Then up, on cherub pinions borne,
The Virgin-Mother pass'd;
And as she rose, on the Forlorn,

A radiant smile she cast;

And Margaret saw, with streaming eyes Of grateful joy, the vision rise,

And watch'd it till, from earthly view,

It vanish'd in the depths of blue.

541

THE MAID OF OBERLAND.

A BALLAD.

"The baths which the Parisians frequent the most willingly in Switzerland, are those of Kerchenbach, near the lake of Brienz. The Lake of Brienz, that pearl of Oferland, has not yet a steamboat, but it has lost its most graceful ornament. There was for some years, they cite, in all Switzerland, as one of the marvels of the country, the beautiful boatwoman of Brienz, and who knows how many romantic stories they relate of this queen of the lake; what passions she enkindled; how many travellers wished to have as relic and souvenir a ringlet of her hair or the riband of her girdle? But the boatwoman was virtue itself, and alone in the midst of the lake, with the most devoted passenger, this daughter of Helvetia, an oar in each hand, set at defiance the perils of a tête-à-tête.

"There was, they say, a young lord who proposed to marry her, absolutely, as if she had been a noble heiress, or a dancer of Drury Lane; but she wished not to become a lady. Then the young lord proposed to become a boatman, if she would, on that condition, take him for a husband; and having experienced a second refusal, he blew his brains out in the boat conducted by the lovely boatwoman."

A SKIFF is on the mountain lake

Of lovely Oberland,

And in it sits a beauteous maid,

An oar in either hand:

And by her side in stately pride

A noble British peer,

And she must row the little skiff
And he must sit and steer.

As when the day its dawning ray
O'er clouds of silver throws,

So through that maiden's blushing cheek,
The soft carnation glows.
Serene but fearless is her eye,

The gentle girl of Brence,

And o'er her face is spread the grace

Of purest innocence.

And evermore she plies the oar,
And oft in sportive glee

Her notes awake the quiet lake
With simple melody.

"I would not be a city belle
Or dame of high degree,
My little bark is my domain,
An ample one for me.

"The lark shall rouse me at the dawn,
Upsoaring through the sky,
The ripple of my own dear lake

Shall be my lullaby.

I covet not a prouder lot

For I am fancy-free,

And reign within my own domain :

A little bark for me."

So fair that beauteous vision rose

Upon the Briton's eye,

So sweetly fell upon his ear

That simple minstrelsy,

That his fond heart for death or life

A spell of love came o'er,

And she must be his wedded wife

Or he must be no more.

"Oh come! sweet maid of Oberland!"

Thus spake that noble peer,

"The oar is not for thy soft hand,

Nor suits it mine to steer.

Then leave thy oar upon the shore,
Thy bark beside the strand,

And come with me to part no more
To my far British land.

"Fair lawns are mine beside the Tyne,

With forest, town, and tower,

My city home a stately dome

Upon the Thames's shore.

Come with me there and thou shalt bear

My high ancestral names,

Thy spouse an Earl, and thou the pearl Of England's noble dames."

"Nay gallant youth! thy phrase is sooth But suiteth not my ear,

For thou must wed another maid

And I must tarry here.

The Switzer girl and British earl

May never fitly pair,

And I should shame the noble name

That thou would'st have me bear."

Nay, maiden dear," return'd the Peer, "If such be thy design,

And if thou dare not meet me there,

I'll make my home of thine; And I will quit my lordly seat, My forest, town and tower; And I will quit my stately home Upon the Thames's shore;

"And I will take for thy dear sake An oar in either hand,

And be a boatman on the lake

Of lovely Oberland;

And at the bow I'll sit and row,

A joyful gondolier,

And thou beside me at the stern,
Shalt gaily sing and steer."

Thy speech is vain," replied again
That maiden sweet and fair,

The Switzer girl and British earl
May never fitly pair.

The Eagle nestles on the cliff,

The Dove upon the lea;

And thou must leave my little skiff And think no more of me."

A blight came o'er that Briton's brain
Of dark death-doing thrall:—
“And if I must not live for thee,
I may not live at all.

I'll go to rest this troubled breast

Where Thought may never wake; And overboard upon the word

He leap'd into the lake.

One cry through that lone valley rang

Of horror wild and shrill;

It echoed from the mountain side,
And all again was still.

One ripple stirr'd the shining glass

Of that clear watery plain; It sunk into the liquid mass And all was smooth again.