumpets to the spirit talk 
 
 Of deathless fame ; and bright-eyed ladies hover 
 
 On high, while proudly blazoned standards stalk 
 The field) all longings your own name to cover 
 
 With glory; that all time its years may number, 
 
 Turning death's doom into a laurcl'd slumber. 
 
 4
 
 50 Undine ( : 
 
 XII. 
 
 " But then," thought he, " Undine is no daughter 
 Of a mere fisherman ; I could as soon 
 
 Believe her some pure spirit of the water ; 
 For all the pearly lustre of the moon 
 
 Gleams through her inmost being, as it caught a 
 Ray of the prestige — that peculiar boon 
 
 Through sires of princely or patrician race ; 
 
 And then that small, fine hand, still nobler than 
 her face. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Because you can't mistake the hand ; in truth, 
 You may find something in a low-born face 
 
 That puts high breeding to severest proof, 
 As in Bertalda ; but the delicate grace 
 
 Persistent, that outlives the bloom of youth, 
 Born of the spirit — 'tis a puzzling case. 
 
 I wish the child could be a little serious, 
 
 Less fond of play, and not quite so mysterious." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The knight and fisherman would oft discuss 
 Their evening questions o'er a flask of wine ; 
 
 'Tis an old custom which came down to us 
 
 From Persia's kings, who deemed it the sublime 
 
 Of wisdom, and by no means frivolous, 
 To make coy reason with volition chime : 
 
 That is, discuss them once when staid and sober, 
 
 And once, as sailors say, " when half seas over."
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 5 1 
 
 xv. 
 
 So, then, adopt the so-called " golden mean ;" 
 But our good friends' discourse began to weary 
 
 For that, not only the convivial stream 
 
 Was at low water-mark, but even the dreary 
 
 Hope of supply seemed but an idle dream, 
 
 Penned, as they were, like chickens in a coop ; 
 
 So they would pause, look grave, and sometimes 
 sleep, 
 
 Or listen to the shrill wind's boisterous sweep. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Meanwhile Undine, who had no belief 
 
 In aught but merriment and endless sport, 
 
 From gibe and banter left them small relief, 
 Whose faces lengthened as their wine fell short ; 
 
 Yet with a dash of mystery beneath 
 
 Her playful mien, at last she sallied forth; 
 
 " Tired," as she said, " and longing to escape 
 
 From looks whose very dulness made her gape.' 
 
 XVII. 
 
 With twilight came a wild and fitful sweep 
 Of stormy winds with billows' stifled roar, 
 
 Rousing our friends, half musing, half asleep : 
 The portent of old troubles heretofore, 
 
 Which made our knight such anxious vigils keep, 
 Now brought them quickly to the cottage door ; 
 
 Which they no sooner opened, than was seen 
 
 The maid, who clapped her hands, with joyful mien. 
 
 4—2
 
 52 
 
 Undint . 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " What will you give," said she, " that I may crown 
 That jug, now lean and hollow as your faces, 
 
 With a fresh flood of rosy wine, your own, 
 
 Which soon shall drive away all gloomy traces? 
 
 Or rather, for the sake of peace alone, 
 
 Your bumpers shall be filled, all such grimaces 
 
 Of your ill-humour far away to send, 
 
 And shorten days that seem to know no end. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " So come with me, for the wild stream on shore 
 A cask hath thrown from some ill-fated wreck ; 
 
 A wine-cask too, or I, like you, will snore 
 For seven long days in melancholy sleep." 
 
 This seemed their former spirits to restore, 
 And so she led them to the margin steep, 
 
 Where drifted, in a bushy cove they found 
 
 An oaken cask, well ribbed and iron-bound, 
 
 xx. 
 
 Betokening contents of no low degree ; 
 
 But homeward as their prize they rolled along, 
 The crested billows of that inland sea 
 
 Seemed dancing to the shrill winds' wilder song; 
 And sweeping rain pursued them angrily, 
 
 Yet drenched them not, as fearing further wrong. 
 Moreover, our young Sibyl, like a queen, 
 Waved back the angry cloud with mock imperial 
 mien.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 53 
 
 XXI. 
 Sharply the old man blamed this impious sally, 
 
 But mischief-loving laughter for his pain 
 Received from fair Undine. Again they rally 
 
 Their utmost strength to roll the prize amain 
 Within the hut; much wondering that should tarry 
 
 For them the threatening wind and streaming 
 rain, 
 Which now, with reckless fury, swept the lake, 
 Made the old forest roar and even the island quake. 
 
 XXII. 
 They filled some bottles from the generous barrel, 
 
 And soon pronounced the quality most fine; 
 With such no epicure or knight could quarrel 
 
 Through all the lordly castles of the Rhine: 
 So, neither for fierce winds nor waters caring, 
 
 They triply crowned their cups with sparkling 
 wine, 
 Drowning both present care and past vexation 
 In merry song or jest, a sweet libation. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 But suddenly the fisherman, with grave 
 
 And earnest countenance, exclaimed, " Good 
 heaven ! 
 
 How we carouse ! — while sunk beneath the wave, 
 The luckless owner his dear life hath given 
 
 For our ungodly glee." " Then you may save," 
 Observed Undine, " all your well-meant leaven 
 
 Of useless grief; for if his life be flown, 
 
 He neither needs your wine nor idle moan."
 
 54 Undind ': 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " By my unsullied honour," said the knight, 
 The while Undine poured the ruby tide 
 
 In his last goblet, " I, in fear's despite, 
 
 Would seek the owner through the forest wide ; 
 
 If life were in him, even this very night 
 Would amply pay for all our jovial pride. 
 
 Hovvbeit, be sure, old father, soon or late, 
 
 Himself or heir 'I'll amply compensate." 
 
 xxv. 
 
 This soothed the conscience of the good old man, 
 Who quaffed his wine with countenance serener, 
 
 While undertoned a parley here began 
 
 Between the gallant knight and fair Undine, 
 
 Touching the restitution : — " Which you can 
 
 Some future day make up ; you could not mean a 
 
 Thing so absurd," she said, " this night to seek 
 
 What you might hunt in vain for many a week. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " My very eyes in tears would melt away, 
 If I should lose you in that fearful wood ; 
 
 Were it not better far with me to stay, 
 
 And that large cask which didj'you so much good?" 
 
 " Most truly," said the knight, the while did play 
 A smile on his flushed cheek; "nor field, nor 
 flood 
 
 Shall tempt me more to wander from your side." 
 
 " Then you that error own," the maid replied.
 
 The Spirit of the Wafers. 55 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " Each one is neighbour to himself, but few 
 Know how to quit the love of self alone; 
 
 Whate'er is bad for all is bad for you." 
 
 The beldame shook her head with pious groan. 
 
 " Oh, worse than veriest heathen, Turk, or Jew!" 
 Said the old father, in severest tone; 
 
 " May God forgive me, and save you from smart, 
 
 You naughty child, for your unfeeling heart !" 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " I did but utter what I have been taught," 
 Rejoined the girl, with guileless brow serene, 
 
 And circling eyes, whose lambent azure caught 
 The purest reflex of the heavenly sheen. 
 
 " I can but speak and act what I have thought; 
 Never could I my real convictions screen : 
 
 So what avail your words, which do but jar ? 
 
 They cannot alter things that really are." 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 '• Silence, I say!" responded the old man, 
 
 In tone unkind and harsh and somewhat brief, 
 
 While she, more timid than a fawn, began 
 To quake and tremble, like an aspen leaf, 
 
 For the fine sense of liberty to ban, 
 Of all afflictions, was to her the chief: 
 
 Aspiring to the heavens, the noble soul 
 
 Shrinks from the shadow of undue control.
 
 56 Undind. 
 
 xxx. 
 
 Yet dauntless was she in her proper sphere, 
 For adverse qualities are oft combined, 
 
 Even such as most incongruous appear, 
 In the strange dual structure of the mind ; 
 
 She now, with instinct feminine, drew near 
 
 The knight, and on his breast her head reclined : 
 
 " Are you, too, angry with me, my sweet friend ?" 
 
 But he nor dared to blame nor yet commend. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 'Twas not his place to interpose ; 'twas true 
 
 The old man's roughness did his nerves distress, 
 
 And so he gently stroked her locks and drew 
 The maiden nearer, with a fond caress. 
 
 Full well his kinder sympathy she knew ; 
 But then an awkward stillness did confess 
 
 That social mirth had vanished, whose free-will 
 
 The lightest breath of tyranny can chill.
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 Hoiv the Knight's Marriage was conducted. 
 
 OUTSIDE the cottage door a light knock fell 
 Upon the silence, like a thing of fear ; 
 
 For sounds unlooked for, as a funeral knell 
 In desert places strike the listening ear ; 
 
 Surrounding terrors too, their senses well 
 
 Had trained to throb with tremor sharp and clear, 
 
 With that dire wood so nigh — tho' well 'twas known 
 
 No human step could track their island lone. 
 
 ir. 
 
 The party gazed with awe-struck looks around, 
 
 Till a deep groan their life with power restored ; 
 The knight his well-primed valour quickly found, 
 And started up to seize his glittering sword. 
 " Alas !" the old man said, "your arm is bound, 
 
 If 'tis the thing I fear ; so take my word, 
 Your idle blade put by, and rather pray : 
 Those weapons are but made for things of clay."
 
 5 8 Undine : 
 
 in. 
 
 Meanwhile Undine, menace in her eye, 
 
 Devoid of fear, approached and cried: "Beware! 
 
 If you begin those elfin tricks to try 
 On us, you earth-born spirit, I declare 
 
 'Twere better for you from our door to fly, 
 
 Than Kuhleborn should seize you by the hair." 
 
 These words she boldly spake, but not a bit 
 
 Their fears removed by her unhallowed wit : 
 
 IV. 
 
 Increased them rather; for an explanation 
 Was just upon Sir Huldbrand's lips to sue, 
 
 When spake the thing without — some perturbation 
 Thrilled through them, for it said : " A ghost, 'tis 
 true, 
 
 Howbeit to earth-born demons no relation, 
 But in a mortal body much like you ; 
 
 So if God's fear be in you, I implore 
 
 Shelter within your hospitable door." 
 
 v. 
 
 The door already had she opened wide, 
 
 And raised across her brow a lamp on high, 
 
 When lo ! an aged, reverend priest she spied, 
 Who, as the beauteous maiden met his eye, 
 
 Started with sudden fear, and trembling cried : 
 " Good spirits, praise the Lord " — for verily 
 
 He little dreamed to meet on that dark night, 
 
 And that lone hut, as were an angel bright ;
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 59 
 
 VI. 
 
 But thought it some enchantment. — " Am I then 
 So frightful ?" said she : while arch laughter 
 played 
 
 Like Hebe's or some rainbow-darting gem ; 
 " Do you not see these pious words have laid 
 
 No terror on my soul ? Like holy men, 
 
 I know the Lord to praise : for we are made 
 
 To serve Him with free will, not with revulsion 
 
 Of craven fear, or bigot's harsh compulsion. — 
 
 VII. 
 
 " I am no spectre : so step in, I pray, 
 
 Most worthy sire, good people you shall meet." 
 
 The ghostly man politely bowed his way, 
 
 While rain-drops trickled down from head to feet. 
 
 Of portly mien he seemed, though old and grey. 
 They led him to an inner room's retreat, 
 
 And while he clad him in his host's attire, 
 
 His long black coat they dried before the fire. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Sir Huldbrand offered him a garment gay, 
 Which did not suit his lowly mind at all ; 
 
 So these with humble thanks aside he lay, 
 And donned instead an old grey overall 
 
 Of his kind host's, who did his guest convey 
 Back to the fire-lit chamber. From the wall 
 
 Where stood her elbow chair, the dame withdrew : 
 
 " For you," she said, " are old and ghostly too."
 
 60 Undind : 
 
 IX. 
 
 Undine, too, before the good man's feet 
 
 Now placed her little stool, which heretofore 
 
 Beside the knight had been her favourite seat, 
 Who whispered in her ear, from his large store, 
 
 Some railing wit ; but she made answer meet, 
 With graver face than he had seen before : 
 
 " We must not treat His priest, who made us all, 
 
 With scorn, nor holy things irreverent call." 
 
 X. 
 
 The good old priest, when food and wine had 
 wrought 
 
 His soul's reunion with his wearied frame, 
 Related how he their good bishop sought, 
 
 And far beyond the lake's blue waters came — 
 For damage great from this dire flood had caught 
 
 Their cloister, and full many a cot the same ; 
 In short, he came to ask, right glad to heed, 
 Their counsel in this case of utmost need. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Since yestermorn had he been beating round, 
 With weary steps, the margin of the flood : 
 
 On every side the rising waters bound 
 
 His further course. While he this evening stood 
 
 Disheartened on the shore, two boatmen found 
 To row him o'er the strait, in willing mood, 
 
 For a small bounty, as the flood had made 
 
 A fresh expanse of water through the glade.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 6 1 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Scarcely our vessel the still lake had touched, 
 Than this unheard-of storm broke loose, which 
 now 
 
 Hath scarce subsided ; the idle oars were clutched 
 From the men's grasp, and carried round the prow. 
 
 Far o'er the whirling waves their fragments rushed, 
 While toward your isle the storm's impetuous flow 
 
 Hurried our helpless boat. Your verdant plain 
 
 Loomed dimly through white surge and driving rain. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Then a strange rocking motion seized our boat, 
 A whirling like Charybdis, round and round, 
 
 In circling eddies. If it be afloat, 
 
 I know not, so my giddy brains were drowned ; 
 
 Whether the boat rolled o'er, or I fell out, 
 I did not note : my senses first I found, 
 
 After much struggling with these rolling seas, 
 
 On your good island, under these tall trees." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " An island, in good faith," the old man said, 
 " Though lately 'twas a part of the main land ; 
 
 But since the forest stream had left its bed, 
 We scarce can fix a boundary or strand." 
 
 " So much I noticed," said the priest, " when, led 
 In woeful plight along the shore, I scanned 
 
 The far light of your hearth, with tremulous gleam 
 
 O'er waters where a foot-path once had been.
 
 62 Undind : 
 
 xv. 
 
 " Nor can I thank too much my heavenly Father, 
 Who hath not only rescued from the deep, 
 
 But with good people cast my lot ; the rather, 
 Because my life may fall on its last sleep, 
 
 Ere faces than these four I meet, or farther 
 Travel this weary world." " I pray you keep 
 
 Plain speaking," said the fisher ; then, aghast, 
 
 The priest demands how long the strife may last 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Of the mad elements. " Am I not now 
 
 In years well stricken ? So my life's long tide 
 
 May ebb before yon forest stream sink low ; 
 Nay more, 'tis not unlikely that the wide 
 
 Tumult of waters may increase and flow 
 So broad between you and the forest side, 
 
 That your small fishing-boat may strive in vain 
 
 To reach that distant world beyond the main. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " And you, in your old age, forgotten quite " 
 
 This made the old dame shudder and exclaim : 
 
 " May God forbid !" The fisher smiled outright : 
 "My dear old spouse, your anxious fears are 
 vain, 
 
 For pray, what other face hath met your sight 
 Through all these years of trouble than this 
 same 
 
 Undine's and my own, with our good knight, 
 
 More recently ? — the worthy priest this night
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 63 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " Has come. All these most noble guests remain 
 To cheer you in such dreaded isolation ; 
 
 So that you nothing lose, but largely gain." 
 "Alas !" she said, "but 'tis like desolation, 
 
 The very thought ! Altho' unknown, I fain 
 Would shun to dream of such a separation 
 
 From Christian men and every human tie 
 
 Of brotherhood, thus severed endlessly." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Then you remain with us," in sweetest tone 
 Half sang, half whispered cordially the maid, 
 
 While o'er her delicate features lightly shone 
 An opalescent glow, that fitful played, 
 
 As nearer to her knight she gently stole. 
 " Then you remain with us," again she said, 
 
 Scarce audibly ; yet these few words among 
 
 Orchestral music breathed, like a most perfect 
 song. 
 
 xx. 
 
 The knight scarce heard them, for a reverie 
 Had seized his outward senses ; far and wide, 
 
 Now stretched the blue waves of that inland sea, 
 And dearer far their little island smiled, 
 
 While seemed in mist obscure the world to flee, 
 And fair Undine, blooming like a bride, 
 
 Grew, a celestial rose, upon his sight, 
 
 As tropic flowers expand beneath the fervid light.
 
 64 Undine : 
 
 XXI. 
 Such unction was there in that holy man, 
 
 Whose words unconsciously had seem'd to raise 
 These feelings in two hearts ; yet now began 
 
 The dame with scrutinizing eye to gaze 
 On fair Undine, deeming she could scan 
 
 Somewhat more kind than proper in her ways 
 Before the ghostly man ; while in her mien 
 Something that would be heard as well as seen, 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Determined our good knight, whom oft before 
 
 The dame had troubled with her sharp reproof 
 Of poor Undine, though in truth, much more 
 The child deserved. " Good priest, beneath this 
 roof 
 Two souls you see that to the very core 
 
 Are blending into one ; and as a proof, 
 We beg, should these good people not deny, 
 That you in holiest bonds this night our hands 
 will tie." 
 
 XXIII. 
 Sir Huldbrand's words astonished the old pair, 
 Though there would come, as both had oft 
 expressed, 
 No other consummation than this fair 
 
 And noble offer of their worthy guest. 
 Undine blushed, and cast upon the floor 
 
 Her bright'ning eyes, and mused : but 'twill be 
 best 
 To make conjecture that no floor was seen — 
 The drooping lids so veiled the dazzling sheen
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 65 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Of their bright orbs ; and so, the truth to tell, 
 Her looks were earnest and her thoughts so 
 deep, 
 
 Her mien so grave, so solemn, that full well 
 The priest perceived her marriage vow to keep 
 
 She was prepared ; so, without doubt, he fell 
 To question the old pair, in language meet, 
 
 If they consented, or knew any real 
 
 Obstruction to proceedings hymeneal ? 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But then the knight was rich, well born, and so 
 The dame into right order sped to bring 
 
 Their cot's best room ; nor would the knight forego 
 His wished-for bliss for want of wedding-ring, 
 
 So hammered his gold neck-chain to undo 
 The needful metal from the glittering string : 
 
 Two links might serve to satisfy the claim 
 
 Of ancient law, in making one of twain. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 This roused Undine from her pleasing trance 
 Of meditation, and with gesture mute, 
 
 The knight she checked; for with a sudden glance, 
 Remembrance came : " Not quite so destitute 
 
 My parents left me to the sport of chance," 
 
 She said ; " but with wise foresight, what will suit 
 
 Our need on this auspicious eve provided " — 
 
 So through the open door she swiftly glided. 
 
 5
 
 66 Undind , 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Returning quick, two costly rings she bore, 
 Of purest gold, with jewels rare and fine; 
 
 The one with spiral wreaths encircled o'er, 
 As serpent around serpent deftly twine, 
 
 Two moon-shaped opals flushed with flame embower, 
 With tiny rubies circled, like a shrine, 
 
 A perfect emerald, whose surpassing sheen, 
 
 The very heart could cheer with its enliveninggreen. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 The other, which she gave her knight, excelled 
 In the rare splendour that so brightly gleam'd ; 
 
 By cunning art, in plastic gold were held 
 Violet amethysts, their soft light screened 
 
 In angel-wings. Half tempered, half unveiled, 
 Reflected keen, transparent rainbows beamed, 
 
 From far Golconda's purest watered gem ; 
 
 Its lustre well might grace a regal diadem. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The fisherman, astonished beyond measure, 
 And eke the dame, re-entering now the door, 
 
 How the mysterious child such gorgeous treasure 
 Possessed, yet artfully could hide in store, 
 
 Despite her guileless soul and love of pleasure, 
 So that these precious gems should ne'er before 
 
 Have met their eyes, await, with eager face, 
 
 To hear some explanation of the case.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 67 
 
 xxx. 
 
 " My parents," said the maiden, " on that eve 
 I came to you, these precious trinkets sewed 
 
 Upon my dress, charging me not to leave 
 The same exposed ; but carefully bestowed 
 
 In secret place, I should again receive, 
 
 When better their true value I might know : 
 
 So faithfully I hid them, till this hour 
 
 Hath proved the wondrous truth of their prophetic 
 power." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 All curious questions soon the priest cut short 
 By lighting two wax tapers, which to mention 
 
 We had forgotten ; for these the good dame sought, 
 Who long had treasured up with such intention 
 
 And foresight of the occasion. They had caught 
 Some sacred virtue, too, by consecration. — 
 
 The holy man then spake, in solemn tone, 
 
 The few brief words that joined two hearts in one. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Undine slightly trembled as she leaned 
 
 On her dear knight — so when the priest had ended, 
 
 Said he, " From what you told me, I had gleaned 
 We were the only persons that e'er wended 
 
 Their way to this lone isle ; throughout it seemed 
 To me — I beg you will not be offended — 
 
 A stately figure, clothed in mantle white, 
 
 Hath through the window watched our marriage rite. 
 
 5—2
 
 68 UndinS : 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " Your conduct puzzles me ; but with your leave, 
 I'll ask him in." " By no means," said the host ; 
 
 The old dame, shuddering, would as soon receive, 
 She said, as that white man, a church-yard ghost ; 
 
 But our brave knight, much puzzled to conceive 
 This marvel, at the window took his post, 
 
 Then said, "Good priest, I really nought discern, 
 
 But airy shape that doth to vapour turn." 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 This vanished while he spake ; for so he tried 
 To prove the good man had been quite mistaken ; 
 
 And all sat down the glowing hearth beside ; 
 
 The old dame's nerves, that had been sorely 
 shaken, 
 
 Resume their wonted calm ; but our young bride, 
 Who with these foolish panics ne'er was taken, 
 
 Contributed no little to restore 
 
 The sweet hilarity that reigned before.
 
 CANTO VII. 
 What came to pass on the Wedding Evening. 
 
 Our child of mystery, in whose altered mien 
 Sweet maiden gravity and gentleness 
 
 Throughout that holy rite had reigned supreme, 
 Now quickly changed to wildest recklessness ; 
 
 Showing the wondering priest what she had been, 
 Perplexing her new lord, the dame no less, 
 
 Who could have scolded, with no common relish, 
 
 What the too easy knight had vowed to love and 
 cherish. 
 
 II. 
 
 But now he took upon him to reprove, 
 
 With all due caution, this unheard-of freak, 
 
 That sore his patience tried, the while his love 
 Would smooth him down and gently strokehischeek, 
 
 Or some resistless charm that could remove 
 
 All wrath would whisper in his ear, with meek, 
 
 Submissive aspect ; but this truce well o'er, 
 
 The next campaign was madder than before.
 
 Jo Undint : 
 
 in. 
 
 It seemed she still remained a soulless creature ; 
 
 At last the worthy priest came to the rescue, 
 And thus good-naturedly began to teach her : 
 
 " Stop, stop, my playful friend," he said, " God 
 bless you ; 
 You seem already to forget the nature 
 
 Of your late vow ; I fain would not address you 
 Severely, but you .really must control 
 What else destroys all harmony of soul 
 
 IV. 
 
 "With your good husband." — She, with laughing 
 face, 
 
 Derisively replied : " Your words, good priest, 
 Are most appropriate and befit your place ; 
 
 Instructive also, and, to say the least, 
 Most minds might suit ; but my peculiar case, 
 
 Is by your sacred lore in no way reached ; 
 For pray, what sort of music is before us, 
 When I possess no soul to join the chorus? 
 
 v. 
 
 " Jesting apart, this is my true condition ; 
 
 A deathless spirit have I ne'er possessed ;" 
 Perplexed the good priest looked with this position, 
 
 Yet more with grief than anger, sore distressed : 
 His face aside he turned ; but she, like vision 
 
 Of angel sweet, the baffled priest addressed : 
 " Nay, I beseech you, hear my story through, 
 Nor thus reject who never injured you :
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 7 1 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Have patience with me till you know the whole" — 
 Here faltering, as with sudden fear pervaded, 
 
 Such passionate tears she shed, as though the soul 
 She had denied, her very eyes invaded ; 
 
 Yet vainly wept, for round her, there were none 
 Who half her heartfelt sorrow comprehended ; 
 
 So rallying, with great effort, on his face 
 
 She fixed an earnest look with heraccustomed grace. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And when, as o'er her face, a veil she threw 
 To hide her streaming tears, the holy man 
 
 Conjured the evil spirit which had so 
 
 Tormented the young bride, with many a ban 
 
 Terrific, this fair lady to forego ; — 
 
 And then a soothing, sacred psalm he sang ; 
 
 While fair Undine every solemn word 
 
 Repeated, and devoutly praised the Lord. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " A deathless soul, how beautiful the thought ! 
 
 And yet how terrible ! — Tell me, I pray, 
 Were it not better never to have sought 
 
 This gift divine, my too aspiring clay ? — 
 When its foreshadow hath such terror wrought 
 
 Through all my frame ? — oh, how I rue the day!- 
 Yet to those mortal joys would not return- — 
 Are spirits then created but to mourn ?"
 
 7 2 Undint : 
 
 IX. 
 
 Again she paused and wept ; but all drew back, 
 As from a thing of mystery and fear. 
 
 With earnest look, still on the mental rack, 
 The priest alone she heeds ; with anxious ear 
 
 Awaiting the reply she still must lack. — 
 " Alas," she cried, " this cruel lot to bear ; 
 
 And I so happy once, so blithe, so gay, 
 
 With merry song and dance through all the livelong 
 day." 
 
 " Sir Bridegroom," said the priest, " I can discover 
 No evil in this maid, though much that is 
 
 Inexplicable ; but let not that remove her 
 
 From your sworn love, or jar your wedded bliss ; 
 
 But as a prudent and a faithful lover, 
 
 Remain ; so shall you find your surest peace." 
 
 With that, the priest took leave, while the old dame 
 
 And fisher crossed themselves, and did the same. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The lady, with her bridegroom left alone, 
 Her face unveiled, and kneeling at his feet, 
 
 " Ah me!" she said, with piteous look and tone, 
 And aspect, through her tears, divinely sweet, 
 
 " You will no more regard me as your own ; 
 Deserted I shall live — no more we meet ! 
 
 I, who no evil thing have done or thought, 
 
 Shall, for my very woes, be left distraught."
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. J2> 
 
 XII. 
 
 The sad confession which had shocked the knight, 
 
 The mystery which his reason sore confounded, 
 Now, like the lightning flash, had vanished quite, 
 
 As his fond arms the lovely maid surrounded, 
 And raised her from the ground. Again all bright 
 
 She shone, like Iris with soft rain beclouded, 
 Or young Aurora, on some mountain stream 
 
 Flinging, with playful laugh, her first enlivening 
 beam. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 So smiled she through her tears. Grief could not 
 dwell 
 
 In those pure elements, her soul's attire, 
 Yet mortal elements must ever quail 
 
 Beneath the ethereal spirit's glance of fire. 
 No more foreboding thoughts the knight assail, 
 
 That fairies with malicious sprites conspire 
 To rob him of his soul, in guise of bliss 
 Connubial, with infernal witch's kiss. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Yet tell me, dearest, those strange words you said, 
 Respecting Kiihleborn and spirits of earth, 
 
 That filled my mind with awe, an inward dread t 
 What could their meaning be?" "Mere words 
 of mirth," 
 
 She said, " and childish fictions, which conveyed 
 No mystery or terror that is worth 
 
 A brave knight's thought. Let us forget the past, 
 
 I gave the first alarm, and you the last."
 
 74 UndinS , 
 
 xv. 
 
 So vanished every trace of fear and gloom, 
 While playful dalliance wiled the hours away, 
 
 Till, for their nuptial torch, the full-orbed moon 
 Shone through the trellised panes with silvery 
 ray. 
 
 So now retiring to their bridal room, 
 
 " This ends," she said, " our happy wedding day, 
 
 And ends my tale." " I trust," rejoined the knight, 
 
 "Our future story may be far more bright."
 
 CANTO VIII. 
 Hoiv they appeared the Day after the Wedding. 
 
 When o'er each jarring sense bland sleep hath 
 furled 
 The oblivious veil, in black-winged dreams we 
 tread 
 The awful confines of the spirit-world ; 
 
 Then, through the dull brain filtered, shapes of 
 dread 
 The soul appal ; or cherub forms, impearled 
 
 In light, through all its sense keen rapture shed; 
 Delusive fancies — to the waking life, 
 Spirit and matter with unceasing strife 
 
 II. 
 
 Oppose each other. Well, our worthy knight 
 Had some experience of this well-known thing; 
 
 Whether in wakeful thought, or slumber light, 
 Whate'cr his bliss, he still must feel the sting; 
 
 Those enemies of peace, by day or night, 
 Beset our lives. Tho' graceless thus to sing, 
 
 In truth, he was uncourteously infested 
 
 Whene'er in feverish sleep he would have rested,
 
 J 6 Undint : 
 
 in. 
 By shapes of horror, starting from behind 
 
 The guise of lovely, sylph-like maiden form ; 
 While dragon's scaly folds the half entwined 
 
 Of long-haired mermaid, radiant as the morn. 
 Affrighted he awoke; while calmly shined 
 
 The clear, cold moon — his fear-chilled senses 
 warm ; 
 For fair Undine softly breathing lay, 
 A lovelier thing than e'er was formed of clay. 
 
 IV. 
 The full moon on her perfect features played : 
 
 Not marble-white, but living warm she glows, 
 As some lone star, with ruby tint inlaid, 
 
 Burns through the sapphire heaven's serene 
 repose ; 
 Or white camellia, whose most delicate shade, 
 
 A blush incarnates, thus she paler shows, 
 As though some angel-spell dissolved the strife 
 That parts the earthly from celestial life. 
 
 v. 
 So, stealing a light kiss, and reassured, 
 
 The knight again composed himself to sleep; 
 The same dread phantoms which before obscured 
 
 His dreams, seemed still their dragon watch to 
 keep ; 
 Till now, all hope of quiet rest abjured, 
 
 He gave his mind to meditation deep, 
 On all the strange adventures which had led, 
 Him thus, by various steps, the maid to wed.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. yj 
 
 VI. 
 
 Deeming he might have wronged her by suspicion, 
 Such error he recanted ; also prayed 
 
 Her pardon ; clearing by a frank confession 
 
 His mind, of what perchance, thought he, had laid 
 
 So heavy, as to cause this apparition. 
 She, when the recantation was all said, 
 
 Her soft hand tendered ; but gave no reply, 
 
 Save from her inmost heart a deep-drawn sigh. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But the pure innocence that stood revealed 
 
 From her clear open brow and eye-glance deep 
 
 Assured him that no evil lay concealed, 
 
 Or thought of malice in that heart could keep 
 
 A moment's place ; so their new bond was sealed 
 With kisses, such as made the fond heart leap 
 
 To the warm lips ; on which our knight full soon 
 
 Rejoined his anxious friends in the next room. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Now they, well versed in witchcraft, ghastly lore 
 
 Of devilry, enchantment, and the like, 
 Ransacked for precedent their ample store 
 
 Of facts authentic, for evidence to strike 
 Their minds, as to the chance of living o'er 
 
 That dreadful season, should the dear maid, 
 unlike 
 Her seeming self, her elements transform 
 
 To dire white man or hideous Kiihleborn.
 
 J& Undind : 
 
 IX. 
 
 Sir Huldbrand, therefore, found his friends con- 
 versing 
 
 With awe-struck face, in anxious undertone, 
 While the good priest seemed inwardly rehearsing 
 
 A prayer that should all evil things send home : 
 His cheerful mien, their foolish fears dispersing, 
 
 As quickly as bright Phoebus quells the storm 
 Portending cloud, now kindled a bright ray 
 Of hopeful joy, not soon to pass away. 
 
 X. 
 
 Then, in facetious words, with cordial greeting, 
 Their foolish apprehensions soon subside ; 
 
 Meanwhile Undine joined the happy meeting, 
 But ah, so changed, so lovely ! — the young bride 
 
 Appeared, yet still familiar ; that to keep in 
 
 Their wonder, they scarce knew ; as by their side 
 
 A seat she took, so nobly sweet, so rife 
 
 With majesty serene, and new exalted life. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But yet more affable, and lowlier too ; 
 
 The good priest, deeply moved, now first 
 addressed 
 The bride, nor wished his labour to undo ; 
 
 But with uplifted hands devoutly bless'd. 
 While, on her knees, and in sweet accents low, 
 
 Her sorrow, her contrition she expressed 
 For former faults, and begged his intercession, 
 And prayers to be withheld from all transgression.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 79 
 
 XII. 
 And then her guardians kind, for all past care, 
 
 She sweetly thanked, with many a warm 
 embrace ; — 
 But here, kind reader, if 'tis not unfair 
 
 Just to put in our notion of the case, 
 We would suggest her lot was better far 
 
 Than some whose forms a deathless soul encase, 
 And yet degrade or quench that noble spirit, 
 Tied to a sordid clod, with no soul in it. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But what the more confirmed her change of heart, 
 She seemed quite free from Satan's favourite sin, 
 
 For in all household duties she took part ; 
 We wish that Mrs. Ellis* could have seen 
 
 The way she would a pudding make, or tart; 
 While, all unsoiled, her pure, angelic mien 
 
 Seemed rather gathering power from every duty, 
 
 Transforming earthly into heavenly beauty. 
 
 XIV. 
 Howbeit, the priest was there, who, tho' unskill'd 
 
 In household matters, could full well discern 
 All moral beauty ; but his sight so filled 
 
 This transformation, that he scarce could turn 
 His eyes away, so wondrously repealed 
 
 Her former faults ; as she again were born 
 To saintly life. At last he turned aside 
 To speak with Huldbrand, touching his young 
 bride. 
 
 * Authoress of " The Women of England," etc., etc.
 
 80 UndinS : 
 
 xv. 
 
 He said she was a gem of priceless worth, 
 
 And charged the knight to cherish her most 
 dearly ; 
 
 That he, although the unworthiest man on earth, 
 Had Heaven selected, whom he thanked 
 sincerely, 
 
 To place in the knight's arms this wondrous birth, 
 Of unknown parentage ; she now being clearly 
 
 His own, with all their duties nobly done, 
 
 Would bless them in this life and that to come. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Such was his final blessing with its charm ; 
 
 But now the evening sun shone pure and bright : 
 The lady leaning on her bridegroom's arm, 
 
 As both admired the rich and mellow light 
 On the tall trees, the turf of emerald bloom ; 
 
 When, as he slowly faded from their sight, 
 She, as deploring his departing doom 
 Lapsed silent at the twilight's deepening gloom. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 So silently they wander, till they gain 
 
 The margin of the forest stream, when lo ! 
 
 The knight beheld, instead of boundless main, 
 A gentle murmuring river, soft and low, 
 
 Deserting its old banks, as ne'er again 
 
 Its former swell and wildness it would show, 
 
 Which heretofore had threatened a long season 
 
 To hold them in their isle, as in a prison.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 81 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " To-morrow," said our lady of the lake, 
 
 In tremulous tone, with eyes suffused in tears, 
 
 " 'Twill all be dry ; your leave you then may take 
 And wander where you will!" "Now this appears 
 
 A jest most rich, when I, for your dear sake, 
 
 Would give my life with all its hopes and fears ; 
 
 Besides, you know, the laws of church and state, 
 
 Would soon restore your captive to his mate." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Thus spake her gallant knight, in merry mien ; 
 
 But she, with pensive smile : " I feel assured 
 Your words are true ; indeed my heart hath been 
 
 So much your own, that ne'er could be endured 
 A blank so terrible to yawn between — 
 
 Thus, in my love alone, I feel secured. 
 Now bear me to your islet ; we shall see 
 Whether your faith with mine can quite agree. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " I easily could ford that shallow stream 
 
 Without your aid ; but then 'tis so much sweeter 
 
 To rest in those dear arms, so should you deem 
 Fit to reject me, as a fearful creature, 
 
 'Twould be some consolation to have been 
 
 Blest for a time ; at least, so much the richer." 
 
 But here our knight the gentle lady bore 
 
 To the sweet islet, where they met before. 
 
 6
 
 82 Undine 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Filled with anxiety and boding fear, 
 
 He scarcely knew what answer he should make ; 
 But, placing on the grass his lady dear — 
 
 " Not here, I pray ; a little further take 
 Your burden, to yon sheltered inlet there," 
 
 She said, " and listen to what I relate 
 With earnest heed ; your very eyes will seal 
 My doom, before a word your lips reveal. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " Believe me, through this world there is no dearth 
 Of beings to sage and seer alike unknown ; 
 
 Each element brings forth its wondrous birth 
 Of mortal sprites. Bright salamanders roam 
 
 Through fiercest flame ; while through the solid 
 earth, 
 Travels the meagre, gaunt, malignant gnome. 
 
 The spirits of the air, by day and night, 
 
 The woods frequent, unseen by outward sight. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " But the most beautiful and near allied 
 To man, of the fourth element partake ; 
 
 On the main sea or margin, at ebb tide, 
 
 May oft be seen ; o'er mountain stream or lake 
 
 They wander, or frequent the sedgy side 
 Of rivulet, and when they please can make 
 
 Their forms perceptible — fair maids are seen, 
 
 Wreathing their delicate hair with shells and sea- 
 weeds green.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 83 
 
 XXIV. 
 " Far in the depths, where crystal domes transmit 
 
 Sunlight and starlight, branching coral trees 
 Form forests wide, and wondrous caverns lit 
 
 With the cool fires that flame on Indian seas ; 
 Purple and golden fruits, so fair, so sweet, 
 
 As in the dragon-guarded Hesperides* 
 Perennial bloom. In happiness untold, 
 Save in that bygone age, so named of gold, 
 
 xxv. 
 " Their nations dwell ; a stately, beauteous race, 
 
 Like those who walked the earth before the flood 
 Submerged their bliss to this inferior place, 
 
 Which in primeval holiness had stood. 
 Cities superb, and mighty temples grace 
 
 The land, with adamantine strength imbued 
 By time, that here brings all things to decay, 
 Adorned with delicate moss and wreath'd with 
 flowerets gay. 
 
 XXVI. 
 " So when some wild sea-maiden, in her play, 
 
 Reveals her lovely shape to human eye, 
 On the smooth lake, or wind-curled ocean spray, 
 
 Singing, as to herself, all cheerily, 
 Her beauty's fame is heard for many a day. 
 
 From clime to clime, as if 'twould never die ; 
 So Mermaid, Syren sweet, or fair Undine, 
 You hear her styled, by those who ne'er had seen her. 
 
 The golden apples of the Hesperides. 
 
 See Ovid, Met. iv. 637. 
 6—2
 
 84 Undini : 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " But why this waste of words ? Before your eyes 
 I stand, a true-born lady of the deep !" 
 
 Fain would the knight believe 'twas but a guise, 
 In mad delusion his blind sense to steep, 
 
 So well concerted her wild phantasies 
 
 Had ever been ; yet still there would arise 
 
 Instinctive promptings of a deeper view, 
 
 That whispered : " Ah, those words may prove too 
 true !" 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 He gazed upon the speaker with fixed eye, 
 And feelings strange of undefined dread ; 
 
 She with distressful look and indrawn sigh, 
 At the first glance, his inward feelings read. 
 
 " In one respect, at least, we cannot vie 
 With your superior race," at last she said ; 
 
 " For we are wholly mortal, and at death, 
 
 Yield to the elements our vital breath. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " Then water, air, and fire which heretofore 
 We wielded, in some measure, at our will, 
 
 Resume their wonted sway, and scatter o'er 
 The earth, like desert sand, the forms we fill 
 
 With such redundant life and mimic power ; 
 So thus our little circle we fulfil, 
 
 Like nightingales, or golden fishes gay, 
 
 Or flies, whose term of life is one long summer 
 day."
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 85 
 
 xxx. 
 
 So those who most enjoy this mortal life, 
 And in the senses all their being merge, 
 
 The spirit starve, or quench it in the strife 
 
 Which should have nobly led them to the verge 
 
 Of immortality ; a being rife 
 
 With ardent aspirations, to immerge 
 
 From the vile bondage of a sensual sty, 
 
 To join the angelic host of souls redeemed on 
 high. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " ' Our intense joys, to end in nothingness, 
 Come like a wintry blast in summer glee ;' 
 
 This thought would oft my royal sire distress, 
 Whose vast domain is all that terrene sea, 
 
 Whose shores, the cradle of the human race, 
 Glow with the mightiest deeds of history — 
 
 So it became at last his life's desire 
 
 That I, his only daughter, should aspire, 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " Whate'er the cost in present grief and pain, 
 To that divine endowment, which to free 
 
 From peril, the august Redeemer came, 
 From all the effulgent blaze of Deity ; 
 
 So vast its price, and so untold the gain, 
 That I cared less our crystal halls to flee ; 
 
 The rightful sceptre of a thousand kings, 
 
 For what are mortal to immortal things ?
 
 86 Undind: 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " By one course only could I reach the goal : 
 This was to join me in the closest tie 
 
 Of wedded life with one possessed of soul 
 Immortal ; thus, by secret sympathy, 
 
 Our mingled being forming but one whole, 
 As the blue river meets the surf-crowned sea, 
 
 Distinct, and yet commingled, would remain 
 
 Joined to eternal life, as with the boundless main. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 "And now, dear Huldbrand, I have gained this 
 boon, 
 
 And ne'er shall cease to thank you for the same, 
 Though it should fill my future life with gloom, 
 
 If we no more united can remain. 
 I pray you, let me hear my sentence soon ! 
 
 For soonest done inflicts the smallest pain ; 
 Then I will plunge me in these waters blue, 
 And dream no more of happiness with you. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 " My uncle will receive me, who conveyed 
 My infant footsteps to the friendly door ; 
 
 A lonely monarch of the forest shade, 
 
 Though many a noble river owns his power, 
 
 His circuit strange, by woodland path and glade, 
 Unwearied plies : he gladly will restore 
 
 The wanderer to her palace home again — 
 
 Alas ! with woman's heart, yet doomed to love in 
 vain."
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 87 
 
 xxxvi. 
 
 But here Sir Huldbrand clasped his lady dear, 
 With many a tender kiss, and fondly swore 
 
 That nought on earth or under it should tear 
 His bride away, now lovelier than before. 
 
 Pygmalion's joy could scarce with his compare, 
 Who, for his sculptured maid, such anguish bore, 
 
 That pitying Venus, to assuage his pain, 
 
 Poured the warm tide of life through every marble 
 vein. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 So, in the tender confidence of love, 
 
 Supported on the arm of her dear knight, 
 
 As toward the lowly cot they peaceful move, 
 She cared no longer to behold the bright 
 
 Throne of her sire, but only thus to prove 
 That love alone can fill the soul with light, 
 
 And warm the heart, whatever ills betide, 
 
 Making its own sweet home even in the desert wide.
 
 CANTO IX. 
 
 How tJie Knight led away his young Bride. 
 
 The morrow brought our knight a slight alarm, 
 For when he woke and found himself alone, 
 
 He could no more his old suspicion calm, 
 But deemed the spectre bride left to bemoan 
 
 Her loving lord ; when, like some healing balm 
 On his chafed mind, Undine entered soon, 
 
 Taking a tender kiss, while down she sate 
 
 On the bedside, her ramble to relate. 
 
 II. 
 
 " I took an early stroll," she said, " to see 
 Whether my wily uncle keeps his word. 
 
 I found all things as well as well could be ; 
 The swollen stream to its old bed restored, 
 
 Now in a dream-like current, tranquilly, 
 Wanders the forest, like a warbling bird. 
 
 The rebel spirits of the air and flood 
 
 Are to most loyal order quite subdued."
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 89 
 
 in. 
 
 Sir Huldbrand thought himself not wide awake, 
 Since nought of this strange uncle could he tell ; 
 
 Yet to his spouse would no rude answer make, 
 Too glad to hear her swan-like accents swell : 
 
 Or rather, a more cheery symbol take, 
 Say, 'twas the chiming of a marriage bell, 
 
 And this the cradle of their infant love, 
 
 Destined, full soon, its sterner toils to prove. 
 
 IV. 
 
 For such a trance of joy came o'er his heart — 
 It seemed a reflex of the waters bright, 
 
 While gazing where the silvery ripples part 
 The forest from their isle of dear delight — 
 
 But here Undine hinted : " Now to start 
 
 Their homeward journey would be easy quite." 
 
 " But sweeter far," said he, " a few more days 
 
 On such surpassing sunsets yet to gaze." 
 
 v. 
 
 " Just as my lord shall please," she meekly said ; 
 
 " But should our aged friends too soon discern 
 The change which this undying soul hath made, 
 
 They would, with tenfold sorrow, inly mourn 
 What else, but as a tree or flower had laid 
 
 So lightly on their hearts, that they would learn 
 Soon to forget, and find more genial things ; 
 For love is only deep which from the spirit springs."
 
 90 Undini : 
 
 VI. 
 
 " You're right," said Huldbrand, pleased enough 
 to find 
 
 The sober wisdom he so much admired ; 
 Then opening to their aged friends his mind, 
 
 He told them their arrangements now required, 
 Without delay, an hour or so to find 
 
 Them homeward bound. — Here the good priest 
 desired 
 To join his friends : he gladly would be made 
 Chaplain, companion, or lady's-maid. 
 
 VII. 
 It seemed th' old pair had some presentiment 
 
 Of their adopted child's new moral birth ; 
 For they, with bitter tears and loud lament, 
 
 Parted as from the loveliest thing on earth. 
 Undine's tears fell silently, but sent 
 
 To the touched heart a prestige of her worth, 
 That long should linger there, and lingering say, 
 Alas! that heavenly things from earth should fade 
 away. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But lest this painful feeling should exceed, 
 Sir Huldbrand, with another brief adieu, 
 
 Lifted his bride upon the noble steed. 
 
 Then they move quickly on, and soon pass through 
 
 The channel of the flood, now fairly dried ; 
 When, as the old cot faded from their view, 
 
 The lady seemed with deeper pain to feel 
 
 Her parting ; yet her grief would fain conceal.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 91 
 
 IX. 
 
 For they had pierced the forest a long way, 
 Before a word had passed her lips between, 
 
 'Mid shades of sombre hue, that well display 
 The peerless beauty of our ocean queen ; 
 
 As well, the snow-white steed in rich array 
 Caparisoned, the white-robed priest between, 
 
 With Huldbrand, harnessed like a noble knight, 
 
 In violet, crimson, gold, and cuirass glancing bright. 
 
 X. 
 
 Such a sweet pensiveness o'erspread them both, 
 That when Undine's tender tears were dried, 
 
 'Mid many a loving glance, they still seemed loath 
 To break the silent charm ; but when it died, 
 
 Their ears were struck with sounds as from a fourth 
 Traveller, conversing with the priest aside — 
 
 One of his order, wearing as over all, 
 
 A long white robe of sacerdotal lawn. 
 
 XI. 
 
 So long indeed, that every step or two, 
 
 He gathered up some fold in abstract mood, 
 
 Which over his left arm he deftly threw ; 
 His face, too, was half shrouded in a hood. 
 
 The words our travellers heard were these : " And - 
 you, 
 Most reverend sir, so long within this wood 
 
 As I have dwelt, I surely never heard 
 
 That I was hermit styled, in your sense of the word.
 
 92 Undini : 
 
 XII. 
 " For, as I said before, I nothing know 
 
 Of penance, and indeed do greatly doubt, 
 If all the sins that my long life can show, 
 
 Would pay the holiest monk to whip them out. 
 You ask me \v r hy I love this forest so ? 
 
 Tis for its splendid scenery, when throughout 
 I pierce its wildering leaves and shadows green 
 So sparsely gilded by heaven's light serene." 
 
 XIII. 
 ' You are a man of character unique," 
 
 Rejoined the priest ; "I, being of the same school, 
 Would fain be more acquainted." " I would seek 
 The same of you," replied the other; "if it be our 
 rule, 
 To pass from theme to theme. Your name pray 
 speak," 
 The stranger said. The priest replied, as cool, 
 " 'Tis Father Heilman, and my cloister this 
 That of our Lady of the Holy Kiss, 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Beyond the lake." "Well, well," broke in the 
 stranger, 
 
 " My name, without its haft, is Kiihleborn ; 
 But being of this great wood so long a ranger, 
 
 Though to no empty, tinsel title born, 
 I might, without undue assumption, change a 
 
 Similar claim with you, so without scorn 
 Be styled, of Kiihleborn most noble Lord; 
 For I can prove the right, upon my word.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 93 
 
 xv. 
 
 " For instance, I have just a word or two 
 To say to that fine woman on the horse ;" 
 
 So round the priest, close to her side he flew, 
 As he had been a spirit, or something worse. 
 
 To most gigantic stature, up he drew 
 
 His wondrous frame, until his mouth was close 
 
 To the fair lady's ear. She shrank aside 
 
 With terror, and uncourteously replied : 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Begone, I say ! of you I have no need !" 
 
 The stranger, laughing, cried, " Then you forget 
 
 Your uncle, who so faithfully indeed 
 
 You to this land conveyed. Your mind is set 
 
 On this grand wedding. Methinks you've quickly 
 laid 
 Your friends in the background. Your memory 
 whet, 
 
 I pray, but for a moment to return 
 
 To former days, and 'dear old Kiihlcborn !' " 
 
 XVII. 
 
 <: Whate'er your services," Undine said, 
 
 " I pray you never to appear again 
 Near me ; for I not only greatly dread 
 
 Your presence, but my husband to retain 
 How can I hope, if such an uncouth breed 
 
 Of relatives should cause him to complain 
 That I had practised some dire incantation 
 Making him to foul fiends a near relation ?"
 
 94 Undine : 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " You are too saucy quite, my little niece ; 
 
 Pray, don't you know that I am here as guide ? 
 These madcap gnomes would soon a pretty piece 
 
 Of mischief play, were I to leave your side. 
 Sa, with our worthy Father, if you please, 
 
 I will conduct you through the forest wide. 
 He is not quite so ready to forget 
 As you ; he tells me we before have met, 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " And that he saw me in the ferry-boat, 
 From which he fell into the whirling wave. 
 
 He's right ; for I was that same water-spout 
 That well-nigh sunk him to a watery grave, 
 
 But for a better purpose kept him out B 
 
 For your fine wedding, his good life to save, 
 
 I buoyed him up and washed him safe on shore — 
 
 Yet for all this, you thank me none the more." 
 
 XX. 
 
 Undine and the knight could scarcely take 
 
 Their eyes from the good priest, who moved along 
 
 As in a dream, or only half awake — 
 Somnambulism, in our modern tongue, 
 
 Seems the right word. The knight could scarcely 
 make 
 Him hear, though shouting like a Chinese gong. 
 
 This incident, we hope, will claim attention 
 
 To prove clairvoyance is no new invention.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 95 
 
 XXI. 
 " Already," said Undine, " each one sees 
 
 Our journey's end ;" and showing to Kuhleborn 
 A gleam of sunshine through the opening trees, 
 
 " Now, my dear friend, I beg you will return, 
 And all your anxious fears for us appease : 
 
 Believe me, neither genii, fiend, nor gnome, 
 In all this world, can frighten us like you ; 
 So, with goodwill and thanks, I beg to say adieu !" 
 
 XXII. 
 The other cast upon her a fierce glare, " 
 
 That like malignant planet made to creep 
 Her blood, and seemed to wither up her fair 
 
 And shrinking frame ; so, with a piercing shriek, 
 Sh' implored her husband's aid in wild despair, 
 
 Who, darting round the steed, almost as quick 
 As lightning to the rescue instant flew, 
 And his death-dealing blade as quickly drew. 
 
 XXIII. 
 Then, with heroic flourish and quick flash, 
 
 Worthy of Austerlitz or Waterloo, 
 Down came the weapon with tremendous crash, 
 That nearly clave the stranger's scalp in two ; 
 Or would have done, but for a drowning splash 
 Of torrent's foam, that nearly drenched them 
 through ; 
 As the sharp falchion glanced upon the rock, 
 It seemed with mimic laugh his dreamy rage to 
 mock.
 
 96 Undind : 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 "Ah !" said the priest, awakening from his trance, 
 " I quite expected something of this kind, 
 
 When from afar I saw that stream advance, 
 And ever nearer to our path inclined ; 
 
 For tumbling down the rocks, its headlong dance 
 Sounds much like human speech, though ill- 
 defined : 
 
 Its figure too, so like a surplice white, 
 
 In forest shade, full well may cheat the sight." 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Howbeit, Sir Huldbrand vowed he heard it say : 
 " Ah, you brave knight, I quarrel not with you ; 
 
 But like your spirit — therefore slash away ; 
 Your pretty wife defend while she is new. 
 
 I wish this mood may bless you every day, 
 
 Nor while you live, may cool this chivalrous cue. 
 
 I quarrel not with you, bold knight — so rash ;" 
 
 Here the voice ended in a bubbling splash. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 A few steps further brought them to the edge 
 Of the dim forest ; here the wide campaign, 
 
 Level as ocean, stretched beneath the ledge 
 Of rock, that towering, overlooked the plain : 
 
 While the red sun, on the horizon's edge, 
 
 Had just sufficient heat their clothes to drain 
 
 Of moisture ; then before them brightly lay 
 
 The imperial city's walls, with domes and turrets 
 gay.
 
 CANTO X. 
 How affairs went on in the City. 
 
 Sir Huldbrand was a greatly honoured knight 
 In this fair city ; also, we might say, 
 
 Beloved ; for, in the dance, an adept quite, 
 And fond of tilt and banquet's rich display, 
 
 1 1 is manners, ever winning and polite, 
 
 Made him a choice companion to the gay ; 
 
 So his departure caused them no small chat, 
 
 Anxiety, foreboding, and all that. 
 
 II. 
 
 To his dependents he was so endeared, 
 
 They would not quit the city till they knew 
 
 Some certain tidings of his fate ; they feared 
 Nothing but danger, or the forest through 
 
 They would have scoured — such risk to them ap- 
 peared 
 Fool-hanly, when they took a sober view ; 
 
 Tho' still their grief oft stifled with the vine, 
 
 Or Xenophon's more Gothic " barley-wine." 
 
 7
 
 98 Undine: 
 
 ill. 
 
 So every eve they hoped, and every morn 
 Began to fear ; thus talking to each other, 
 
 They kept the thing alive — as some say, warm — 
 That nought their dear lord's memory might 
 smother ; 
 
 Until those dreadful floods had so nigh worn 
 Hope to its thinnest edge, that not another 
 
 Chance for his life would justify these brave 
 
 Servants to seek in that dire wood his grave. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Bertalda also openly betrayed 
 
 Her grief, and on herself much blame she took, 
 In such a reckless manner to have laid 
 
 That peril on a knight, whose heart would brook 
 No risk with its bright honour to be weighed ; 
 
 Meanwhile, her foster-mother and the duke 
 Arrived, their sorrowing daughter to remove 
 From the old scenes of her untoward love. 
 
 V. 
 
 But at the bottom of her heart she cherished 
 A lingering hope, so her dear friends besought, 
 
 Until they really knew her lord had perished, 
 They would remain. " Now some young knights 
 who sought 
 
 Her hand, with favours high should be embellished," 
 She said, " when they the noble lord had brought 
 
 Safe to her arms ;" but then they did not care 
 
 For noble partners in a love affair.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 99 
 
 VI. 
 
 Her precious hand to pledge she could not spare, 
 For her returning knight might claim that bliss, 
 
 To have induced them such bold feat to dare, 
 For a mere glove, a ribbon, or a kiss, 
 
 And sit down quietly with such small share, 
 
 For her, perchance, might not have been amiss : 
 
 At length her sober reason make it plain, 
 
 Such intrigue, even in woman's hand, were vain. 
 
 VII. 
 
 So when the unlooked-for knight at length appeared, 
 The very city seemed to dance with joy ; 
 
 Though it could not be said Bertalda shared 
 This feeling ; there was something to alloy 
 
 Her pleasure, in the fact that he had dared 
 To let a lovelier maid his heart decoy. 
 
 Therefore her gentle sorrow turned to gall, 
 
 And then she mourned for having grieved at all. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But being a subtle woman of the world, 
 
 She smothered all that pain as a mere bubble, 
 
 And wisely, too ; it would have been absurd 
 To let those people feast upon her trouble, 
 
 Who, in Horatian phrase, are rightly termed 
 " Malignum vulgus," for they always grovel 
 
 In envious malice, and their greatest spite 
 
 Is shown when others rise above their height. 
 
 7-2
 
 ioo Undind : 
 
 IX. 
 
 She therefore paid that court to fair Undine, 
 
 Which for the gallant knight before was meant; 
 
 For all the city deemed this bride had been a 
 Princess, delivered from the entanglement 
 
 Of fiendish wiles ; that so the knight had seen a 
 Great prize, and his high chivalry had lent 
 
 To set her free ; nor was this tale denied 
 
 Either by Huldbrand or his lovely bride. 
 
 x. 
 
 For all absurd conjectures of this kind, 
 
 They met with prudent silence or evasion ; 
 
 And having brought the priest to the same mind, 
 He proved a useless tool for the occasion 
 
 Of idle gossip, had he been inclined, 
 
 Far other duties lent their strong persuasion : 
 
 So to his cloistered brethren he returned, 
 
 Ere even Bertalda had the story learned. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Undine's friendship deepened every hour — 
 Bertalda's virtues she too highly rated ; 
 
 So great would seem her sympathetic power, 
 She had much rather be deceived than hated 
 
 Though innocence had been her bridal dower, 
 Such guileless spirits are full oft belated, 
 
 Their souls to a far higher sphere belong, 
 
 And so are weakest where their foes are strong-:
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 101 
 
 XII. 
 
 So they should ne'er a wily spirit own, 
 Altho' such loftiness might pass for pride ; 
 
 But here there seemed a true accordant tone 
 Between the two ; nor could it be denied, 
 
 Even by Bertalda, though she did bemoan 
 The peerless beauty of this rival bride, 
 
 That she felt drawn, by strange attraction sweet, 
 
 To her whom 'twas so bitter once to meet. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Therefore their mutual guardians to defer 
 The day of separation they persuade ; 
 
 Nay, more — an embryo scheme began to stir 
 Their thoughts, they could not easily evade 
 
 When both were of one mind ; so they confer 
 With their allies, until the plan was laid, 
 
 That fair Bertalda, for Undine's sake, 
 
 At the knight's castle her abode should make 
 
 XIV. 
 
 For a long season. Now it so fell out, 
 One summer evening, as the married pair 
 
 The starlit city took a stroll about, 
 
 This very subject came in for its share 
 
 Of comment, and Bertalda too, they thought, 
 
 Whose dwelling was close to them in the square, 
 
 Would gladly join them ; therefore they invite 
 
 Their friend, altho' 'twas verging into night.
 
 102 Undind : 
 
 xv. 
 But 'twas a night of beauty ; the blue sky, 
 
 With its large stars, on earth sweet influence 
 played ; 
 A sparkling^fountain, whose bright column high 
 
 Rose in the centre, mid the tall trees' shade, 
 With gentle leap impulsive, as 'twould vie 
 
 With things of life, a soothing freshness made, 
 And ringing, merry voices filled the ear, 
 Of childhood's mirth, and glimmering lights were 
 near, 
 
 XVI. 
 Which spoke of social happiness around. 
 
 So with their own contentment, and what came 
 From others, our three friends already found 
 
 Whate'er their previous doubts or fears could 
 claim, 
 No further obstacle their project bound ; 
 
 Propitious stars upon their journey flame, 
 And nought remained but just to fix the day, 
 When lo ! a stranger met them on the way. 
 
 XVII. 
 A tall man, from the middle of the square, 
 
 Approached the trio, with a bow polite, 
 And whispered something in the young bride's ear, 
 
 Whereat, tho' somewhat troubled at this slight 
 Intrusion on their pleasure, yet so near, 
 
 She condescended to receive him quite, 
 And, in a foreign tongue, as seemed to all, 
 Conversed, some moments, with the stranger tall.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 103 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Huldbrand conjectured 'twas the very same 
 
 That with his valiant sword he did not slay- 
 In the late quarrel ; therefore was to blame 
 For such diversion, that he could not pay 
 The least regard to questionings that came 
 
 Eagerly from Bertalda. When away 
 Undine turned, clapping her hands with glee, 
 At which the stranger muttered angrily, 
 
 XIX. 
 
 And toward the fountain hastily withdrew, 
 Shaking his head ; as tho' he still complained 
 
 Of some affront ; then, fading from their view, 
 With its descending waters seemed to blend. 
 
 Sir Huldbrand, now assured his guess was true, 
 Would fain have spoken ; but the words detained 
 
 His friend, who begged Undine to explain 
 
 Her wondrous parley with this sprite again. 
 
 xx. 
 
 Undine- answered, laughing in her sleeve : 
 
 " Have patience one day more, then you shall 
 know ; 
 
 The next will be your name-day, I believe, 
 
 When I this wondrous piece of news will show. 
 
 Meanwhile, shall be most happy to receive 
 You and your parents, if you will bestow 
 
 This boon — its anniversary to spend, 
 
 With all due honour to my dearest friend."
 
 1 04 Undini : 
 
 xxr. 
 
 " Pray was that Kiihleborn ?" Sir Huldbrand said, 
 With inward shudder, as their friend retired. 
 
 " It was, my dear ; but you have nought to dread, 
 Nor even myself, at that which hath transpired ; 
 
 For he, poor simpleton s from his weak head 
 Distilled a piece of news that greatly cheered 
 
 My heart, altho' by no means his intent, 
 
 But truth will out, sometimes, when least 'tis meant. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 1 1 gladly will inform you, if you wish, 
 
 But having first invited to a feast 
 Our friends, I'd rather this, our choicest dish, 
 
 Reserve for that event ; at her request, 
 I promised she should know." This gentle wish, 
 
 The knight would not discourage in the least ; 
 At which Undine's pleasure grew so deep, 
 That the same night she murmured it in sleep.
 
 CANTO XL 
 Bertaldds Name-day. 
 
 The guests were seated in the banquet hall, 
 And fair Bertalda shone the brightest there; 
 
 Her head encircled with a coronal 
 
 Of richest gems, that sparkled in her hair. 
 
 So like a queen she seemed before them all, 
 Or goddess of the spring ; for bouquets rare, 
 
 Of finest flowers, profusely bloomed around : 
 
 By her indulgent friends thus richly robed and 
 crowned. 
 
 II. 
 
 But when the lordly banquet was nigh ended, 
 
 By hospitable custom of the land, 
 With the dessert, the doors were wide extended, 
 
 And rich and poor alike, whoe'er might stand 
 Outside, within the hall their presence blended 
 
 With rank and wealth ; while, at the lord's 
 command, 
 Sweetmeats and wine were handed freely round ; 
 So thus no envious jars their festal mirth confound.
 
 106 UndinS ': 
 
 in. 
 With heartfelt joy Undine sweetly smiled, 
 
 Looking as she had something to relate 
 Most joyous ; but she would, like dainty child, 
 
 Take care her choicest thing should come in late. 
 Bertalda and the knight, though half beguiled 
 
 By thoughts inquisitive, yet silent sate 
 And curious glances cast — but 'twas not loncf 
 Ere some one begged our bride to give a song. 
 
 IV. 
 This seemed well timed ; so, without coy disguise, 
 
 As that her voice was tuneless, nerves unstrung, 
 Which of all singers, Horace terms " the vice 
 
 Who once let go, will scream both loud and long, 
 Nor stop when told." — Undine, not more nice 
 
 Than Jenny Lind, because she felt as strong 
 In music's wondrous power, her lute desired, 
 Then thrill'd from her warm soul these words 
 inspired : 
 
 The morning breezes, clear and cold, 
 
 Sweep o'er the waters blue ; 
 O'er wavy grass, with flowers of gold, 
 
 Bedecked with sparkling dew. 
 
 Fair as lake lily, gleaming white, 
 
 What glimmers there so gay, 
 As snowy blossoms floating light, 
 
 Or wind-tossed ocean spray ? 
 
 Unconscious babe, in artless play, 
 Grasping the flowers with tiny hand, 
 
 Or snatching at morn's golden ray 
 Of thy far distant natal land.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 107 
 
 Whence hath wafted, fairy thing, 
 The reckless waves, thy tender life ? 
 Cease, ah ! cease that aimless strife, 
 Nor vainly to those wild flowers cling. 
 Trimming their graceful figures slight, 
 With the tints of heaven's own light, 
 Their celestial odorous breath 
 Half creates a life in death. — 
 
 But they care not, babe, for thee, 
 Nor can clasp thee tenderly, 
 From thy mother's bosom torn, 
 Even in childhood's earliest morn ; 
 While heaven's smile is beaming through 
 Those large orbs of tender blue — 
 Snatched away ! ah, cruel lot ! 
 Hapless child ! who knowest it not. — 
 
 A noble duke hath crossed the mead, 
 
 Of knowledge high and manners fine, 
 Near thee he stops his coal-black steed — - 
 
 A happier life, sweet babe, be thine, 
 His princely palace to adorn, 
 
 The fairest lady of the land. — 
 But that surpassing bliss forlorn, 
 
 Thou leavest on an unknown strand. 
 
 V. 
 
 Her voice in graceful cadence died away, 
 When pausing, with a melancholy smile, 
 
 As the low lute tones swept that bright array, 
 With undertone pathetic, and the while 
 
 The ducal parents' eyes large tears betray, 
 Proofs of the beauteous bride's artistic guile. 
 
 "Ah," said the duke, "just so that happy day 
 
 When first the unconscious babe before me lay.
 
 1 08 Undine : 
 
 VI. 
 
 " The lovely minstrel hath full well pourtrayed 
 The touching story of your outcast lot. 
 
 Alas! that priceless boon, a parent's aid, 
 
 Left on an unknown strand and vainly sought, 
 
 We could not give !" — But here Undine said : 
 " You now must hear the suffering which it 
 brought 
 
 On the poor parents ; so these thrilling words 
 
 She sweetly sang and swept the tuneful chords : 
 
 Lonely, through each empty room, 
 
 Roams the mother to and fro, 
 Seeking alas, what ends in gloom, 
 
 To find her house the home of woe. 
 
 Lonely house ! (ah, words forlorn !) 
 When cheered it once a lovely child, 
 
 Who led the dear one every morn ? 
 Who nightly rocked to slumber mild ? 
 
 With vernal warmth the buds are swelling, 
 Returning sunshine warms the shore, 
 
 While vain, you roam the dreary dwelling 
 That brings your loved and lost no more. 
 
 With the breeze of evening mild, 
 
 Home the father wends his way, 
 Musing o'er his only child, 
 
 Starting tears his grief betray. 
 
 Well he knows, in chamber lone, 
 
 Deathlike stillness he shall meet, 
 He shall hear the mother's moan, 
 
 But no playful smile shall greet.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 109 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Oh tell me, in heaven's name," Bertalda cried, 
 " Where my dear long-lost parents may be found ? 
 
 For you, most wondrous woman, so allied 
 
 To secret knowledge, can this doubt expound, 
 
 Or you would not thus sore my heart have tried." 
 And then she quickly glanced the circle round: 
 
 There sat a high-born lady near her sire, 
 
 Whom she could for her mother well desire. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Undine had a humbler prize in store ; 
 
 So, with a gentle movement of the head 
 And sparkling eyes, she looked toward the door : 
 
 Now, "Where are these poor parents?" gaily 
 said. — 
 In came the fisher with his wife before 
 
 The crowd ; so, as their modest way they made, 
 On fair Undine their first glances rest, 
 Then on the splendid lady, her proud guest. 
 
 IX. 
 
 14 Ah ! you are right — before you — 'tis your child!" 
 Exclaimed Undine, fluttering with delight ; 
 
 While they, with sudden transport, seemed half 
 wild, 
 And rapturously embraced this welcome light 
 
 Of their drear age. Bertalda, with no mild 
 Disgust, did soon the impertinence requite : 
 
 "You senseless fool, these claspings ne'er repeat, 
 
 For you arc not my mother, perjured cheat !"
 
 no Undind '. 
 
 x. 
 
 The dame unlocked her prize, yet inly said : 
 " I feel she is my child, though much I grieve 
 
 To think that gentle breeding should have made, 
 Instead of gentle manners, to receive 
 
 Evil or good, with equal mind and staid — 
 My child a veriest vixen ; to believe 
 
 That lowly birth illustrious rank can blight 
 
 The foil that makes even virtue still more bright." 
 
 XI. 
 
 The pious fisher clasped his hands and prayed, 
 And with good reason, too, this girl might be 
 
 No child of his : but fair Undine laid 
 Her head on hand, lamenting languidly, 
 
 As if her very life had been betrayed 
 
 By this untoward shock ; yet brave to see, 
 
 She strove her wounded feelings to restrain, 
 
 Though hers were greater than Bertalda's pain. 
 
 XII. 
 
 In truth, her disappointment was most keen, 
 As down she sank from all her heaven of joy ; 
 
 Her woman's instinct scarce had perfect been, 
 Not to have known such things will sore annoy 
 
 Ambitious minds, who don't like to be seen 
 As metal pure combined with base alloy ; 
 
 Because they deem nobility allied 
 
 To dress, or something worn on the outside.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 1 1 1 
 
 XIII. 
 
 For mannerism is but an inner dress, 
 
 The tailoring of the mind, which can assume 
 
 The aesthetics of each virtue that doth bless 
 Regenerate souls ; so shallow minds presume 
 
 All men are what they seem, as on they press 
 Through a vain world, until the " crack of doom " 
 
 Rouse their base souls from such delusive dream 
 
 And show what all men arc, not what they seem. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Undine knew no guile, and therefore cried, 
 
 With much amazement : " Can you have a soul, 
 
 Bertalda ?" and by such means vainly tried 
 To soothe her and that angry mood control. 
 
 This proved as though with brimstone she had plied 
 A raging fire ; for truly such an owl 
 
 The other seemed, her anger fiercer grew, 
 
 While the poor parents sobbed and wept anew. 
 
 xv. 
 
 The guests, meanwhile, upon the point divide, 
 Arguing the case most warmly pro and con ; 
 
 The minor part support the truthful bride, 
 The major, that Bertalda, " skin and bone," 
 
 A true-born lady was, most stoutly cried, 
 And that her filial instinct too had shown ; 
 
 She could no more these fishing parents own, 
 
 Than lord or lady could a bcor or clown.
 
 1 1 2 Undind : 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Undine begged for liberty to speak 
 
 In this, her husband's hall ; and so she took 
 
 Her station at the table's head, with meek 
 
 And courteous mien ; Bertalda could not brook 
 
 This awkward shock, but looked as she would 
 wreak 
 Full vengeance ; for two various feelings shook 
 
 Her mind — she felt her self-respect invaded, 
 
 And pride rebelled at being thus degraded. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " My friends, at this untoward end, I grieve ; 
 
 For I had hoped from this much wished-for fete, 
 We all should more or less some joy receive ; 
 
 But with this hot discussion you belate 
 All harmony ; I never can believe 
 
 Your heartless maxims, nor be so elate 
 With cruel pride, my kindred race to scorn, 
 
 For lack of wealth, or being ignobly born." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " For this chagrin, you have yourselves to blame, 
 Not me ; who can most solemnly declare 
 
 That my informant is the very same 
 
 Who did the babe decoy, and placed her there, 
 
 On the green meadow, near the path where came 
 The duke, well knowing she would promptly 
 share 
 
 His kind regard." On this Bertalda cried : 
 
 " Enchantress, base and vile, or you have lied !
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 1 1 3 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Your words with falsehood and deceit are blended : 
 At least, they must be, if indeed you say 
 
 That I from these low people am descended. 
 By you, my noble guardians, I pray 
 
 From all such calumny to be defended ; 
 And from this evil company away 
 
 To take me ; from this cruel city too, 
 
 Lest further insults should my peace pursue." 
 
 xx. 
 
 The duke remained unmoved ; for it was not 
 His way to act in quarrel and vexation. 
 
 The duchess, like a prudent lady, sought 
 The cause to sift of all this perturbation : 
 
 " For till 'twas quite cleared up," she said, " that out 
 No foot should stir." Then, from her distant 
 station, 
 
 The fisher's wife walked up, and somewhat low, 
 
 Moved to the duchess with a courteous bow, 
 
 XXT. 
 
 Saying : " Your love of justice, noble dame, 
 My heart unlocks, and makes me bold to say, 
 
 That if a child of mine you prove this same 
 Ill-mannered lady, I can show the way 
 
 Such proof to find : for a blue mark doth claim 
 Place 'twixt her shoulders ; nought can wash 
 away, 
 
 These from her birth — and near the instep too 
 
 Of the left foot, one like it, 'neath her shoe ; 
 
 8
 
 114 Undine. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " If she will but consent to walk with me 
 Out of the hall." But here Bertalda cried : 
 
 " A pretty tale indeed, that I should be 
 
 Thus treated by a peasant !" " But," replied 
 
 The duchess, with firm accent courteously, 
 " To me, at least, this cannot be denied ; 
 
 And so, my dear, we will all three retire 
 
 To the next room ; the truth shall soon transpire." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The door was closed ; and on their friends behind, 
 Suspense, with anxious stillness, seemed to brood. 
 They soon returned ; Bertalda's head declined, 
 With death-pale cheeks and towering pride 
 subdued. 
 " Now," said the duchess, " we most surely find 
 
 Our hostess right. Let it be understood, 
 Bertalda is the fisher's child, no doubt ; 
 No more we need — the truth hath now come out." 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The princely pair retired, leading away 
 
 Th'adopted child. The duke a signal gave 
 
 To follow, which the parents both obey ; 
 
 Then, as a calm comes o'er the stormy wave, 
 
 The strife, in murmuring whispers, died away, 
 While fair Undine's visage, sad and grave, 
 
 Hot tears suffuse, as well indeed they may ; 
 
 She sinks in Huldbrand's arms, half-fainting with 
 dismay.
 
 CANTO XII. 
 
 Hoiv they Journeyed from tJie City. 
 
 I. 
 
 RlNGSTETTEN's lord had seen, with much regret, 
 The cross events that marred their festal joy ; 
 
 Grieved for his disappointed spouse ; but yet 
 His grief was tempered with a bright alloy; 
 
 For never, thought he, could his heart forget 
 Her generous spirit, which could thus employ 
 
 Such studious care to please a rival beauty — 
 
 Her self-neglect, and noble sense of duty. 
 
 II. 
 
 " If I a soul have given her," thought he, 
 " 'Tis of a finer texture than my own." 
 
 Then soothing her chafed feelings tenderly, 
 
 He bade her take fresh heart, in cheerful tone ; 
 
 For the next morn a pleasant tour should free 
 Their spirits from those scenes, which must have 
 grown 
 
 Distasteful ; for the soul will ever fling 
 
 Its own complexion o'er each outward thing. 
 
 8—2
 
 1 1 6 Undine" : 
 
 in. 
 
 The people formed a judgment on the case 
 
 Which, toward Undine, showed but little change; 
 
 From her distinguished mien and noble face, 
 
 Great things they augured ; so for something 
 strange, 
 
 Were thus prepared ; but poor Bertalda's place 
 Sank somewhat lower than it deserved to range ; 
 
 As if, when some proud racer should be found, 
 
 When second-best, its pedigree unsound. 
 
 IV. 
 
 So she was censured loudly, haughtily, 
 
 With show of reason, being, they thought, low 
 bred, 
 
 Because low born ; and nought so pleasantly 
 Can sooth a vulgar mind, as thus to tread 
 
 On prostrate friend or foe ; all deem they see, 
 From those beneath, their own superior grade : 
 
 For " aristocratic vices ever exceed 
 
 In worth, the purest virtues which proceed 
 
 V. 
 
 " From vulgar minds :" it hath been gravely said, 
 By Lady Esther Stanhope ; which to follow 
 
 As truth, we might indeed our bodies spread, 
 (Counting it no small gain) in mire to wallow, 
 
 If lordly shoes would deign our backs to tread ; 
 Yet deem we not this saying quite so hollow, 
 
 If only it be perfectly defined 
 
 What marks the vulgar from the noble mind.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 117 
 
 VI. 
 
 For tinsel rank cannot an atom change 
 Of our life's blood ; 'tis only as the spirit 
 
 Rules o'er those lower elements, which range 
 All grades of brutal life, we can inherit 
 
 That high nobility that would estrange 
 
 Evil in thought or deed ; for this can merit 
 
 Alone, life above nature, being more allied 
 
 To lowliness than empty scornful pride. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But now 'tis early morn; the rumbling sound, 
 Of Huldbrand's stately equipage cuts short 
 
 Our sermon ; for the prancing horses bound 
 
 O'er the rough stones ; so soon their stamp and 
 snort 
 
 Impatient at the palace gate resound, 
 
 And to their call our knight and lady brought. 
 
 A fish-girl stood before them at the door, 
 
 And offered to their view her goodly store, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 All glittering wet; to whom Sir Huldbrand said, 
 " We cannot buy your fish, my girl, for we 
 
 Are on a journey bound." At which the maid 
 Covered her face and wept most bitterly. 
 
 This conduct strange our tourists' steps delayed, 
 Which else had glanced away in careless glee ; 
 
 For soon they found this fish- girl was the same 
 
 Bcrtalda who had tarnished her fair fame.
 
 1 1 8 Undini '.* 
 
 IX. 
 
 So thus delayed, they to an ante-room 
 
 With the poor girl retired, to hear her tale, 
 
 Which soon informed them of her luckless lot : 
 How that her guardians would in future fail 
 
 To acknowledge or admit her to their cot — 
 Thus left for cruel mockery to assail; 
 
 Disgusted at her violence and pride, 
 
 Which would the truth itself in falsehood hide. 
 
 X. 
 
 Yet they dismissed her with a rich donation, 
 
 And on her sire the like bestowed ; 
 Who, with his wife, commenced their emigration 
 
 Last eve to the peninsula. " I would 
 Have gone with them," she said, " but this ovation, 
 
 The fisher, who is called my sire, withstood," 
 " Your sire he truly is" Undine said, 
 Rebuking still the pride of the poor maid ; 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Hear me : the man you thought held keeper's place, 
 Over the fountain, told your history plain 
 
 To me; and, for this reason — that you should not 
 pace 
 With me to our abode, because he fain 
 
 Would have me think that some ill luck would 
 chase 
 Our course, if all his warnings were not ta'en." 
 
 "Well then," Bertalda said, " my father, now 
 
 It must be so, would not my wish allow.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 1 1 9 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Nor would he take me till my haughty mind, 
 He said, was changed ; for being himself so poor, 
 
 Did no fine lady want ; but as a kind 
 Of test, demanded that I should endure 
 
 The pain, through that dread wood his home to 
 find, 
 As a poor fish-girl ; thus would they be sure 
 
 Of my regard ; so being of friends in need, 
 
 I to this hard condition must accede. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " The wood is terrible ! but I conclude — 
 
 For 'tis a case of dire necessity ; 
 I am resolved to die in solitude, 
 
 The poorest of the poor. Yet just to see 
 Your ladyship, I called, that my too rude 
 
 Behaviour, you would pardon graciously. 
 I am sure 'twas kindly meant ; the fault unknown 
 Was, that you read my feelings from your own : 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " So being surprised and wounded suddenly, 
 
 Rash words escaped my lips." Her voice just 
 here 
 
 Faltered, and she again wept piteously. 
 Undine wept with her. " Bertalda dear," 
 
 At length she said, " I beg you not to be 
 
 So much discouraged ; you shall freely share 
 
 Our home, while all our customs shall remain 
 
 Just as they were; so pray take heart again !
 
 120 Undind: 
 
 xv. 
 
 " I also beg that you will always speak 
 To me as we were sisters, thus discard 
 
 Titles of rank and honour, which but make 
 A false distinction, strange to me and hard 
 
 To those who truly love for virtue's sake : 
 For all are equal in that great award 
 
 To which our souls aspire ; and which e'en now 
 
 We inherit — all without is empty show. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Our fates are similar, since we have been 
 Changed for each other, in our infancy ; 
 
 Let, through this destiny, our love be seen 
 In closest bond of tenderest amity — 
 
 And you shall join our little band between — 
 But here Bertalda, glancing timidly 
 
 At Huldbrand, seemed to ask if he complied 
 
 With the kind offer of his lovely bride. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 He took her by the hand, and gallantly 
 
 Begged she would trust herself to his wife's care ; 
 
 And also said all other things should be 
 
 So managed, that her new-found parents dear 
 
 Should be informed ; lest some perplexity 
 
 His firm old friends should grieve ; — but seeing here 
 
 Bertalda's visage change, he touched no more 
 
 The painful theme that made her heart so sore.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. e 2 1 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Then motioning the ladies both to sit, 
 He mounted his white steed, so urgently, 
 
 They sallied forth, and soon the city quit ; — 
 Its empty pomp, its lying pageantry, 
 
 With all those cross encounters which had hit 
 So cruelly Bertalda, cheerily 
 
 Glide from their thoughts, as glide the rolling wheels 
 
 O'er terraced hills and sweetly smiling fields. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Ringstetten castle, in a few short days, 
 
 The travellers reach ; they stand, at eventide 
 
 Upon the fortress-rampart, thence to gaze 
 
 On the fair landscape, stretching far and wide, 
 
 Of fertile Swabia ; while the ruddy blaze 
 Of the declining sun, superbly dyed, 
 
 Forest and stream, the distant mountain high, 
 
 With tints scarce less ethereal than the sky. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Here a tall person the two ladies met, 
 
 Saluting, with a civil recognition. 
 Bertalda thought she once before had set 
 
 Her eyes on this same gentleman or vision ; 
 Recalling one who in that sparkling jet 
 
 Of moonlit water passed with strange transition ; 
 The more, because Undine now was seen 
 To wave the stranger back, with like imperious mien.
 
 122 Undini: 
 
 XXI. 
 
 He, as before, strode hastily away, 
 
 Shaking his head ; then to the shadowing trees 
 Of neighbouring grove retired. — " Bertalda, pray 
 
 Be not alarmed ; but keep your mind at ease," 
 Undine said ; " this odious fiend to lay, 
 
 I'll undertake ; he has no power to seize 
 Out of his element." — Then a brief relation 
 She gave of all that wondrous transmutation 
 
 XXII. 
 
 By which they were exchanged one for the other. 
 
 Bertalda, much amazed, could scarce believe 
 Her friend of mind quite sound ; nor to discover 
 
 A cause, in sober reason could conceive. 
 If this be true, thought she, I by some other, 
 
 In sleep might be replaced; which would not leave 
 Power, when I woke, to say why I should vary 
 From mermaid, monster, or some cursed fairy. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 But then there was consistency with that 
 
 Responsive sense of candour which, in sooth, 
 
 Truth always gives, and then her present fate 
 With the remembrance of her earlier youth 
 
 So well agreed ; while her now stifled hate 
 Did all obstructive influence from the truth 
 
 Remove at once ; for credence, we must own, 
 
 Is more by feeling gained than thought alone.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 123 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Therefore some awe was mingled with her- love 
 For her kind friend ; so oft a marvelling glance 
 
 She cast at Huldbrand, as he daily strove, 
 To this most wondrous creature of romance, 
 
 With all assiduous tenderness, to prove 
 
 His warmest love ; as did but more enhance 
 
 His joy, to think himself so strangely mated, 
 
 As, twere with sprites and mortals both related.
 
 CANTO XIII. 
 
 Hozv they passed the time at Castle Ringstetten. 
 
 I. 
 How pleasant are the woes of other men, 
 
 When seen through youthful fancy's opera glass ; 
 When, by the dramatist or poet's pen, 
 
 As with magician's wand, before you pass 
 Martyrs of grief ! — In Dante, how we ken 
 
 Francesca's deathless love, that could surpass 
 Infernal flame ; could calmly smile on woe ; 
 Nor even in penal fire would she that love forego ! 
 
 II. 
 O'er mad Orestes' demon-tortured brain 
 
 Patient Electra broods, of hope forlorn ; 
 Or high Antigone's superb disdain 
 
 Pours on her tyrant-foe immortal scorn ! — 
 Grief-stricken Hecuba implores, in vain, 
 
 For her dear child, a virgin victim borne 
 Between the pyre and sword ; — Achilles' tomb 
 Glooms with the memory of her hapless doom. * 
 
 * iu (piog Trpoaenrtn' yap abv ovoji' e^ecti fioi 
 [itTtGTi <5' obciv, 7r\l}l' ocov xpovoi' ^apovg 
 
 Eurip. Hec, line 435.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 125 
 
 in. 
 
 Yet those who thus the dire necessity 
 Of grief have tasted, rather would forego 
 
 The painful theme than, with mere vanity- 
 Artistic, paint their own peculiar woe ; 
 
 This feeling in our author we may see, 
 In that he begs the reader to bestow 
 
 Indulgence, if he sketch in fainter tone, 
 
 Sorrows that seem too nearly like his own. 
 
 IV. 
 
 How Huldbrand's kindness gradually declined 
 From poor Undine, while Bertalda gained 
 
 Hourly upon his heart ; — we cannot find 
 A bitterer cup by sorrowing mortals drained, 
 
 Than love (to many a noble heart assigned) 
 
 Repaid with treacherous hate ; in this sustained 
 
 Our Saviour, the sublime of misery's bale, 
 
 Sharper than thorny crown or ruffian's iron nail.* 
 
 V. 
 Yet tis more blessed to receive than give 
 
 This dire offence. — Undine oft would weep 
 O'er the sad change ; as oft her tears would leave 
 
 Remorse in Huldbrand's heart; but ne'er could keep 
 Her former place; also she did receive 
 
 Scorn from her upstart rival with too deep 
 Submission ; who would still her mistress blame 
 To Huldbrand, murmuring jealousy and shame, 
 
 * Not the treachery of Judas alone, but the antipathy to 
 divine truth in the Jewish nation, etc.
 
 126 Undini : 
 
 VI. 
 
 Whene'er she did not prosper in her case, 
 On usurpation bent ; for tis the way 
 
 The vile exalt themselves, by taking place 
 Of injured merit, and the bad alvvay 
 
 Befriend their kindred breed ; although the race 
 Be all the worse for them ; when they decay, 
 
 Such creatures gnaw their bones, themselves to save, 
 
 Like fell hyaenas prowling o'er the grave. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet such was Huldbrand's blindness, that he would 
 Support Bertalda 'gainst his injured wife ; 
 
 So she the conflict bore as best she could, 
 With spirit fainting in the unequal strife, 
 
 Cast on its own resources ; she had wooed 
 The very pangs which now assailed her life 
 
 Unconsciously ; for Huldbrand more admired 
 
 This world than that to which her soul aspired ; 
 
 VIII. 
 
 He therefore deemed Bertalda's jovial heart 
 More genial to his own. — We cannot say 
 
 That here Undine acted quite the part 
 Of woman ; for most ladies would repay 
 
 Such rival with some keen, insidious dart 
 Of venomed hate, in their peculiar way. 
 
 Scarce could we blame Undine if her power 
 
 Had hurled Bertalda from the topmost tower
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 127 
 
 IX. 
 Of the high castle ; for it had not been 
 
 Manly or womanly in either sex 
 Tamely to suffer a vile go-between 
 
 Their sweet, harmonious union to perplex ; 
 But flesh and spirit evermore are seen 
 
 At war, such various laws each other vex ; 
 So what doth most the natural life annoy, 
 Spirit may feed on with immortal joy. 
 
 x. 
 
 Bertalda and the knight were sore assailed 
 By fearful apparitions, that with awe 
 
 The lady sometimes fainted ; and both quailed, 
 When in lone hall or vaulted corridor 
 
 A rustling sound they heard ; this rarely failed 
 To usher in some spectral shape before 
 
 Their eyes ; some tall white man with threatening 
 mien, 
 
 And fearful scowl, like what they erst had seen 
 
 XI. 
 As water-gnome or Kuhleborn by name. 
 
 At last, Bertalda said she scarce could bide 
 Longer in that dread castle to remain : 
 
 Yet still on her pure innocence relied ; 
 For so she called what did her soul sustain, 
 
 And then," to the dear knight, she felt so tied." — 
 We read, the Roman wolf to bite refused, 
 The bard, while on fair Lalage he mused.* 
 
 * Horace expatiates in a beautiful ode on the security 
 which integrity of life and innocence of heart imparts to its
 
 128 Undini : 
 
 XII. 
 
 So with her love and innocence combined, 
 
 Making a virtue of necessity, 
 She bore with fortitude ; indeed, to find 
 
 Another home that would so well agree 
 With her insidious arts, howe're inclined, 
 
 She was not able. — Here her constancy, 
 An incident confirmed : a letter come, 
 Writ by her sire, from her paternal home, 
 
 XIII. 
 
 In answer to the knight's. It was well nigh 
 Unreadable ; but it informed his friend 
 
 Th'old fisher was a widower — peacefully 
 
 His ancient spouse had reached her journey's end ; 
 
 And tho' all lonely as his days must fly, 
 
 He much preferred his only child should spend 
 
 Her life amid the scenes more genial grown 
 
 Than want and solitude could make his own. 
 
 possessor — if we rightly apprehend his meaning, makes it 
 the occasion of a very pretty compliment to his mistress, for, 
 on the principle that beauty is the form of goodness, he seems 
 to assume that the reflection of that quality, while musing on 
 Lalage, was taken or mistaken by the wolf for the genuine 
 article, of which, however, judging from his other poems, the 
 bard himself had not much to spare. 
 
 " Namque me sylva lupus in Sabina, 
 Dum meum canto Lalagen, et ultra 
 Terminum curis vagor expeditus, 
 Fugit inermem." 
 
 Lib. /., Ode xxii.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 129 
 
 XIV. 
 
 He but requested that she would not grieve 
 His dear Uridine ; nor her wishes thwart ; 
 
 For in default, she would no doubt, receive 
 
 A father's curse : — Full well the generous heart 
 
 Of that dear child, he knew could not conceive 
 Evil in others. — This message but in part, 
 
 Bertalda would receive ; that which her stay 
 
 Promoted ; but the rest she flung away. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Within the castle-court, a fountain clave 
 
 A large grey rock, with verdant moss o'ergrown, 
 
 Now this Undine with strict order, grave, 
 
 Commanded should be closed ; Huldbrand had 
 gone 
 
 But a short time, when this command she gave 
 To the domestics, that a ponderous stone 
 
 Should close its mouth ; with deference they 
 complain, 
 
 That this would much increase their toilsome pain 
 
 XVI. 
 
 In carrying water from a distant place. 
 
 To whom Undine said : " My children dear, 
 I deeply grieve your labour to increase ; 
 
 Believe me when I say, that nought but fear 
 Of greater evil, should disturb your peace ; 
 
 And though my reason may not yet appear, 
 The case is urgent." — Without more delay, 
 Their mistress dear they willingly obey. 
 
 9
 
 1 30 Undine : 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But when they raised on high the ponderous load 
 Bertalda came, and with imperious tone, 
 
 Commanded to desist ; for much had owed 
 That stream, her fair complexion, so no stone 
 
 Its course should stay. — But here Undin6 showed 
 Some spirit, saying, it did belong alone 
 
 To her as mistress, all commands to give, 
 
 And only from her lord would countermand receive 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " See," cried Bertalda, " how that fountain clear 
 Is wreathed in strange contortions, as within 
 
 There worked some living spirit that could hear 
 Your strange command ;" — and so in truth 'twas 
 seen 
 
 To writhe, and hiss, and strain, as though 'twould 
 tear 
 The ancient stone, with yawning chasm clean ; — 
 
 But here Undine^ with more urgent speed, 
 
 Commanded the domestics to proceed. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 They loved their mistress and disliked the other, 
 Therefore, with double zest, they quick comply ; 
 
 Down went the stone, as once for all to cover 
 The rebel element, and also try 
 
 Bertalda's power ; but she resolved to smother 
 Her baffled pride, until her friend was nigh, 
 
 Sir Huldbrand ; for all tyrants are at fault, 
 
 When put on their own strength and made to halt.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 131 
 
 xx. 
 
 Undine, as a scribe upon his desk, 
 
 Leaned o'er the stone, with taper ringer, slight, 
 She traced strange characters of Arabesque 
 
 Or Persic form ; these letters seemed to bite, 
 The stone, like etcher's liquid, and so grotesque 
 
 Indent their shape ; as they were chiselled ; quite 
 Distinct they showed ; yet of beholders there 
 Not one the mystic meaning could declare. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Now, as was hinted, fair Bertalda had 
 
 Reserved her tears, till the dear knight's return ; 
 So then she met her friend, with visage sad, 
 
 And bitter plaint of her hard mistress' scorn. 
 Huldbrand, with darkened brow, now sternly bade 
 
 Undine, who before him stood forlorn, 
 To say, why she Bertalda had opposed, 
 With what strange whim, that useful fountain 
 closed ? 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Undine said : " You to a slave would show 
 No wrath until his cause were fairly tried ; 
 
 So, but the same indulgence pray bestow 
 
 On your poor wife ; your once beloved bride ; 
 
 I but beseech your favour to allow 
 
 A private interview ; when by your side, 
 
 I will the whole explain ; for I've done nought 
 
 Either from mere caprice or want of thought." 
 
 9-2
 
 132 Undind : 
 
 XXIII. 
 The knight was moved ; — the memory of the past, 
 
 Gleamed on his spirit through the twilight haze 
 Of love's decay ; as tones of music cast 
 
 O'er the dim soul, " the light of other days :" 
 Or Exile, whose best hopes had thrown to waste 
 
 False hearted friend, or stranger's cruel ways, 
 Should meet, despite the effacing hand of Time, 
 One lovely form, the last of " Auld lang syne !" 
 
 XXIV. 
 Features there are that thrill with power, and leap 
 
 As music, to the heart's most sacred things ;* 
 When through the lilied line's celestial sweep 
 
 That form you trace to which the spirit clings 
 With strange affinity ; — a symbol deep, 
 
 Of love's freemasonry — The tale now brings 
 Undine's vindication and her doom ; — 
 (The knight had led her to a private room.) 
 
 XXV. 
 " Already, my Beloved, you have heard 
 
 Somewhat of Kiihleborn, my Uncle rude, 
 Terror and anger too, as you averred, 
 
 He oft hath caused you in the solitude 
 Of hall or passage, and Bertalda stirred 
 
 With fear almost to swooning ; tis his mood 
 When angry, those he deems his foes, to grieve, 
 Or mine ; he hath no spirit to conceive 
 
 * " The mind, the music breathing from her face." 
 
 " I will not refer to him who hath not music in his soul, 
 but merely request the reader, for ten seconds, to recollect
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 133 
 
 XXVI. 
 Evil and good, or balance wrong with right. 
 
 Mirror of those vain shadows which we call 
 The world, of that within, he hath no sight, 
 
 That which alone is real ; and therefore all 
 His cheating senses show, he holds as quite 
 
 Indisputable. — If in his presence fall 
 Some idle words or tears, some trivial spite 
 Of poor Bertalda, he would deem me quite 
 
 XXVII. 
 An outraged victim ; — thus in honour bound, 
 
 His race to vindicate with dire revenge ; 
 And though I oft his poor, weak brain confound 
 
 With sharp rebuke, it can impart no change ; 
 All words of mine are but an empty sound, 
 
 To this poor sprite, whose intellectual range 
 Is close confined in matter, and the strife 
 Of elements sustains his inmost life. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 Still less can he imagine love to dwell, 
 
 As we conceive it, twixt a smile and tear ; 
 Those sweet vicissitudes we know full well, 
 
 Can make adversity itself to cheer 
 The heart, which on the softened spirit tell 
 
 With sweet response. — In solitude how drear 
 Come sorrow, cold neglect, or trouble long, 
 While two united hearts scarce feel a sense of wrong." 
 
 the features of the woman whom he believes to be the most 
 beautiful ; and if then he does not comprehend fully what is 
 expressed feebly in the above line, I shall be sorry for us 
 both.' : — Byroiis Note on " The Bride o/Abydos."
 
 134 Undini : 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 She gazed on Huldbrand with a magic glance, 
 That quick recall'd the days of love gone by ; 
 
 Bathing his spirit in delicious trance 
 Of former bliss ; as saintly ecstacy 
 
 The spirit fires, and all its powers advance, 
 To hold with loftier worlds communion high ; 
 
 And so in fond embrace, once more they feel 
 
 Reunion sweet their troubled spirit heal. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " So," she proceeded, " when I could no more 
 Control our visitor, thus tiresome grown, 
 
 I was compelled to close, as with a door, 
 The watery element, by which alone 
 
 He gains access ; for these bright waters pour 
 From the broad Danube, where his sway isknown ; 
 
 And his allies are all its sparkling streams, — 
 
 Spirits that in them dwell, like visions in our 
 dreams. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 But now that stone and characters unique 
 Baffle his utmost efforts ; though tis true, 
 
 If you but choose a single word to speak, 
 That flag to lift, you can his power renew. 
 
 I know full well he longs his rage to wreak 
 On poor Bertalda, alone 'twas with this view ; 
 
 You and herself from his revenge to save, 
 
 I, to the servants, that strange order gave."
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 1 3 5 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Deeply Sir Huldbrand felt her generous zeal 
 Who thus, while suffering from her rival's hate, 
 
 She still defended with untiring will, 
 
 Nor left , the victim of a well-earned fate. 
 
 " My dearest wife," he said, " that stone shall still 
 Remain as you desire it ; then with great 
 
 Transport of love, he pressed her to his heart, 
 
 Vowing that nought on earth their sweet accord 
 should part." 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " My dearest husband," here Undine* said, 
 
 " While in this mood, I have one boon to ask 
 
 Our human hearts full oft are overweighed 
 
 With cloud and tempest ; even as those which 
 mask 
 
 The face of nature ; how many many times afraid 
 You make me, and my trembling nerves o'ertask 
 
 Even unto tears, when angry words amain, 
 
 Like thunder clouds, flash terror through my brain. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 I beg you will from wrathful words refrain 
 Whene'er a lake, or pool, or stream we touch ; 
 
 For should my water-friends an insight gain 
 
 To such proceedings, they would soon with much 
 
 Force on our peace encroach ; with might and main, 
 Would tear me from you ; for their rage is such, 
 
 They heed not reason nor relent again, 
 
 But would compel me ever to remain
 
 136 Undind ': 
 
 xxxv. 
 
 ''Within their crystal halls. — Oh Huldbrand dear, 
 By all the memories of our happy state, 
 
 I beg, whate'er your feelings, you will bear 
 With patience, nor the inexorable hate 
 
 Of river-gods provoke." — " No longer fear," 
 Said Huldbrand, " my sweet love, that dismal 
 fate 
 
 Shall ne'er be yours ; dearer you are to me 
 
 Than all the wealth of river, lake or sea." 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 So lovingly the happy pair return 
 
 With confidence restored ; but on the way, 
 
 Bertalda met them, " the result to learn," 
 She said, " of consultation and delay." — 
 
 Then to some workmen speaking : " Tis your turn 
 Of duty now ; so take that stone away, 
 
 As I commanded " — But her pride had grown 
 
 Too high to bear, so now was soon o'er thrown. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 In brief, decisive tones, said Huldbrand : " There 
 That stone shall lie, as my dear wife hath placed :" 
 
 He then reproved Bertalda, who should dare 
 To show such base self-will and want of grace. 
 
 So while the maid turned blue, with blank despair, 
 A smothered smile played on the workmen's face ; 
 
 As they well pleased retired and heard the bang 
 
 Of proud Bertalda's door; a thundering clang !
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 137 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 'Twas the last gun before she struck her flag ; 
 
 Her seat was vacant at the supper-table : 
 But since' twas only natural she should lag 
 
 Behind, they waited long as they were able, 
 Then sent a trusty servant up to beg 
 
 Her presence, who to find her being unable, 
 Quickly returned ; saying, in doleful tone, 
 " The door was open, but the bird had flown." 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Moreover, he a sealed billet brought, 
 
 Bearing the knight's address : — with sense of 
 blame, 
 He read it, and these words his feelings wrought 
 
 To quick revulsion — " I perceive with shame, 
 That I am but a fisher's daughter : nought 
 
 Shall e'er induce me to forget this name : 
 But our poor hut my fault shall expiate ; 
 And so farewell, with your beloved mate." 
 
 XL. 
 
 Undine, sorely troubled, earnestly 
 
 Entreated Huldbrand to pursue their friend. 
 Alas ! she had no need, too eagerly, 
 
 He sought his reckless sally to amend, 
 By hurrying to the gate, most urgently 
 
 Demanding, who had seen the lady wend 
 Her flight? — But no one knew ; then he bestrode 
 His steed in haste, to take the only road
 
 138 Undini. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 The lady knew ; the one which days byegone 
 Had brought her ; but there met him at the gate 
 
 A page, who said, that he had seen alone, 
 A lady traversing at rapid rate, 
 
 The path to the Black Valley — With a groan, 
 As turned the knight, impetuous to o'ertake 
 
 His friend, was heard the voice of his dear wife : 
 
 " Oh, not to the Black Valley, for your life, 
 
 XLII. 
 
 I beg ! But if you must go, take me too." 
 Huldbrand regarded not, or scarcely heard ; 
 
 But dashing through the gate, was out of view, 
 Ere she could call again ; nor yet demurred 
 
 Undine for a moment to pursue 
 
 The knight ; but hastily the groom bestirred 
 
 To saddle her white palfrey ; Then alone, 
 
 She followed the same route her friends had gone.
 
 CANTO XIV. 
 
 Hoiv the Knight brought back Bertalda. 
 
 I. 
 A NARROW gorge of stony crags confine 
 
 This vale, with rising vapours overcast ; 
 And stunted growths of yew and rugged pine, 
 
 Blacken the purple shadows of the waste 
 And heathy moorland ; while the sparkling shine 
 
 Of rivulets that wander through the vast 
 Desert, here deepen to the sombre hue 
 Of Acheron's stream, instead of cheerful blue. 
 
 II. 
 'Twas twilight when the craggy heights closed in 
 
 On each side of the knight. A gathering cloud 
 Tempestuous hovered, with low muttering din 
 
 Of distant thunder; veiling like a shroud 
 Or pall the o'er-arching sky ; when lo ! the shine 
 Of a white robe, through the dark branches 
 show'd 
 Distinctly, as he thought, the maid's retreat ; 
 'Twas on the mountain side and distant some few 
 feet.
 
 140 Undint : 
 
 in. 
 
 He spurred his horse, which prudently refused 
 To face an object with suspicion gleaming ; 
 
 And intimation gave to be excused, 
 By rearing furiously aloft, and seeming 
 
 Back to recoil ; while foam and moisture oozed 
 Through all his skin ; so the good knight re- 
 deeming 
 
 The time, dismounted, and his adverse steed 
 
 Tied to an elm, determined to proceed. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Through matted underwood and splashy brook, 
 He works his way with caution, round him cling 
 
 Dew-spangled branches of the fir, which shook 
 Their teardrops on his cheek, A startling ring 
 
 Of echoing thunder from the mountain broke 
 With awe upon his ear ; that mystic thing 
 
 That lay before him now, he strangely thought, 
 
 Might prove some other than the one he sought. 
 
 v. 
 
 It seemed a female form, 'neath the dim moon, 
 In white, like garments which Bertalda clad, 
 
 Who lay asleep, perhaps, or in a swoon ; 
 
 Some time her name he called, but when he had 
 
 No answer, the resounding branches soon 
 Of fir and elm, that made so dense a shade, 
 
 He shook, and struck at with his ringing sword ; 
 
 But the lost maid returned him not a word.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 141 
 
 VI. 
 
 But when once more, and in a louder tone, 
 Her name he uttered, from the rocky steep, 
 
 The deadened sound flew back, as hollow moan 
 Of wintry blast might through the forest sweep. 
 
 A nearer view he took ; but now'twas grown 
 Pitch dark, and still she seemed full fast asleep. 
 
 Just then a glittering flash of lightning flew 
 
 O'er the dread scene and, to his startled view, 
 
 VII. 
 
 Revealed a hideous visage. In his ear, 
 
 Hoarse and mysterious cried ; cold horror froze 
 
 His blood a stranger's voice : " O shepherd dear, 
 " Give me a kiss." — As to unearthly foes, 
 
 Huldbrand responded with a cry of fear, 
 
 And back recoiled. The figure with him rose, 
 
 Then, like a thunder bolt, with deafening shout : 
 
 " Home ! or I have you ; for the fiends are out !" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Its long white arms stretched forth. " Mad 
 Kuhleborn," 
 
 Exclaimed the knight (and like raw soldier smit 
 With fear, when quivering drum and pealing horn, 
 
 And shock of charging host, the panic fit 
 Drives back), " whoe'er you be, I hold in scorn 
 
 Your devilish rage !" — With that, a sturdy hit 
 He aimed with his good sword ; yet seemed to miss. 
 " There you malicious goblin, take your kiss,"
 
 142 Undine; 
 
 IX. 
 
 He said ; but lo ! instead of blood, like rain, 
 A blinding shower from mountain torrent fell, 
 
 Drenching him through ; so the good knight was 
 fain 
 To think himself deceived ; but yet too well 
 
 He knew the fiend's intention was to gain 
 
 This victim from his grasp ; " but who can tell," 
 
 Said he, " the mighty strength of human will, 
 
 That power which soon shall either cure or kill." 
 
 The utterance of this thought inspired his own 
 Heart with fresh courage ; but before his steed 
 
 He reached, twixt pauses of the thunder's tone, 
 A sound more hopeful, from suspense had freed 
 
 His anxious mind ; for first a stifled moan, 
 And then a loud lament seemed to proceed 
 
 From the acclivity, where now in view 
 
 Bertalda's form he saw, and to the rescue flew. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Finding her clambering the steep rocks to 'scape 
 The fearful darkness of that gloomy vale, 
 
 He stepped before the maid, and kindly spake 
 In soothing tone, such words as did not fail 
 
 Her proud, resentful enterprise to shake ; 
 
 Soft speech made all her angry feelings quail ; 
 
 For sure 'twas no small gain, by her dear lord, 
 
 To be thus kindly sought for and restored.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 143 
 
 XII. 
 
 So fainting with fatigue, she gladly leant 
 
 On the dear knight, who led her to the place 
 
 Where he had left the horse, on which he meant 
 To seat the lady ; but with such ill grace 
 
 The steed behaved, that were it his intent, 
 
 Himself to mount, 'twould need some skill to face 
 
 That snort, that frantic stare, those ears laid down, 
 
 Which even a well trained rider might have thrown. 
 
 XIII. 
 So, wearied as she was, they both were fain 
 
 To trudge on foot ; she trembling with affright, 
 And he scarce able, with the lengthened rein, 
 
 His restive steed to hold ; for the dark night, 
 With heaven's artillery and tempestuous rain, 
 
 Was terrible ; and yet all this was light, 
 Compared with what they suffered from the fear 
 Of spectral horrors and enchantments drear. * 
 
 XIV. 
 At last Bertalda, her tired arm withdrew 
 
 From her conductor, sinking on the ground. 
 " Here let me lie ; to me alone is due 
 
 All this great suffering ; here my fault hath found 
 Its proper punishment ;" she said, and threw 
 
 Herself on the wet grass ; but with rebound 
 Of gallant spirit : " Never," cried the knight, 
 " Will I desert you, in a shameful flight 
 
 ' " Of forests and enchantments drear, 
 
 Where more is meant than meets the ear." 
 
 Milton, II Penseroso.
 
 1 44 Undini : 
 
 xv. 
 
 From demons imbecile." — The maddened steed 
 Plunged wildly, dragging the brave knight away 
 
 From poor Bertalda ; so his utmost heed 
 
 Required, lest he should trample, where she lay, 
 
 With murderous hoof; and now in fear she prayed, 
 He would not leave her there, but kindly stay. — 
 
 So 'twixt the two, ourknight was much embarrassed, 
 
 With spectre, horse and lady jointly harrassed. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Just at this crisis of necessity 
 
 A rumbling waggon on the stony way 
 
 Behind him greatly cheered ; so lustily, 
 He called for present help, without delay. 
 
 " Have patience !" was responded cheerfully, 
 By honest Waggoner, " a moment stay, 
 
 And I am with you !" Then two horses white, 
 
 Or rather grey, came suddenly in sight ; 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Clearing the bushes, at their driver's call 
 
 The steady brutes stood still. He wore a frock 
 
 Of linen white, that, with white overall 
 
 Spread o'er the waggon to preserve his stock 
 
 In some sort did a glimmering light recall ; 
 
 Then helped the knight his restive steed to stop. 
 
 " Ah," said the Waggoner, " full well I know 
 
 The cause of his complaint, and soon will show
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 145 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " The way to cure it ; for a water sprite 
 
 This valley haunts ; — twas once the same with me, 
 
 And these good greys, which now, you see, are quite 
 Subdued and still. — A charm I know to free 
 
 Your horse," he said ; " so, with your leave, will try 
 it." 
 " Try," said the knight, "for much I long to see 
 
 Your luck ;" on which the honest man drew near 
 
 And whispered something in the mad steed's ear. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The restive horse seemed well to understand 
 His meaning ; the same instant he became 
 
 So gentle, that to lead him by the hand 
 
 Was easy. Yet asking not the carter to explain, 
 
 Our knight did only venture to demand 
 
 Straightway a sheltered seat within the wain 
 
 For poor Bertalda. So 'twas soon agreed — 
 
 An inside place for her, while he should ride the steed. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Some bags of cotton formed a cushioned seat 
 For the exhausted lady ; but the knight 
 
 Now found his horse so wearied, that his feet 
 Could ill support the body, so 'twas quite 
 
 Useless to mount ; then following the discreet 
 Advice of the good carter seem'd but right ; 
 
 A seat within the waggon he should find, 
 
 And trust the docile steed to trot behind, 
 
 10
 
 146 Undine: 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Fixed by the rein, till their short journey's end. 
 
 " For tis a downhill road," said he, " and light 
 For my good greys ; so I, on foot, will tend 
 
 The team for more security." The knight 
 Promptly agreed. Then quickly 'gan to mend 
 
 The weather ; the dun sky grew clear and bright 
 Till evening came, and then Bertalda gained 
 Confidence with the knight, and both explain'd 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Each other's conduct ; altho' nought was said 
 But words of common courtesy, 'twas plain, 
 
 As glowworm's lamp that sparkles in the shade 
 Of evening, that our lady did not feign 
 
 Affection cherished for the knight, who weighed 
 The expressive tones which from the heart had 
 made 
 
 Their impress ; he replied in trivial way, 
 
 That rather love than knowledge should convey. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 While this soft interchange their thoughts beguile, 
 The waggoner exclaimed, with startling shout : 
 
 " Pick up your feet, my handsome greys !" the while 
 He cracked his whip — " and mind what you're 
 about ! 
 
 Remember who you are ; so in good style, 
 
 Pull both together." Here the knight looked out ; 
 
 When lo ! a mighty flood was .whirling round 
 
 The cart, like flashing mill-wheels, while the ground
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 147 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Sank from beneath, and left the horses swimming. 
 
 " Now pray what road is this?" Sir Huldbrand 
 cried, 
 "That leads into the sea!" — "Oh, you are dreaming!" 
 
 With a loud laugh, exclaimed the reckless guide ; 
 " For 'tis, in truth, the river that is streaming 
 
 Across the road." — " Pray look on t'other side, 
 And round about ; if you be wide awake, 
 You'll see some water there and no mistake !" 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Then rushed the crested billows, like a sea, 
 On each side, rolling o'er the vale forlorn 
 
 With maddened roar. "Oh, help us ! for I see," 
 Cried out the knight, " that devilish Kiihleborn 
 
 Hath clutched us now ! — Have you no charm to free 
 From drowning, ere the waggon be o'erborne 
 
 By this devouring flood?" — "No charms would tell," 
 
 Said he, " until you first have learned my name to 
 spell." 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " Is this a time for riddles," cried the knight, 
 
 "When we are drowning? Pray look round and see 
 
 The water rising to this fearful height ! — 
 Then what avails your stupid name to me ?" 
 
 " Just this," said he, and thrust — oh ! hideous sight ! 
 A dreadful face distorted frightfully, 
 
 With maniac laugh ; then, like a dream of night, 
 
 Waggon and horses vanished from their sight ; 
 
 10 — 2
 
 1 48 Undine : 
 
 XXVII. 
 " For I am Kuhleborn/' exclaimed the guide, 
 
 And straightway changed from man to giant 
 surge, 
 Rising, like liquid tower, above the wide 
 
 Foaming white torrent ; rising to submerge 
 The travellers ; — but Undine, at their side, 
 
 They hear, as the pale moon pass'd o'er the verge 
 Of thundercloud ; her voice, her shadowy form 
 Seemed like an angel, ruling o'er the storm ; 
 
 XXVIII. 
 Upon a rising ground, she waved her hand, 
 
 With threatening mien ; on which the mighty 
 wave 
 With muttered roar vindictive, 'neath the bland 
 
 Beam of the moon, sank down ; while she to save 
 Her friends, like a white dove, from that high stand 
 
 Descended, and her succouring hand she gave, 
 Leading them up the dry and flowery ground, 
 While they, by slow degrees, their scattered senses 
 found. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 With no small effort, she dispelled their fear. 
 
 So when Bertalda once again her heart 
 Had found, she urged them, from that valley drear, 
 
 To hasten their escape; so to depart 
 They quick prepare. Bertalda, in the rear, 
 
 She placed on her white palfrey ; for no cart 
 Did she desire. Full soon, in wearied state, 
 They enter the strong castle's welcome gate.
 
 CANTO XV. 
 
 The Knight a Widoiver. 
 
 The adventure, with the peril they sustained, 
 Seemed, like a messenger of peace, to bring 
 
 Enjoyment to their home. Undine gained 
 Some transient glimpses, like returning spring, 
 
 Of love too long withheld. Her hopes had waned, 
 But now they brighten, and all freshly fling 
 
 The rainbow hues of future joys around 
 
 A heart where innocence its home had found. 
 
 II. 
 
 Bcrtalda, too, more gentle seemed to grow, 
 Not seeking for it merit to maintain ; 
 
 So when Undine, or the knight, to show 
 Their rectitude, attempted to explain 
 
 Why they the obstructed fountain should allow, 
 Bcrtalda begged they would at once refrain. 
 
 The fountain even to mention caused her shame, 
 
 And the Black Valley she scarce dared to name.
 
 150 Undine: : 
 
 III. 
 
 It seemed impossible that aught should jar 
 
 Their future peace. So winter came and went, 
 
 While still their genial harmony was far 
 
 From change ; when the pure white frost blent 
 
 With tender green, and the soft vernal air 
 Brought the glad season, all its freshness sent 
 
 Into their minds those purer joys that seem 
 
 Reflected truly from the heart's sweet dream. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The stork and swallow from a happier clime 
 Returned, with promise of long summer days : 
 
 So the three friends, while rambling in the prime 
 Of morning, to enjoy th' enlivening rays 
 
 Of vernal sunbeams, where the sparkling shine 
 Of tributary streams, meandering maze, 
 
 Sought the broad Danube — and could scarce 
 restrain 
 
 Their longing for a voyage or tour again. 
 
 Huldbrand described Vienna, how she rose 
 Like river-queen above the glowing tide, 
 
 Whose ever-widening wave superbly flows 
 
 'Twixt castled rocks and meadows fair and wide. 
 
 Bertalda soon with a like fervour glows. 
 
 " Oh ! how delightful down that stream to glide," 
 
 She said, " to that fair city !" — yet scarce utter'd 
 
 The words, before she looked confused and flutter'd,
 
 The Spirit of the Water's. 151 
 
 vr. 
 
 And with a modest blush, the forward speech 
 Cut short, which fair Undine quick renewed — 
 
 The more, because such diffidence could reach 
 Her warm approval — and the theme pursued : 
 
 " What should prevent their voyage if they each 
 And all agreed ?" They, in a moment, viewed 
 
 The thing as done. In fancy's magic eye 
 
 Their embryo tour, well pleased, they soon descry. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Huldbrand agreed with pleasure to the sail, 
 Save a slight reservation which he hinted 
 
 To fair Undine : lest by stream or dale 
 
 Old Kuhleborn should meet them, for unstinted 
 
 His power at such great distance would prevail. 
 " Leave that to me, his tricks shall be prevented," 
 
 She laughing said : so without further doubt, 
 
 They make due preparation, and set out. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Our evil genius that in ambush lies 
 For our destruction, ever seeks to lull 
 
 Its victims with fair hopes and false disguise 
 Of gilded baits; while scenes of peril full, 
 
 That chill our hearts with terror and surprise, 
 May prove heaven's messengers our souls to pull 
 
 From hidden dangers ; or the treacherous hate 
 
 Of seeming friend, the direst scourge of fate.
 
 152 Undint : 
 
 IX. 
 
 Their dreams of fancy were indeed excelled 
 By pleasures deepening every passing hour. 
 
 The gliding barque, by scented gales impelled, 
 The senses lulled with nature's soothing power. 
 
 But in a few short days the river swelled 
 
 Obstructive, and some adverse winds blew o'er 
 
 Their sail, with other indications plain, 
 
 That they were on old Kiihleborn's domain. 
 
 X. 
 
 For tho' Undine oft rebuked the winds 
 
 Or swelling waters, till they seemed subdued 
 
 Or baffled, yet again the wily fiends 
 
 Incessant their malignant tricks renewed 
 
 With terrors mingled. Now her deeds, she finds, 
 The servants and the oarsmen wondering viewed 
 
 They soon began to look upon the three 
 
 As being no better than they ought to be. 
 
 XL 
 
 So with suspicions vague and troubles real, 
 Each passing moment saw their peace decline, 
 
 As some base enemy, beneath the veil 
 Of friendship, every hope will undermine, 
 
 And poison every bliss, until you feel 
 
 That joy no more can on your prospects shine 
 
 So they began their voyage to repent, 
 
 For Huldbrand his annoyance would resent
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 153 
 
 XII. 
 
 On fair Undine. " So it comes to pass," 
 
 Thought he, " when souls ungenial thus are tied 
 
 In marriage bonds ; much more when to the class 
 Of mermaid most unnaturally allied. 
 
 Tis my misfortune, not my crime, alas ! 
 For little did I deem, when by her side, 
 
 A love-deluded swain, by this vile horde 
 
 Of water-fiends I should be plagued and bored." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 So poor Undine had a double war 
 
 To wage — her frowning husband's bitter scorn, 
 With her despised relations' ceaseless jar — 
 
 Despised, but ah, too cunning Kuhleborn ! 
 So, harassed with much watching, and the far 
 
 More wearying spite, which her tired heart had 
 torn, 
 She lay one evening in a blessed sleep, 
 Lulled by soft undulations of the deep ; 
 
 XIV. 
 
 But scarcely had she closed her eyes, when lo ! 
 
 Each voyager beheld a hideous face, 
 Now here, now there, its Gorgon terror throw, 
 
 Like swimmer's head, yet fastened to one place 
 On the clear mirror ; still it seemed to go 
 
 With the barque's motion, eke with dread 
 grimace, 
 'Twixt rage and laughter, every nerve benumb, 
 Till stiff and cold as marble they become.
 
 154 Undind : 
 
 xv. 
 
 Each showed to each his ghastly spectre bold — 
 'Tis here ! 'tis there ! — when suddenly the shoal 
 
 Glared upon all, and multiplied tenfold, 
 Till every wave became a living soul. 
 
 But now, a scream of fear, with shudder cold, 
 Roused up Undine, echoing from the whole. 
 
 No sooner did she waken, than the sight 
 
 Vanished, and all the expanse lay calm and bright. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 These unremitting conflicts filled the knight 
 With fierce resentment — he could scarce refrain 
 
 From imprecation on this teazing blight 
 Of his enjoyment. His poor wife again 
 
 Besought him not to let his vengeance light 
 On the broad river : then would he abstain 
 
 A while. So then, in words that seemed to mourn, 
 
 She asked : " Were it not better to return, 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " And this unhappy tour abandon quite, 
 
 Which mocks the happiness we felt at home ?" 
 
 She spoke beseechingly. The embittered knight 
 Rejoined : " Then I suppose must be my dole 
 
 A prisoner in our castle day and night 
 
 To dwell, and from its walls not dare to roam ; 
 
 Nor breathe even there, unless that fount be 
 closed — 
 
 Our frantic union !" — Here she interposed,
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 155 
 
 XVIII. 
 And checked his speech by placing her small hand 
 
 Upon his lips, so that the knight was mute, 
 And with assumed composure deeply scanned 
 
 Undine's prohibition absolute. 
 While fair Bertalda waved, like fairy wand, 
 
 A necklace rich and rare, the welcome fruit 
 Of her dear knight's regard, which he obtained 
 From travelling merchant, for his much-loved friend. 
 
 XIX. 
 She dangled the rich jewels o'er the wave, 
 
 Pleased with their bright reflection in the stream ; 
 While her deep mind to cogitation gave, 
 On fair Undine, wondrous as a dream, 
 And her terrific relatives, that drave 
 
 The knight almost to madness. While such 
 theme 
 Her thoughts amuse, a monstrous hand dashed 
 
 through 
 The crystal wave, and vanished from her view. 
 
 xx. 
 All this she might have borne ; but then it seized 
 
 The knight's rich present. So a piercing shriek 
 She uttered ; while the river-gods, well pleased, 
 
 Responsive laughed, as babbling waters break 
 Through narrow outlet. The good knight, appeased 
 
 Though he had been, could now no longer check 
 His extreme rage ; but starting, fiercely gazed 
 On the blue deep ; then with harsh voice upraised
 
 156 Undind ' : 
 
 XXI. 
 
 To highest pitch, a liberal volley threw 
 Of maledictions, and with bitter curse 
 
 On mermaid, syren, gnome and the whole crew 
 Of elfs and vile sea-devils : in something worse 
 
 Than common fire, he longed to make them rue 
 Their spiteful interference and disperse. 
 
 " Come on !" cried he, while his bright sword outflew, 
 
 That every soul of them should cut in two. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Bertalda's tears, like oil to rising flame, 
 
 Nourished his rage. Undine her small hand 
 
 Dipped in the wave ; while a low murmuring came 
 From her sweet lips, mysterious and yet bland 
 
 As sleeping child's soliloquy. This train 
 
 Of speech she checked a moment, to withstand 
 
 Huldbrand's deep ire, and beg him to reclaim 
 
 Reproaches on herself, whatever blame 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 He cast on others ; " for, in truth," she said, 
 
 " You know my reasons." So with utmost force, 
 
 The knight his anger bridled ; nor had laid 
 A curse upon his bride ; but nothing worse 
 
 An evil mind provokes, than when repaid 
 With kindness. So Undine, in due course, 
 
 Her dripping hand drew from the crystal wave, 
 
 And a rich present to Bertalda gave.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 157 
 
 XXIV. 
 " Take this, poor child," she said, " and grieve no 
 more ; 
 For I resolved your joy again to wake, 
 And so have ordered, from the boundless store 
 
 Of wealth Plutonic, what sea-maidens take 
 Such pride to wear." And truly, twas the flower 
 
 Of jewelled pride ; a necklace of such make, 
 As might the Egyptian queen have charmed ; so 
 
 bright 
 With coral richly chased, amber* and opal white. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But ere Bertalda grasped the glittering prize, 
 Huldbrand had seized it, and in wrathful spite, 
 
 Indignant hurls it in the flood ; and cries : 
 " So then, you sorceress, you are never right 
 
 But when manoeuvring with these enemies 
 That mar our happiness ! Go, leave my sight, 
 
 With your vile presents ! In the name of all 
 
 Witchcraft and magic, cease our hearts t' enthrall, 
 
 * " Farewell ! be it ours to embellish thy pillow 
 
 With everything beauteous that grows in the deep ; 
 Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow 
 Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. 
 
 ' l Around thee shall glitter the loveliest amber 
 That ever the sorrowing sea-bird wept ; 
 With many a shell in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber, 
 The Peris of ocean by moonlight slept." 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 Some of the old naturalists imagined amber toj be a concre- 
 tion of the tears of birds.
 
 158 Undi 
 
 nc, 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 "Which are but human !" Here Undine gazed, 
 With tearful eyes and hand outstretched, as when 
 
 She held her beauteous gift. She stood amazed, 
 And then, with heart-felt sorrow, wept amain, 
 
 Like childhood's innocence that wretch betrays 
 With cruel perfidy. She seemed all pain, 
 
 Powerless and nerveless ; then in fainting tone 
 
 She cried : " Adieu, for every hope hath flown ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " But this shall harm you not, if still you're true, 
 Both to yourselves and me, who do repine 
 
 My youth cut down, and ne'er again shall view 
 The dawn of bliss ; nor find that rapture mine 
 
 For which I ventured all ! Once more adieu ! 
 But bear me in your hearts with hope divine ! 
 
 Ah, woe is me !" So then, like phantom light, 
 
 She vanished utterly from mortal sight, 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Exhaling silently, as summer dew 
 
 Blends with the solar ray, or vapour light 
 
 By the clear lake absorbed. They never knew 
 Whether she plunged into the stream, or quite 
 
 Melted, as wave with wave. When from their view 
 For ever fled, too late the headstrong knight 
 
 Shed burning tears, that seemed to scorch his brain ; 
 
 Then, in a deathlike swoon, forgot the sense of pain.
 
 CANTO XVI. 
 
 How the Knight lamented and Jiozv he consoled 
 
 himself. 
 
 Objects beloved, when lost, are doubly dear; 
 
 Yet grief's excess is transient, or its tide 
 The very founts of life would overbear ; 
 
 So when the o'erpowering sorrow doth subside, 
 The withered heart, tho' desolate and sere, 
 
 Feels to that object still more closely tied ; 
 Mourner and mourned at length unite in one, 
 Or weep themselves, like Niobe, to stone. 
 
 II. 
 
 But sorrow chastened in the morning prime 
 
 Adorns the very ruin it conceals — 
 As wreaths perennial ivy the sublime 
 
 Decay of ancient tower and yet reveals 
 The touching memory of some glorious time, 
 
 More gracefully than spirit-stirring peals 
 Of Fame's proud trump ; this emulation feeds, 
 That the true reverence for heroic deeds.
 
 1 60 Undine : 
 
 in. 
 
 Undine mourned her lord, and mourning fled ; 
 
 So he, like her, changed to a fount of grief; 
 For neither cheerful morn, nor western red 
 
 Of eve, nor nightly slumber brought relief 
 To his lone heart. The semblance of the dead 
 
 Dwelt ever in his mind ; but this the chief, 
 Her long, imploring look with outstretched hand, 
 As last she stood and seemed would ever stand, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Because he loved that mage of his brain ; 
 
 For should the gentle phantom quit his sight, 
 He would with invocation desolate remain 
 
 With outstretched hand, beseeching her not quite 
 His wretched heart to leave ; and then again, 
 
 With a fresh flood of tears, the vanished light 
 Of his dear life would consecrate once more, 
 As those who over the cold ashes pour 
 
 *t>' 
 
 v. 
 
 Libations to the dead. This could not last : 
 Altho' he wished the sorrow would even break 
 
 The bonds of life. These thoughts well-nigh o'ercast 
 His reason. Then the excess of pain would shake 
 
 To tame submission, while he nightly traced 
 In dreams her lovely form, that oft' would wake 
 
 Lost joys with fond caress, and then with moan 
 
 And tears would glide away, leaving her lord alone.
 
 T/ie Spirit of the Waters. 161 
 
 VI. 
 
 So when he woke, the tears lay on his cheek, 
 Like dew upon the ground ; but she was gone ! 
 
 Ah, desolate thought ! " Yet did those tears bespeak 
 The lady's grief, or were they but his own ?" 
 
 He oft would ask ; till by degrees, so meek 
 His mood became, and to so gentle tone 
 
 His anguish mellowed down, that it grew sweet 
 
 To think or speak of her he never more might meet. 
 
 VII. 
 
 So long he might have lived, with life sustained 
 By thoughts of vanished joys, and with the kind, 
 
 The soothing sympathy of his dear friend 
 Bertalda, who her tears with his combined ; 
 
 She seemed resolved that evermore unstained 
 By rival love, that honoured shade should find 
 
 Her knight. — Then came an incident to try 
 
 Whether they dared alone to live and die. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ere long, the old fisherman the rumour heard 
 Of poor Undine's exit, whom he loved 
 
 So tenderly, that soon his heart was stirred 
 To visit Huldbrand ; also strongly moved 
 
 His daughter to demand, for he averred 
 
 Her honour was at stake ; should it be proved 
 
 The wife deceased or lost, 'twould ne'er seem well 
 
 For her with knight unmarried thus to dwell. 
 
 1 1
 
 1 62 Undine: 
 
 IX. 
 
 But when the old man his daughter to remove 
 Seemed quite resolved, Sir Huldbrand could not 
 bear 
 
 The thought of his sad house, with nought above 
 The frightful solitude ; lone hall and stair 
 
 Would echo back his grief. — His former love 
 For his dear friend broke through the oppressive 
 care, 
 
 Like a lost treasure found ; so then his case 
 
 To the old sire he urged with lordly grace. 
 
 X. 
 
 But here the fisherman's extreme regard 
 For lost Undine seemed to block the way ; 
 
 For had her death been proved, he might have cared 
 Much less ; but granting the cold Danube lay 
 
 Above her beauteous form, it still seemed hard 
 That she, the unwitting cause, should thus repay 
 
 Her generous friend by stepping in her place ; 
 
 Spirits their love retain, tho' in the realms of grace. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Again, the old fisher's friendship for the knight, 
 Much weakened his resolve : — Bertalda, too, 
 
 Now so much changed — indeed, converted quite, 
 More humble and respectful hourly grew. 
 
 At length, a doubtful wrong became a right, 
 By contemplation from such point of view ; 
 
 So after many a parley, 'twas agreed, 
 
 A courier should be sent, with utmost speed,
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 163 
 
 XII. 
 
 To Father Heilman, with the information 
 
 Of poor Undine's death ; and that the knight 
 
 So highly prized the conjugal relation, 
 That he a second time resolved to try it ; 
 
 The more because the sorrowing perturbation 
 Of his bereaved heart could ne'er find quiet, 
 
 If doomed in dreary solitude to die. — 
 
 So, as in happier days, the priest their hands should 
 tie. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The holy man this summons quick obeyed, 
 
 And to Ringstetten sped, by hope constrained ; 
 
 Journeying so fast, that with the drooping shade 
 Of even, he the castle court had gained ; 
 
 He also feared an idle hour delayed 
 
 Might counteract the mission entertained ; 
 
 Which was, that fitting words, at the right time, 
 
 Might yet prevent what seemed to him a crime. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Hcneath some shady trees the plighted pair 
 In loving converse sat ; the fisherman 
 
 Sat thoughtful by their side. With joyful air, 
 They all arose, and with kind welcome 'gan 
 
 To greet the holy priest, who did not share 
 Their feeling ; but with graver aspect than 
 
 Beseemed the occasion, briefly did desire 
 
 With the good knight a moment to retire 
 
 1 1 — 2
 
 164 Undini: 
 
 xv. 
 
 Within the castle. Huldbrand with surprise 
 Stood speechless ; whereupon the holy man : — 
 
 " The words I have to say, my lord, no wise 
 Demand our privacy ; in truth, they can 
 
 Be said as well, and that without disguise, 
 In presence of our friends. So better than 
 
 Delay what must be heard, I recommend 
 
 To speak it here at once, so know the end. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " In the first place, I would this question lay 
 Before you : Are you sure your wife is dead ? 
 
 The mystery of her present life to say 
 I scarcely dare, rather, it might be said, 
 
 I scarcely know. This much indeed I may 
 Affirm without dispute, was never maid 
 
 A more devoted wife, more kind, more true, 
 
 Than she, in holiest bond allied to you ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " I cannot deem her dead, who thus have seen 
 Her image twice seven nights before me stand 
 
 In liveliest vision ; were it but a dream ? 
 
 Dreams have a cause. — Even thus, with out- 
 stretched hand, 
 
 Or prayerful clasped, beseeching me, between 
 Her sighs and tears, that I would countermand, 
 
 In pity to the knight, this mad design ; 
 
 ' For I am living still; oh, let him still be mine !
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 165 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " ' Ah, save his soul ! ' — Nor could my mind collate, 
 The meaning with the words, till I received 
 
 Your summons ; so I hastened, lest too late, 
 If heavenly visions are to be believed, 
 
 What should not be conjoined to separate. 
 
 So, my dear friends, since you have now received 
 
 This heavenly message, may you have the grace 
 
 Your faith and love to prove, however hard the case ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Oh Huldbrand, leave this maid ! and you, I pray, 
 Bertalda, as you prize all future peace, 
 
 No more dote on this knight ; his looks betray 
 A spirit bound to one who will not cease 
 
 Her wedded lord to love. — Such traces stay 
 On his wan cheek, which never can efface, 
 
 Nor time, nor dallying with falsehearted love ; 
 
 Oh, let that spirit's voice effectual prove, 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Which tells me that such unions never can 
 Be happy !" — These sad words they all receive 
 
 As truth, in clearest reason ; but they ran 
 Counter to what would willingly believe 
 
 Their inmost hearts ; therefore they all began 
 To struggle 'gainst conviction. — Then his leave 
 
 The good priest took, nor would a morsel taste 
 
 Of proffered food or shelter ; but in haste,
 
 1 66 Undine. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Returned ; for even the old sire became 
 
 Persuaded that such marriage must take place 
 
 As of necessity. — They jointly blame 
 And pity the poor priest, as of the race 
 
 Of fanatic, or dreamer, and the same 
 
 Message despatched to a more willing place, 
 
 A monk of the next convent, who agreed 
 
 The marriage to perform with utmost speed.
 
 CANTO XVII. 
 
 The Knights Vision. 
 
 I. 
 
 The knight lay on his couch at early dawn, 
 Half-waking, half-asleep ; whene'er he closed 
 
 His eyes, his sleep by spectral shape was torn 
 Away, or boding terror interposed 
 
 All deep repose to mar ; thus was he borne 
 Between the two ; for while he gently dozed, 
 
 A snow-white swan her cloudy wings unfurled 
 
 Over his head, while, lost to the outer world, 
 
 II. 
 
 Music, more solemn than a funeral psalm, 
 
 Was heard from these soft, hovering wings to rise ; 
 
 Till somewhat of a trance, serene and calm, 
 Detached his spirit — straightway to the skies 
 
 Upraised ; — and the melodious strains embalm 
 His soul, till the deep sea beneath him lies, 
 
 Profound, outstretched, immeasurably wide ! 
 
 While to transparent glass its purple tide
 
 1 68 Undine: 
 
 in. 
 
 Changed as he gazed thereon, and far beneath, 
 Through crystal dome, he viewed with deep 
 delight, 
 
 His lost and loved Undine, changed from death 
 To purest life. — When lo ! as with the blight 
 
 Of her dear hopes she wept, and every breath 
 Seemed a heartbreaking sigh ! — At this sad sight 
 
 The knight was moved. Meanwhile old Kiihleborn 
 
 Approached, regarding all her tears with scorn. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He much reproved the lady's idle grief ; 
 
 But she, with rising dignity and pride, 
 Sharply retorted : " True, that for my chief 
 
 Offence these waters bind me ; yet, allied 
 To deathless natures, I can find relief, 
 
 Even in my tears ; for the pure spirit tied 
 To death-doomed matter can't be thus consign'd 
 For aye, but soon or late will her deliverance find." 
 
 V. 
 
 " Still, you are bound by elemental law, 
 
 Even as ourselves," replied the old uncle rude, 
 
 Shaking his head ; tho' yet, impressed with awe, 
 By his commanding niece, he looked subdued, 
 
 And partly stunned ; until some legal saw 
 Illumined his dull brain, with interlude 
 
 Well-timed. " If Huldbrand to his wedded wife, 
 
 Unfaithful prove, you're bound to take his life !
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 169 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Remember this, the irrevocable rule 
 
 Of all our race !"— " Ah ! now, I have you there !" 
 Undine said ; " my lord is no such fool, 
 
 Another wife to take ; tho' in despair 
 Lost joy to gain, his heart will never cool ; 
 
 Tis full of grief and faith that cannot bear 
 The thought of desecration. — To this hour 
 That heart I hold with love's resistless power. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " My tears are blest ! — tears of a soul in thrall, 
 Yet boundless in its hopes !" — On this, with laugh 
 
 Of scorn, the other said : " Of what you cali 
 A soul I know as much as a sea-calf; 
 
 Yours are fine notions ! — But this news, with all 
 My ignorance, can tell you ; a new half 
 
 Your precious spouse unto himself hath ta'en : 
 
 Full soon the holy priest will bind the twain. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Thus, in a few short days, 'twill be your turn 
 This loving husband of two wives to slay ;" 
 
 Undine answered : " I have yet to learn, 
 How that is to be done, when the sole way 
 
 Lies through that sealed up fountain. You discern 
 Not truth in this ; but I may also say, 
 
 That I and you and all our race shall cease 
 
 Henceforth to vex my dear lord's earthly peace."
 
 170 Undine: 
 
 IX. 
 
 " But should he leave his castle," said the other, 
 " Or suffer any one that fount to loose ? — 
 
 And sure, you can't suppose that he will bother 
 His brain about such trifles" — " I suppose, 
 
 Tis for this cause," Undine said, " another 
 
 Dream I bring o'er his sleep, and thus disclose 
 
 In vision all the words that pass between us, 
 
 As plain as if my lord had heard and seen us." 
 
 x. 
 
 On which old Kuhleborn, with direful rage, 
 
 Looked up to earth, and seeing the slumbering 
 knight, 
 
 Stamped wrathfully ; so springing to the edge 
 Of the broad sea above, oh, fearful sight ! 
 
 As huge leviathan he rose to wage 
 
 War on his foe ; but with redoubled might, 
 
 The swans melodious their broad wings expand 
 
 O'er the vast central sea, and bear him safe to land- 
 XL 
 
 For in Ringstetten Castle he awoke, 
 
 On his accustomed couch ; as with the sound 
 
 The valet caused on entering, who thus spoke 
 His message brief : " The priest could still be found 
 
 Within the wood ; some branches he had broke, 
 To form a sheltering booth ; he frankly owned, 
 
 When questioned, why he lingered there and still 
 
 Refused obedience to his lordship's will.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 1 7 1 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Between the altar and the tomb," said he, 
 " Are other rites that may require my art ; 
 
 All things in their due season ; — oft we see 
 That love and death are not so far apart. — 
 
 So let us wait awhile." — Right solemnly 
 He spake. — These portents too had reached the 
 heart 
 
 Of the rash knight ; but now 'twas all arranged, 
 
 So it would never do to have things changed
 
 CANTO XVIII. 
 
 How the Knight celebrated his Wedding. 
 
 I. 
 
 " Things are not what they seem," hath been well 
 said, 
 
 By bard of high renown, and 'tis in sooth 
 Most obvious ; for all things are overlaid 
 
 To the deluded senses, not of youth 
 Alone, but of all those who have not weighed 
 
 Interior causes in the light of truth, 
 With a deceitful varnish of mere show 
 That ill conceals the unhappiness below. 
 
 II. 
 So, if we could pourtray the imposing scene, 
 
 Ringstetten Castle on the wedding day — 
 The gorgeous banquet, the bewildering sheen 
 
 Of noble knights and high-born ladies gay; 
 Music's rich strains, the choral songs between, 
 
 Now swelling loud, now falling far away 
 In long-drawn cadence — we should thus impart 
 Truth to the eye, but falsehood to the heart.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 1 7 ~> 
 
 d 
 
 in. 
 'Tvvas not that spectral sights their gladness marred, 
 
 For they were well secured 'gainst all intrusion 
 Of water-sprites at least — but then 'twas hard 
 
 That all this pomp and splendour, the profusion 
 Of joy's excess (yet, she alone debarred, 
 
 Who was the light of all, the interfusion 
 Of spiritual beauty) a new bride should greet 
 With welcome more resplendent than was meet 
 
 IV. 
 
 For former rival. Thus, like funeral crape 
 
 Thrown o'er gold ornaments, the splendour 
 seemed 
 
 O'ercast with dim transparent gloom, that brake 
 The spring of reckless mirth. Those present 
 deemed 
 
 The flower of all was wanting ; so would make 
 The sound of opening door (as he had dreamed) 
 
 Each guest to start, in readiness to meet 
 
 Undine's lovelier smile, and her sweet presence greet. 
 
 V. 
 
 Domestics came instead, with viands piled 
 
 On steaming board ; or ancient butler brought 
 
 Wine of a choicer vintage ; nor beguiled 
 
 All this the deepening gloom. In vain they 
 sought 
 
 Relief in jest and banter ; vainly smiled 
 
 At jokes foregone. The bride, because she 
 thought 
 
 The least on her lost friend, seemed least to feel 
 
 Portentous sadness o'er their revels steal.
 
 1 74 Undini : 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet o'er her mind would for a moment pass 
 
 Strange thoughts. — " Can I be here, a blooming 
 bride, 
 
 In these proud ornaments, while she, alas ! 
 
 Now pale and cold, beneath the Danube's tide, 
 
 Is to the far ocean borne ?" — For thus it was 
 Suggested by her sire ; so oft she tried 
 
 The thought to drive away, which therefore stayed 
 
 Not long, yet from her memory would not fade. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And so, at early eve, the party grew 
 Impatient to depart ; not sent away 
 
 As newly wedded lords will sometimes do, 
 Impatient of constraint ; they could not stay 
 
 While that portentous melancholy threw 
 A mocking shade that did all mirth betray ; 
 
 For sense with spirit ever must unite, 
 
 Or Eden's joys would cease to yield delight. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The wedding day thus hastened to its close, 
 The ladies with Bertalda glide away. 
 
 The bridegroom and attendants all arose, 
 But neither squire nor maiden yet were gay, 
 
 Nor strove, with well-timed frolic, to transpose 
 The gathering gloom, as is the accustomed way ; 
 
 Yet while her maids unrobed her, the young bride 
 
 Some efforts made these portents to deride.
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 175 
 
 IX. 
 
 <l Those jewels bring, the gift of my dear lord," 
 She said : "those brilliant dresses, and those veils 
 
 Lighter than gossamer ; we will accord 
 
 The brightest for the morrow. What avails 
 
 Gloom on these festal days, which should afford 
 Light only ? for I cannot tell why fails 
 
 The joy of all my friends ; or why so grave, 
 
 Unless their merriment they wish to save." 
 
 X. 
 
 The maids were pleased with this unlooked-for sally, 
 Because it loosed their tongues, and set them free 
 
 From dull constraint. Their buoyant spirits rally — 
 Bright ornaments are pleasant things to see 
 
 For ladies' eyes — to choose what hues would tally 
 Best with the beauteous bride, right heartily 
 
 They all conspire ; so, free from envious qualms, 
 
 Jointly extol the bride's surpassing charms. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Ah ! but look here, these freckles on my neck," 
 
 Bertalda said, in qualifying tone. 
 " Oh, these are nought," they answered ; " a mere 
 speck 
 
 To make the lily fairer. Even the sun 
 Is not without them ; if he were, 'twould make 
 
 His splendour all the less." — " Well, all or one, 
 I wish them on his face/' she said ; " for I 
 Detest all blemishes most heartily."
 
 176 Undind . 
 
 XII. 
 
 Then, with a sigh, she added : " I could soon 
 Remove them ; but the castle fount is sealed. 
 
 But one pure flagon ; oh ! for such a boon." 
 
 " That all /" asked she to whom her looks 
 appealed. 
 
 So, acting to the word, she hastened down 
 With merry laugh. Bertalda half concealed 
 
 Her joy, her fright. " Oh, sure she'll never be 
 
 So mad, these dreadful water-sprites to free." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Then tramp of feet they heard in the still night 
 Under the window : for the merry maid 
 
 A band of labourers brought. By silvery light 
 Of the full moon the ladies all surveyed 
 
 This reckless act. Bertalda at the sight 
 
 Grew bolder, and with cheerful smile she said : 
 
 " It is, in truth, my wish these men should do 
 
 This deed, which may we ne'er have cause to rue." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Approving thus, she made the deed her own. 
 
 The workmen, with great effort, seemed to vie 
 Each with the other ; but, in truth, the stone 
 
 Required not half their strength ; and then a sigh 
 From one or two, seemed gently to bemoan 
 
 Their former mistress. Much more easily 
 'Twas done than they expected. Facilis est 
 Descensus, Virgil says ; but we request
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 1 7 7 
 
 xv. 
 
 One syllable to change, to suit our plan : 
 Ascensus, in this case, for we may soon 
 
 An adverse spirit raise, but never can 
 
 Dismiss it with a word. — The soft pale moon 
 
 Shone o'er a sparkling column that began 
 
 Like prisoned bird to mount. So quick 'twas 
 done, 
 
 They all agreed some hidden power, at length 
 
 Had raised the ponderous stone with more than 
 mortal strength, 
 
 XVI. 
 
 They wondering gaze upon that column bright. 
 
 It seemed into a human shape to turn. 
 A sylph-like figure, yet so clear, so light, 
 
 The ethereal moonbeam you might well discern 
 Through every feature. Trembling with affright 
 
 They stood. A delicate veil was o'er her thrown ; 
 Her hands on high she raised ; once and again 
 Wrung them, then wept in agony of pain. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Then crossed them on her breast, and solemnly, 
 Like Grecian virgin with the sacred prime 
 
 Of Ceres, slower still, reluctantly, 
 
 With head declined, she moved in funeral time, 
 
 On toward the castle gate. Soon as they see 
 Her form beneath the tower, with look sublime 
 
 Of heartfelt grief, with moaning voice, she raised 
 
 Her eyes aloft, and for a moment gazed. 
 
 12
 
 178 Undind ': 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Bertalda screamed — she saw Undine's face. 
 
 " Go, call the knight !" she said : but none would 
 dare 
 That call to answer ; frozen to the place 
 
 With fear, her ladies stood. Up the wide stair 
 The figure passed with slow reluctant pace, 
 
 From hall to hall, and scattered everywhere 
 Tears like a summer rain. She reached the room 
 In which the knight stood musing o'er his doom, 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Before a mirror, with one taper dim 
 
 Beside him, and the attendants sent away. 
 
 Three light raps at the door (that playful whim 
 Oft heard in happier days) too well betray 
 
 Undine's presence. " Ah ! 'tis but a dream," 
 He said, "of fancy. Here I cannot stay, 
 
 But to my nuptial couch must quickly move." 
 
 " Indeed you must, but a cold couch 'twill prove," 
 
 xx. 
 
 A voice replied. He mirror'd then beheld 
 The reflex of the slowly opening door ; 
 
 A lovely phantom, too, that softly sailed 
 Rather than walked, and slowly, as before, 
 
 Closing again, she, with deep sobs, bewailed 
 The words she fain must utter. " All is o'er," 
 
 She said : " the fount is open. I am come 
 
 Your life to take, and lead you to your home."
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 1 79 
 
 XXI. 
 
 These words confirmed the death-pause in his heart. 
 
 " Ah, do not scare me in my dying hour, 
 With Gorgon face. Lift not that veil, nor start, 
 
 But take my life in peace." He covered o'er, 
 With hands close-pressed, his eyes. "Let me 
 depart ! 
 
 But not your face behold," he said, " for more 
 Would drive me mad." So still his heart denied 
 The perfect beauty of his angel-bride. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 "Alas !" the spirit said ; " will you not yet 
 Look on me once again ? I am as fair 
 
 As when on that peninsula we met." 
 
 " Ah ! would to God you were, and we might share 
 
 A kiss, like those I never can forget ; 
 
 For such a bliss my life I well could spare, 
 
 Now cheerless in false joy." She gently drew 
 
 Her veil aside, and to his ravished view, 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Smiled, a celestial angel. " I will grant 
 
 Most willingly," she said, "your last request." 
 
 So love revived in death, and with quick pant 
 Of chastening awe, the knight his face addrest 
 
 That kiss to give and take. There was no want 
 Of rapture keen, as she more closely pressed 
 
 Her cheek to his ; yet like a streamlet bright 
 
 Her warm tears flowed, drawing such from the 
 
 knight. 
 
 12 — 2
 
 1 80 Undine 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 So blending tears with tears, their souls would seem 
 To mingle into one ; but on his heart 
 
 Death struck relentless, so that joy did gleam, 
 Tempered with awe. 'Twas agony to part 
 
 At once with life, though such the heavenly dream, 
 Young love, like ceaseless sunrise, seemed to dart 
 
 Full on his soul, as slowly he sank down, 
 
 Leaned on his couch, and then that soul had flown. 
 
 xxv. 
 
 Undine, from the apartment (now a tomb) 
 Glided, and to the stricken group she said : 
 
 "Mine eyes have wept your knigJit to his last doom." 
 And on she slowly moved with measured tread. 
 
 They watched her progress from the adjoining room 
 On to the castle court, with speechless dread ; 
 
 Her way to the bright moonlight fount she steered, 
 
 And in its falling waters disappeared. 
 
 xxvi. 
 
 When Father Heilman heard the doleful tale 
 By rumour's chance, he to the castle turned, 
 
 Where at the door he met, with aspect pale, 
 
 The monk o'ercome with horror, who confirmed 
 
 These tidings, glad to quit the heavy bale. 
 " It is all well !" like ancient seer, returned 
 
 For answer the good priest ; " I come to afford 
 
 My aid, and need no help but from the Lord."
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 181 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Bertalda, bride and widow in one day, 
 First claimed the pity of the holy man, 
 
 Who sought with kindliest interest to allay 
 Sorrow's excess. He, Scripture truths to scan, 
 
 Incessant strove, such as might best repay 
 With heavenly peace the loss of earthly gain. 
 
 Great were his pains, but small the recompense 
 
 From one whose only joys were those of time and 
 sense. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " By murderous arts of sorcery, bereaved 
 Am I of every hope. Enchantress vile !" 
 
 She cried, while her old sire, tho' deeply grieved, 
 Resigned, yet sad, replied, with patient smile, 
 
 " God's judgments with humility received 
 Must ever be ; for I am sure the while, 
 
 Undine, as Death's angel, ne'er could wake 
 
 Anguish beyond her own, thus doomed his life to 
 take. 
 
 xxix. 
 
 " I see nought in it but God's holy will, 
 
 And righteous vindication of the oppress'd. 
 
 Forlorn Undine ! retribution still 
 
 Our earthly grief imprints at His behest." 
 
 But now the last sad rites the old man's skill 
 And thought require ; so now they all address'd 
 
 Their minds funereal matters to arrange. 
 
 Sad business which culd yet in measure change
 
 1 82 Undine: 
 
 xxx. 
 
 The current of their sorrow. 'Twas agreed 
 
 Beside the village church the knight should find 
 
 His last repose ; for there his sires were laid, 
 
 Who, with our knight, rich bounties had assigned 
 
 This shrine. The long procession was half made 
 By guests, retainers, villagers, combined 
 
 With escort proud of noble knights, who came 
 
 To grace his nuptial joy, not to lament his name. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The good priest took the lead, bearing on high 
 
 A massive crucifix ; the aged seer 
 Supporting his sad daughter. Many a sigh 
 
 Rose from the throng, with many a heartfelt tear. 
 The war-horse drooped his head, seeming to vie 
 
 With human grief. Now, on the charmed ear, 
 Bursts the wild march of Death, with trumpet's 
 
 blare, 
 And plaintive flute-notes shrilly pierce the air 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 With cherubic lament. The deep-toned gong 
 Marks solemn pauses, or funereal roll, 
 
 Muffled in crape, blending with clear-voiced song 
 Of choristers well-timed, their march control 
 
 In measured steps. But with them walked along 
 An unknown figure, veiled, but not in style 
 
 Of mournful black — her robes were white and fair 
 
 As mountain snow. She wrung in wild despair
 
 The Spirit of the Waters. 183 
 
 XXXIII. 
 Her hands. Those walking near would start aside 
 
 As smit with fear ; yet still she wept as one 
 Conscious of nought but woe. The soldiers tried 
 
 At times the stranger to remove — then gone 
 Like passing cloud she seemed, yet could not 
 guide 
 
 Her course ; for in some distant place anon 
 
 The phantom reappeared. At last 'twas seen 
 
 Following the widow's steps with sad but stately 
 
 mien, 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 She, all unconscious, till a circle round 
 
 The grave they form, on which Bertalda, too, 
 
 The unwelcome presence of the spirit found ; 
 And half indignant, yet half fearful grew. 
 
 She bade the shade depart, nor dare confound 
 The knight's last rest. On which the phantom 
 threw 
 
 Her arms in suppliant attitude, and then 
 
 Bertalda recognised the same again, 
 
 XXXV. 
 Who, on the Danube, that bright necklace gave 
 
 With such surpassing grace. She straightway 
 shows 
 Relenting pity ; while, with solemn wave 
 
 Of hand, the priest bade silence, and up rose 
 The last deep prayer; then all around the grave 
 
 Knelt solemnly. The glittering helmet glows 
 On the proud bier, with 'scutcheon's martial grace, 
 For Lord Ringstetten dies, the last of all his race.
 
 1 84 Undini. 
 
 xxxvi. 
 
 So these were buried with him. On the spot 
 
 Where the white lady knelt, a silvery spring 
 Rose, crystal clear, and its soft waters wrought 
 
 In eddies, that perennial dirges sing 
 Round the lone grave ; then, slow meandering 
 
 sought 
 The neighbouring lake. " 'Tis thus her fond arms 
 
 cling," 
 The peasants say : " Undine, pure and bright, 
 Circles for aye in this embrace her own beloved 
 
 knight." 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 Elliot Stock, Paternoster Row, London.
 
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