THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
91
Wild and pale was the strange brow
Of the bard advancing now;
Eyeballs with such wandering light,
Like the meteors of the night,
As if they that fearful look
From their own dark mountains took,
Where the evil ones are found—
Gloomy haunt, and cursed ground;
Sank his voice to mutter'd breath,
The tale of sorrow, sin, and death.
THE RING:
THE GERMAN MEINNESINGER'S TALE.
Both were young, and both were fair:
She with her shower of golden hair
