“Now blaze away, my children! 
  With your little one-two-three!”
The Chassepots tore the stout young heart,
  And saved Society.

Ernst of Edelsheim

I’ll tell the story, kissing
  This white hand for my pains: 
No sweeter heart, nor falser
  E’er filled such fine, blue veins.

I’ll sing a song of true love,
  My Lilith dear! to you;
Contraria contrariis—­
  The rule is old and true.

The happiest of all lovers
  Was Ernst of Edelsheim;
And why he was the happiest,
  I’ll tell you in my rhyme.

One summer night he wandered
  Within a lonely glade,
And, couched in moss and moonlight,
  He found a sleeping maid.

The stars of midnight sifted
  Above her sands of gold;
She seemed a slumbering statue,
  So fair and white and cold.

Fair and white and cold she lay
  Beneath the starry skies;
Rosy was her waking
  Beneath the Ritter’s eyes.

He won her drowsy fancy,
  He bore her to his towers,
And swift with love and laughter
  Flew morning’s purpled hours.

But when the thickening sunbeams
  Had drunk the gleaming dew,
A misty cloud of sorrow
  Swept o’er her eyes’ deep blue.

She hung upon the Ritter’s neck,
S he wept with love and pain,
She showered her sweet, warm kisses
  Like fragrant summer rain.

“I am no Christian soul,” she sobbed,
  As in his arms she lay;
“I’m half the day a woman,
  A serpent half the day.

“And when from yonder bell-tower
  Rings out the noonday chime,
Farewell! farewell forever,
  Sir Ernst of Edelsheim!”

“Ah! not farewell forever!”
  The Ritter wildly cried,
“I will be saved or lost with thee,
  My lovely Wili-Bride!”

Loud from the lordly bell-tower
  Rang out the noon of day,
And from the bower of roses
  A serpent slid away.

But when the mid-watch moonlight
  Was shimmering through the grove,
He clasped his bride thrice dowered
  With beauty and with love.

The happiest of all lovers
  Was Ernst of Edelsheim—­
His true love was a serpent
  Only half the time!

My Castle in Spain

There was never a castle seen
  So fair as mine in Spain: 
It stands embowered in green,
  Crowning the gentle slope
Of a hill by the Xenil’s shore,
And at eve its shade flaunts o’er
  The storied Vega plain,
And its towers are hid in the mists of Hope;
  And I toil through years of pain
  Its glimmering gates to gain.

In visions wild and sweet
Sometimes its courts I greet: 
  Sometimes in joy its shining halls
I tread with favored feet;
But never my eyes in the light of day
  Were blest with its ivied walls,
Where the marble white and the granite gray
Turn gold alike when the sunbeams play,
  When the soft day dimly falls.