Translations. -The Castle On The Mountain. (From Goethe.)

Up there, upon yonder mountain,      Stands a castle old, in the gorse,     Where once, behind doors and portals,      Lurking lay knight and horse.     Burnt are the doors and the portals;      All round it is very still;     Its old walls, tumbled in ruins,      I scramble about at my will.     Close hereby lay a cellar      Full of wine that was old and rare;     But the cheery maid with the pitchers      No more comes down the stair;     No more in the hall, sedately      Sets the beaker before the guest;     No more at the festival stately,      The flagon fills for the priest;     No more to the page so thirsty      Gives a draught in the corridor;     And receives for the hurried favour      The hurried thanks no more.     For every rafter and ceiling      Long ago were to ashes burned,     And stair and passage and chapel      To rubbish and ruin turned.     Yet when, with flask and cittern,      On a day in the summer's prime,     Up to the rocky summit      I watched my darling climb--     Out came the old joy reviving      On the face of the ancient rest,     And on went the old life driving,      In its lordliness and zest;     It seemed as for strangers distinguished      Their state-rooms they did prepare,     And out of that brave time, shadowy      Came stepping a youthful pair.     And the worthy priest in his chapel      Stood already in priestly dress,     And asked--Will you two take one another?      And smiling we answered--Yes;     And the hymns with deep pulsation      Stirred every heart at once;     And instead of the congregation      The echo yelled response.     And when, in the gathered evening,      Profound the stillness grew,     And the red-glowing sun at the broken      Gable came peering through,     Then damsel and page, in his rays, are      Grandees of the olden prime;     She tastes of his cup at her leisure,      And he to thank her takes time.