"Fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive,

Little brother!" (0 Mother, Mary Mother,

Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven!)

"He cries to you, kneeling in the road,

Sister Helen,

To go with him for the love of God!" "The way is long to his son's abode,

Little brother." (0 Mother, Mary Mother, The way is long, between Hell and Heaven!)

"A lady's here, by a dark steed brought,

Sister Helen,

So darkly clad, I saw her not."
"See her now or never see aught,

Little brother!"

(0 Mother, Mary Mother,

What more to see, between Hell and Heaven?)

"Her hood falls back, and the moon shines fair,

Sister Helen,

On the Lady of Ewern's golden hair."
"Blest hour of my power and her despair,

Little brother!"
(0 Mother, Mary Mother,

Hour blest and bann'd, between Hell and Heaven!)

"Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did glow, Sister Helen,

دو

'Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago.'
"One morn for pride and three days for woe,
Little brother!"

(O Mother, Mary Mother, Three days, three nights, between Hell and Heaven!)

"Her clasped hands stretch from her bending head, Sister Helen;

With the loud wind's wail her sobs are wed." "What wedding-strains hath her bridal-bed,

Little brother?"

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

What strain but death's, between Hell and Heaven!)

"She may not speak, she sinks in a swoon,
Sister Helen,—

She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon."
"Oh! might I but hear her soul's blithe tune,
Little brother!"

(O Mother, Mary Mother, Her woe's dumb cry, between Hell and Heaven!)

"They've caught her to Westholm's saddle-bow, Sister Helen,

And her moonlit hair gleams white in its flow." "Let it turn whiter than winter snow,

Little brother!"

(0 Mother, Mary Mother, Woe-withered gold, between Hell and Heaven!)

"O Sister Helen, you heard the bell,

Sister Helen!

More loud than the vesper-chime it fell." "No vesper-chime, but a dying knell,

Little brother!"

(0 Mother, Mary Mother,

His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven!)

"Alas! but I fear the heavy sound,

Sister Helen;

Is it in the sky or in the ground?"

"Say, have they turned their horses round,

Little brother?"

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

What would she more, between Hell and Heaven?)

"They have raised the old man from his knee,

Sister Helen,

And they ride in silence hastily."
"More fast the naked soul doth flee,

Little brother!" (0 Mother, Mary Mother, The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven!)

"Flank to flank are the three steeds gone,
Sister Helen,

But the lady's dark steed goes alone."
"And lonely her bridegroom's soul hath flown,

Little brother."

(0 Mother, Mary Mother,

The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven!)

"Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill,

Sister Helen,

And weary sad they look by the hill." "But he and I are sadder still,

Little brother!"

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Most sad of all, between Hell and Heaven!)

"See, see, the wax has dropped from its place,

Sister Helen,

And the flames are winning up apace!"

"Yet here they burn but for a space,

Little brother!"

(0 Mother, Mary Mother,

Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven!)

"Ah! what white thing at the door has cross'd,

Sister Helen?

Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?"

"A soul that's lost as mine is lost,

Little brother!"

(0 Mother, Mary Mother,

Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!)

THE STAFF AND SCRIP.

{The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine 1856.

1852. Memoir pg. 197.]

Gedichtet vielleicht

"WHO rules these lands?" the Pilgrim said.
"Stranger, Queen Blanchelys."

"And who has thus harried them?" he said.
"It was Duke Luke did this:

God's ban be his!"

The Pilgrim said: "Where is your house?
I'll rest there, with your will."

"You've but to climb these blackened boughs
And you'll see it over the hill,

For it burns still."

"Which road, to seek your Queen?" said he.
"Nay, nay, but with some wound
You'll fly back hither, it may be,

And by your blood i' the ground
My place be found.”

"Friend, stay in peace. God keep your head,

And mine, where I will go;

For He is here and there," he said.

He passed the hill-side, slow,

And stood below.

The Queen sat idle by her loom:
She heard the arras stir,

And looked up sadly: through the room
The sweetness sickened her

Of musk and myrrh.

Her women, standing two and two,
In silence combed the fleece.
The Pilgrim said, "Peace be with you,
Lady;" and bent his knees.

She answered, "Peace."

Her eyes were like the wave within;
Like water-reeds the poise
Of her soft body, dainty thin;
And like the water's noise
Her plaintive voice.

For him, the stream had never well'd
In desert tracts, malign
So sweet; nor had he ever felt

So faint in the sunshine

Of Palestine.

Right so, he knew that he saw weep
Each night through every dream
The Queen's own face, confused in sleep
With visages supreme

Not known to him.

"Lady," he said, "your lands lie burnt
And waste: to meet your foe

All fear: this I have seen and learnt.

Say that it shall be so,

And I will go."

Jiriczek, Englische Dichter.

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