A ruddy morn and golden
Hath brought us in the May,
The prince stepped with his charmer
From forest-night away;
The master-singers chanted
A measure proud and strong;
They seemed like giant spirits
Of strange and wondrous song.

The valley steeped in slumber
Woke to their pleasant lore;
And who within his bosom
A spark of youth yet bore
Deep-stirred, the jubel sounded ;
"Thanked this bright morn shall be
Which thee to us restoreth,
Thou German Poesy."

Still sits the crone, as ever,
Within her murky cell,

And patters down the rain where
Its shrunken shingles fell;

But as their fall has lamed her,
She spindle-work must cease;

Then mercy grant till Doomsday
That she repose in peace.

We have selected this allegory rather as a lively and pertinent description of historical eras to which we have had occasion to refer, than for its artistic merit, or for any illustration it affords of Uhland's revival of the manner of the Minnesingers. It is playful and correct, and we think, to a German ear, which naturally loves the rehearsal of recent progress most honourable to the national genius, will both account for, and sustain the general popularity which Uhland has in his native land; where we find from the copy before us, that ten years ago, his works had reached the eleventh edition. But as a pure offspring of the fancy, it seems to us far surpassed by the next little ballad which we present-which, in the original, we conceive to combine high excellencies in the four grand elements of the beautiful in poetry; form, proportion, feeling, and sound.

And soon she slumbered, blanched in death;
Yet still the treasured boon she wore

And wondered all to see the wreath
Both fruit and blossom bore.

As we have before alluded to the impression we receive of Uhland's piety and fervour, from the tone of his poems, we shall here, perhaps, not improperly insert two short pieces in which the religious element is more marked than is usual in his writings.

Though every tender flower must Thou wouldest with compassion godly

For us on cross Thine arms ex

Ye

pand :

Then spake the storm, then groaned the land,

Lye; Approach, approach, where'er repose dead! your graves' dark gate unclose ye; [broadly. His arms to meet you spreads He

Oh marvel dear! Oh love entrancing!

If this life be but sleep for me,

I'll anxious dream of none but Thee!
And so shall I awake from sorrow,

And, lost in Thee, effulgence borrow,

Like sunbeams from the full orb glancing.

We will now proceed to that class of Uhland's poems on which we conceive his reputation is best established-his revivals of Troubadour ministrelsy. From these, in our present number, we shall extract pretty liberally; hoping next month to give a more general notion of the variety of styles in which he has been more or less successful. The first three of the poems which follow are in that peculiar trochaic flow which the Spanish and Portuguese minstrels generally employed in their romances, songs and dramatic dialogues, technically known as the "redondilha," the laws of which have been accurately defined by Sismondi in his dissertation on the Literature of the Troubadours. They are selected from a series of five ballads described collectively as "The Loves of the Poets;" the two now omitted from their greater length we may perhaps find a future occasion of presenting to our readers.

Straight for Balbi's lofty castle,
Blending music, Durand hieth;
Full his breast of pleasant carols,
Now the happy goal he nigheth.
From aloft, a gentle maiden

DURAND.

To his lute's enchanting measure,
Downward gazing, inly breathing,
Listens mute with glow of pleasure.
Neath the palace linden's shadow
Hath his chaunt begun already,
There he sings in accents mellow
Lays the sweetest ever made he.
Sees he now from roof and lattice
Many a flowret friendly bendeth ;
But the lady of his lyrics

Now no more his gaze attendeth :
And there passes from the palace
One who whispers broken-hearted
“Harrow not the dead's composure;
Lady Blanca hath departed.'

Ere the youthful minstrel, Durand
Hath a word of answer spoken,
Ah! his eyes are dimmed already.

Ah! his very heart is broken.
Yonder in the castle chapel,
Where are countless flambeaux light-
ed,

Where the gentlemaiden rests,
Dead, with blooming chaplets dighted,
Seizes there the people all
Fright, and stare, and glad amaze-
ment,

For they see the Lady Blanca
Heaving from her cold encasement.
From her deep and death-like slum-
ber

Blossoming she reappeareth;
Steppeth forth in cerement sheet,
Which like bride's array she wear-
eth.

Wissing naught of the adventure,
Yet to dreamy phantoms clinging,
Fondly asks the gentle maid,

Hath not Durand here been singing?"

Durand here hath sung indeed,