Beneath the castle window
Each night were heard the strains
Of a poor love-smitten noble,
Who lived away out on the plains,
And walked ten weary miles each night,
To woo the Baron’s daughter,
Who lived in the gloomy castle
That stood by the Rhine’s blue water.
Oh, Kleinfelter burned with a desperate passion,
And he fixed it in music somewhat to this fashion:
“Oh transcendental Hinda,
Look from thy latticed window,
As here I sadly linger
And with a trembling finger
I thrum the strings
Of my sad guitar,
Or knock the ashes
From my fragrant cigar
Fairest of Heaven’s handiwork,
Sweetest of nature’s candy-work,
Here I pledge upon thine altar,
Love that knows not how to falter.
Grant, oh, grant some sweet return,
Nor my deep devotion spurn;
Let me have thy gentle heart or
Even a buckle of your garter!”
V.
Now Kleinfelter’s singing
Was undoubtedly splendid,
And its musical ringing
Could not easily be mended
It was soft and sweet and then it was loud
As a singing saint’s on a shining cloud;
Clear as the lark’s own morning call,
With a silvery chime like a waterfall.
So he had scarcely uttered a note,
When Hinda’s heart rose up in her throat,
Her breast felt a pang and her head felt a dizziness,
Oh, Kleinfelter’s serenade finished the business!
VI.
I know a maiden,
Her eyes are black
As the flying cloud
Of the tempest’s rack,
And the radiant glow
Of their glorious fire
Would quell and tame
A lion’s ire.
Sometimes they brighten
And lighten in gladness,
Sometimes their dark depths
Are shadowed with sadness,
But pensive or mirthful,
A soul flashes through,
That will silently charm you
And win and subdue.
Often have I heard her play
On the guitar some roundelay,
And as her white hands swept the strings,
Melody unsealed its springs,
And her sweet voice, though low and soft,
Rose like a seraph’s hymn aloft,
Rising and sinking in gentle swells;
Like a murmuring brook with its liquid bells,
Till the vanquished soul was borne along
On the rushing tide of resistless song.
VII.
But I am digressing—
I was going to say,
That just as Kleinfelter
Got in good way,
The Baron, hearing Kleinfelter’s song,
Thought he was piling it on rather strong,
So taking along a burly old vassal,
He quickly sneaked up to the top of his castle
He lay down on his stomach
And stuck his head over,
And there was Miss Hinda
And below was her lover.
He gritted his teeth and he held his breath,
And he inly vowed Kleinfelter’s death.
So jumping up and wheeling about,
He picked up a barrel of sour kraut,
And frantic with rage he hurled it over,
Plump on the head of the wretched lover.
Of course it ended Kleinfelter’s strains,
For it mashed his skull and scattered his brains,
And knocked the musician out of time
Into Eternity—horrible crime!
So ended Kleinfelter, and so ends my rhyme.
DR. JOHN A. BROADDUS.
Modest, firm, bold, and sage as Socrates,
Two Johns in one, the Harbinger and Seer,
He stood a High Priest by the holy Ark,
Aspiring as the upward-soaring eagle
Quitting the sluggish vapors of the dark,
To drink in heavenward flight the morning breeze,
Clear dews, and golden sunshine of the dawn,
And moist from fountains fresh and salted seas.
He preached with reason lucid as the light
Which flashed o’er chaos at Creation’s birth,
When Eden threw its splendor o’er the night
And the Divine Word said, “Let there be light!”
Chasing foul phantoms from the infant earth;
Strange was the power of that pathetic voice
Whose sympathy made aching hearts rejoice.
The mellow winding of the shepherd’s pipe
Seemed from the fruitful Mount of Olives borne
To ears of gentle women and strong men.