THE THREE PLEDGES.

Three students sat together In a villa on the Rhine, And pledged the beauteous river In draughts of sparkling wine. One was bold and haughty, Count Otto was his name: His dark eyes flashed and smouldered: From Nuremberg he came. And one was too fond-hearted For aught but love and song; With hair too brightly golden To wear its lustre long. His hands were white and shapely As any maid’s might be; Count Adelbert of Munich, A joyous youth was he. And one was grave and quiet, With such a winning smile That, meeting all its brightness, Sad hearts grew light the while. And as they sat together, Three trav’llers by the Rhine, And pledged the noble river In draughts of golden wine, With lays of olden minstrels They whiled the hours away, Till twilight gently sealed them With the sign of parting day. Then silence fell upon them, And the distant boatman’s song Returned in softened echoes The gleaming waves along; And through the latticed windows The hush of evening stole, And the solemn spell of silence Fast fettered soul to soul. Dream on, O happy-hearted! The future holds no truth, No amaranthine jewel, Like the rainbow tints of youth. Dream on, O happy-hearted! The hour will soon be gone, And darkness fall too swiftly. Dream on, young hearts, dream on! ***** This is the proudest hour Of all the golden twelve, That seek the mystic caverns Where gray gnomes dig and delve. “The beauty of the morning Is but the birth of day, And the glory of the noontide Doth pass as soon away. “But twilight holds the fulness, The meed of every one, And drops the radiant circlet Before her god, the sun. “This is the proudest hour Of all the golden twelve— Now combs the Nix her tresses, Now rests his spade the elve. “And I drink to the proudest maiden That treads this German-land; No other love shall my heart own, No other queen my hand. “And I’ll pledge her three times over, This haughty queen of mine, In the brightest flowing nectar That ever kissed the Rhine.” Thus spake the bold Count Otto, And held his goblet up, And three times overflowing Each student drained his cup. “This is the fairest hour, For the sunset clouds unfold To the purple sea of twilight Their red-tipped sails of gold. “And the hecatombs of sweetness That all the day have risen In the bosom of the flowers Unbar their shining prison. “This is the fairest hour, The hour of eventide, And I drink to the fairest maiden That dwells the Rhine beside. “And I pledge her three times over, Though her only dower should be The heaven-born gift of beauty, And a faithful love for me.” Thus spake Adelbert, smiling, And held his goblet up, And three times overflowing Each student drained his cup. Then paused the twain in wond’ring, What Ludwig’s toast might be; For their comrade sat in silence, And never word spake he. “How now? Why thus, brave Ludwig, Sitt’st thou in pensive mood? Dost choose to dwell unmated, In loveless solitude?” He smiled, and then looked downward As he answered, glass in hand, “Nay, nay; but, if I pledge her, Ye will not understand.” “Where dwells she, then?” cried Otto, “This peerless love of thine? Mayhap some fabled Lurline That sings beneath the Rhine? “Thou’rt smiling—haste, then, pledge her!” And the brimming glasses rung As Ludwig dropped the music That trembled on his tongue. “This is the holiest hour Of all the twenty-four, For the rush of day hath passed us, And the tide returns no more. “And the waves of toil and traffic, By dark argosies trod, Are lost through circling eddies In the mightiness of God. “This is the holiest hour When purest thoughts have birth, And I drink to the holiest maiden That ever dwelt on earth. “Her vesture falleth around her In folds of changeless white, And her holiness outshineth The jewels of the night. “She weareth a mantle of sadness, Her sorrows are her fame: She long hath been my chosen, But I will not name her name. “Ah! not with wine I pledge thee, All spotless as thou art, But with my life’s devotion, With the fulness of my heart. “Ah! not with wine I pledge thee, Nor one libation pour; Thou hold’st the bond that seals me, Thine own for evermore.” This with white brow uncovered, ’Neath the floating twilight skies; And angels might have marvelled At the beauty of his eyes. Then he turned his goblet downward, And waved the flask aside His comrades would have proffered To pledge such wondrous bride. “Friend, thou hast spoken strangely, But thou wert ever strange; Mayhap this matchless maiden Hath power thy mood to change.” Thus Adelbert spake, smiling, And shook his golden hair: “I ask nor saint nor angel, But maiden fond and fair. “Then let us pledge each other, Since thy passion is too deep, With comrades tried and trusty, Its sacredness to keep. “What maiden like thy vision In all our fatherland?” “Ah! said I not,” cried Ludwig, “Ye would not understand?” “Come, let us pledge each other,” Said Otto, glass in hand— “A right good draught of friendship That all may understand.” Then their glasses clashed together, “Firm may our fealty be!” And Ludwig’s voice of music Rang loudest of the three. Seven times hath autumn gathered The vintage of the Rhine, Since the students pledged each other In draughts of golden wine. In a grand and lofty castle, The Danube’s stream beside, Count Otto dwells in splendor, The lord of acres wide. He has won the proudest maiden In all that German-land, And countless hosts of yeomen Obey his high command. But the haughty brow is clouded, And his eye is full of care, For the trace of many a heart-storm Hath left its impress there. Love had sought Adelbert, Young Beauty’s flow’ret blown, And the tendrils of its blossoms About his heart had grown. And joy had wrapped them softly In robes of radiant sheen, Till Death bent down, relentless, And sapped their living green. Hush! a mourner sits in silence Within a darkened room, Where the fairest flower of summer Lies withered in her bloom. While those who move about him With footsteps sad and slow, Whisper to each other, But leave him to his woe. And down in the quiet churchyard, Where nodding grasses wave, The children gather, silent, And the sexton digs a grave. Solemnly tolls the church-bell, It counteth twenty-five— O God! the flowers wither, And the old, old branches thrive. Solemnly tolls the church-bell, Slowly winds the train Adown the rocky hillside, Along the grassy plain; Sadly pass the bearers Into the churchyard old, Brightly falls the sunlight In glittering lines of gold; Tearfully pause the mourners Above the broken sod, And Ludwig waits beside it, A humble priest of God.