It was the bleeding body of the hound,
Warm, but quite dead. No other trace of Karl
Was near at hand; they called his name; in vain
They sought him in the forest all night through;
Living or dead, he was not to be found.
At break of day they left the fruitless search.
Next morning, as an anxious village group
Stood meditating plans what best to do,
Came little Trudchen, who, in simple tones,
Said, "Father's at the forge—I heard him there
Working long hours ago; but he is angry.
I raised the latch: he bade me to be gone.
What have I done to make him chide me so?"
And then her bright blue eyes ran o'er with tears.
"The child's been dreaming through this troubled night,"
Said a kind dame, and drew the child towards her.
But the sad answers of the girl were such
As led them all to seek her father's forge
(It lay beyond the village some short span).
They forced the door, and there beheld the smith.
His sinewy frame was drawn to its full height;
And round his loins a double chain of iron,
Wrought with true workman skill, was riveted
Fast to an anvil of enormous weight.
He stood as pale and statue-like as death.
Now let his own words close the hapless tale:
"I killed the hound, you know; but not until
His maddening venom through my veins had passed.
I knew full well the death in store for me,
And would not answer when you called my name;
But crouched among the brushwood, while I thought
Over some plan. I know my giant strength,
And dare not trust it after reason's loss.
Why! I might turn and rend whom most I love.
I've made all fast now. 'Tis a hideous death.
I thought to plunge me in the deep, still pool
That skirts the forest—to avoid it; but
I thought that for the suicide's poor shift
I would not throw away my chance of heaven,
And meeting one who made earth heaven to me.
So I came home and forged these chains about me:
Full well I know no human hand can rend them,
And now am safe from harming those I love.
Keep off, good friends! Should God prolong my life,
Throw me such food as nature may require.
Look to my babes. This you are bound to do;
For by my deadly grasp on that poor hound,
How many of you have I saved from death
Such as I now await? But hence away!
The poison works! these chains must try their strength.
My brain's on fire! with me 'twill soon be night."
Too true his words! the brave, great-hearted Karl,
A raving maniac, battled with his chains
For three fierce days. The fourth saw him free;
For Death's strong hand had loosed the martyr's bonds;
Where his freed spirit soars, who dares to doubt?
THE ROMANCE OF TENACHELLE.
BY HERCULES ELLIS.
On panting steeds they hurry on,
Kildare, and Darcy's lovely daughter—
On panting steeds they hurry on;
To cross the Barrow's water;
Within her father's dungeon chained,
Kildare her gentle heart had gained;
Now love and she have broke his chain,
And he is free! is free again.
His cloak, by forest boughs is rent,
The long night's toilsome journey showing;
His helm's white plume is wet, and bent,
And backwards o'er his shoulders flowing;
Pale is the lovely lady's cheek,
Her eyes grow dim, her hand is weak;
And, feebly, tries she to sustain,
Her falling horse, with silken rein.
"Now, clasp thy fair arms round my neck,"
Kildare cried to the lovely lady;
"Thy weight black Memnon will not check,
Nor stay his gallop, swift and steady;"
The blush, one moment, dyed her cheek;
The next, her arms are round his neck;
And placed before him on his horse,
They haste, together, on their course.