A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered, hangs o'er Eildun's triple height: Spirits of Power assembled there complain For kindred Power departing from their sight; While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, Saddens his voice again and yet again. Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes; Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows, Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true Ye winds of ocean and the midland sea, Wafting your charge to soft Parthenope!

THE SKELETON DANCE

After the German of Goethe

The warder looked out at the mid-hour of night, Where the grave-hills all silently lay; The moon-beams above gave so brilliant a light, That the churchyard was clear as by day: First one, then another, to open began; Here came out a woman—there came out a man,— Each clad in a shroud long and white. And then for amusement—perchance it was cold— In a circle they seemed to advance; The poor and the rich, and the young and the old,— But the grave-clothes impeded the dance: And as no person thought about modesty there, They flung off their garments, and stripped themselves bare, And a shroud lay on each heap of mould. They kicked up their heels, and they rattled their bones, And the horrible din that they made Went clickety-clackety—just like the tones Of a castanet noisily played. And the warder he laughed as he witnessed the cheer, And he heard the Betrayer speak soft in his ear, "Go and steal away one of their shrouds." Swift as thought it was done—in an instant he fled Behind the church portal to hide; And brighter and brighter the moon-beam was shed, As the dance they still shudderingly plied;— But at last they began to grow tired of their fun, And they put on their shrouds, and slipped off, one by one, Beneath, to the homes of the dead. But tapping at every grave-hill, there staid One skeleton, tripping behind; Though not by his comrades the trick had been played— Now its odour he snuffed in the wind: He rushed to the door—but fell back with a shock; For well for the wight of the bell and the clock, The sign of the cross it displayed. But the shroud he must have—not a moment he stays; Ere a man had begun but to think, On the Gothic-work his fingers quickly he lays, And climbs up its chain, link by link. Now woe to the warder—for sure he must die— To see, like a long-legged spider, draw nigh The skeleton's clattering form: And pale was his visage, and thick came his breath; The garb, alas! why did he touch? How sick grew his soul as the garment of death The skeleton caught in his clutch— The moon disappeared, and the skies changed to dun, And louder than thunder the church-bell tolled one— The spectre fell tumbling to bits!

[and one of the prose tales, abridged:]

BEATRICE ADONY AND JULIUS ALVINZI

There is not in all Germany a more pleasant station for a regiment of horse than the city of Salzburgh, capital of the province of that name, in the dominions of the House of Austria. Here, during the summer and autumn of 1795, lay the third regiment of Hungarian hussars. This corps had sustained a heavy loss during the campaign of the year previous in Flanders, and was sent into garrison to be recruited and organized anew. Count Zichy, who commanded it, was a noble of the highest rank, of princely fortune, and of lavish expenditure; and being of a cheerful and social turn of mind, he promoted all the amusements of the place, and encouraged the gaiety of his officers.

The scenery around is grand and alpine. The narrow defiles and picturesque valleys are watered by mountain rivers; and, at an easy distance from the city, is the lone lake of Berchtolsgaden, lying beneath a lofty, inaccessible alp, of the most stern and majestic aspect. Need it be told how sweet upon that placid lake sounded the mellow horns of the Hungarian band; and may it not be left to fancy to image out, how these parties, these scenes, and these sensations, gave birth to some abiding, and to very many passing loves.

Among the fair women of Salzburgh, the palm of beauty was yielded readily by all to Beatrice Adony, the only daughter of a respected statesman, long favoured at court, and then resident upon a private estate in the neighbourhood. He had retired from public affairs a few years before, when under deep affliction from the loss of a beloved wife; and lived a life of fond parental devotion with this lovely Beatrice, who was the image of her departed mother. He had directed all her studies; and with such judgment, that he had imparted to her character a masculine strength, which elevated her above all the common dangers of that season of life when woman passes forth into society.

The Count Zichy was a relation of Count Adony, and a constant and welcome guest at his mansion; and Beatrice, therefore, attended many and most of the entertainments which the Count and his officers gave to the society of Salzburgh during their stay. As she smiled no encouragement upon the attentions which the Count seemed at first disposed to pay her, and as he was a cheerful, manly-hearted creature, and though made of penetrable stuff, by no means a person to lose either appetite, society, or life, for love, he bestowed his gallantries elsewhere. She liked him for this all the better; and gave him, in return, that free-hearted, sisterly friendship, which might be innocently suffered to grow out of their connexion and intimacy.

All the regular, conceited male coquettes were abashed and perplexed by manners so natural, that they could make nothing of her; while those more dangerous, but much to be blamed admirers, who stand apart with sighs and gazes, were baffled and made sad by the silent dignity of eyes serenely bright, that never looked upon their flattering worship with one ray of favour. Such was Beatrice Adony; all the fair girls were fond of her, and proud of her—because she was no one's rival. They looked on her as a being of a higher order; one whose thoughts were chaste as the unsunned Alps. She was admired by them, meditated upon—but never envied.

Most true it was, Beatrice was of another and a higher order. She was "among them, not of them." She took part in those amusements which belong to the customs of her country; and filled that place, and performed those customs, which her station in society demanded, with unaffected ease and grace. But while the trifles and pleasures of the passing day were to her companions everything, they were to her little and unsatisfying. For the last few years of her mother's life, whose habits were meditative and devotional, she had daily listened to the gracious lessons of divine truth, and the closet of Beatrice Adony was hallowed by the Eye that seeth in secret, and that often saw her there upon her knees.

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 20, No. 582, December 22, 1832

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SONNET ON SIR WALTER SCOTT'S QUITTING ABBOTSFORD FOR NAPLES

By William Wordsworth

THE SKELETON DANCE

After the German of Goethe

BEATRICE ADONY AND JULIUS ALVINZI

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