THE LEGEND OF THE DRACHENFELS.

“Lead me away! I am weak and young, Captive the fierce and proud among; But I will pray a humble prayer, That the feeble to strike may be strong to bear. “Lead me away! oh, dear to mine eyes Are the flowery fields and the sunny skies; But I cannot turn from the Cross divine, To bend my knee at an idol’s shrine.” They clothe her in such rich array As a bride prepares for her bridal day; Around her forehead, that shines so bright, They wreathe a wreath of roses white, And set on her neck a golden chain, Spoil of her sire in combat slain, Over her head her doom is said; And with folded arms and measured tread, In long procession, dark and slow, Up the terrible hill they go, Hymning their hymn, and crying their cry, To him, their Demon Deity— Mary, Mother, sain and save! The maiden kneels at the Dragon’s cave! Alas! ’tis frightful to behold That thing of Nature’s softest mould, In whose slight shape and delicate hue Life’s loveliness beams, fresh and new, Bound on the bleak hill’s topmost height, To die, and by such death, to-night! But yester-eve, when the red sun His race of grateful toil had run, And over earth the moon’s soft rays Lit up the hour of prayer and praise, She bowed within the pleasant shade By her own fragrant jasmine made; And while her clear and thrilling tone Asked blessing from her Maker’s throne, Heard the notes echoed to her ear From lips that were to her most dear. Her sire, her kindred, round her knelt; And the young priestess knew and felt That deeper love than that of men Was in their natural temple then. That love—is now its radiance chill? Oh! fear not! it is o’er her still! The crowd departed; and alone She kneeled upon the rugged stone. Alas! it was a dismal pause, When the wild rabble’s fierce applause Died slowly on the answering air; And in the still and mute profound, She started even at the sound Of the half-thought, half-spoken prayer Her heart and lip had scarcely power To feel or frame in that dark hour, Fearful, yet blameless! for her birth, Fair victim, was of common earth, And she was nurst, in happier hours, By Nature’s common suns and showers; And when one moment whirls away Whate’er we know or trust to-day, And opens that eternal book, On which we long, and dread, to look— In that quick change of sphere and scope, That rushing of the spirit’s wings From all we have to all we hope, From mortal to immortal things— Though madly on the giddy brink Despair may smile, and Guilt dissemble, White Innocence a while will shrink, And Piety be proud to tremble! But quickly from her brow and cheek The flush of human terror faded, And she aroused, the maiden meek, Her fainting spirit, self-upbraided, And felt her secret soul renewed In that her solemn solitude. Unwonted strength to her was given To bear the rod and drink the cup; Her pulse beat calmer, and to Heaven Her voice in firmer tone went up: And as upon her gentle heart The dew of holy peace descended, She saw her last sunlight depart With awe and hope so meekly blended Into a deep and tranquil sense Of unpresuming confidence, That if the blinded tribes, whose breath Had doomed her to such dole and death, Could but have caught one bright, brief glance Of that ungrieving countenance, And marked the light of glory shed Already o’er her sinless head, The tears with which her eyes were full— Tears not of anguish—and the smile Of new-born rapture, which the while As with a lustrous veil arrayed Her brow, her cheek, her lip, and made Her beauty more than beautiful— Oh, would they not have longed to share Her torture—yea! her transport, there? “Father, my sins are very great; Thou readest them, whate’er they be; But penitence is all too late; And unprepared I come to Thee, Uncleansed, unblessed, unshriven! “Yet Thou, in whose all-searching sight No human thing is undefiled— Thou, who art merciful in might, Father, Thou wilt forgive Thy child— Father, Thou hast forgiven! “Thy will, not hers, be done to-day! If in this hour, and on this spot, Her soul indeed must pass away Among fierce men who know Thee not— Thine is the breath Thou gavest! “Or, if Thou wilt put forth Thine hand And shield her from the jaws of flame, That she may live to teach the land Whose people hath not heard Thy name— Thine be the life Thou savest!” So spoke the blessed maid, and now Crossing her hands upon her breast, With quiet eye and placid brow Awaited the destroying pest; Not like a thing of sense and life Soul-harrassed in such bitter strife, But tranquil, as a shape of stone Upraised in ages long bygone To mark where, closed her toilsome race, Some sainted sister sleeps in grace. Such Bertha seemed: about her grew Sweet wild-flowers, sweet of scent and hue; And she had fixed with pious care Her crucifix before her there, That her last look and thought might be Of Christ and of the Holy Tree. The day was gone, but it was not night:— Whither so suddenly fled the light? Nature seemed sick with a sore disease; Over her hills and streams and trees Unnatural darkness fell; The earth and the heaven, the river and shore, In the lurid mist were seen no more; And the voice of the mountain monster rose, As he lifted him up from his noontide repose, First in a hiss and then in a cry, And then in a yell that shook the sky; The eagle from high fell down to die At the sound of that mighty yell: From his wide jaws broke, as in wrath he woke, Scalding torrents of sulphurous smoke, And crackling coals in mad ascent As from a red volcano went, And flames, like the flames of hell. But his scream of fury waxed more shrill, When on the peak of the blasted hill He saw his victim bound: Forth the Devourer, scale by scale, Uncoiled the folds of his steel-proof mail, Stretching his throat, and stretching his tail, And hither and thither rolling him o’er, Till he covered four score feet and four Of the wearied and wailing ground: And at last he raised from his stony bed The horrors of his speckled head; Up like a comet the meteor went, And seemed to shake the firmament, And batter heaven’s own walls! For many a long mile, well I ween, The fires that shot from those eyes were seen; The Burschen of Bonn, if Bonn had been, Would have shuddered in their halls. Woe for the Virgin!—bootless here Were glistening shield and whistling spear Such battle to abide; The mightiest engines that ever the trade Of human homicide hath made, Warwolf, balist, and catapult, Would like a stripling’s wand insult That adamantine hide. Woe for the Virgin!— Lo! what spell Hath scattered the darkness, and silenced the yell, And quenched those fiery showers?— Why turns the serpent from his prey?— The Cross hath barred his terrible way, The Cross among the flowers. As an eagle pierced on his cloudy throne, As a column sent from its base of stone, Backward the stricken monster dropped; Never he stayed, and never he stopped, Till deep in the gushing tide he sank And buried lay beneath the stream, Passing away like a loathsome dream. Well may you guess how either bank As with an earthquake shook; The mountains rocked from brow to base; The river boiled with a hideous din; As the burning mass fell heavily in; And the wide, wide Rhine, for a moment’s space Was scorched into a brook. Night passed, ere the multitude dared to creep, Huddled together, up the steep; They came to the stone; in speechless awe They fell on their face at the sight they saw: The maiden was free from hurt or harm, But the iron had passed from her neck and arm, And the glittering links of the broken chain Lay scattered about like drops of rain. And deem ye that the rescued child To her father-land would come— That the remnant of her kindred smiled Around her in her home, And that she lived in love of earth, Among earth’s hopes and fears, And gave God thanks for the daily birth Of blessings in after years?— Holy and happy, she turned not away From the task her Saviour set that day; What was her kindred, her home, to her? She had been Heaven’s own messenger! Short time went by from that dread hour Of manifested wrath and power, Ere from the cliff a little shrine Looked down upon the rolling Rhine. Duly the virgin Priestess there Led day by day the hymn and prayer; And the dark heathen round her pressed To know their Maker, and be blessed.