The Romance of Cologne.

T

IS even-on the pleasant banks of Rhine
The thrush is singing, and the dove is cooing,
A youth and maiden on the turf recline
Alone-And he is wooing.

Yet woos in vain, for to the voice of love

No kindly sympathy the Maid discovers,

Though round them both, and in the air above,
The tender Spirit hovers!

Untouch'd by lovely Nature and her laws,

The more he pleads, more coyly she represses;—

Her lips denies, and now her hand withdraws,
Rejecting his caresses.

L

Fair is she as the dreams young poets weave,

Bright eyes, and dainty lips, and tresses curly;

In outward loveliness a child of Eve,

But cold as Nymph of Lurley!

The more Love tries her pity to engross,

The more she chills them with a strange behaviour; Now tells her beads, now gazes on the Cross

And Image of the Saviour.

Forth goes the Lover with a farewell moan,
As from the presence of a thing inhuman ;—
Oh! what unholy spell hath turned to stone
The young warm heart of Woman!

'Tis midnight-and the moonbeam, cold and wan,

On bower and river quietly is sleeping,

And o'er the corse of a self-murdered man

The Maiden Fair is weeping.

In vain she looks into his glassy eyes,

No pressure answers to her hand so pressing;

In her fond arms impassively he lies,

Clay-cold to her caressing.