We had continued our walk for scarce a mile when, but a short distance from us, a stag crossed our path--stood startled--with head erect,--and then with confident leaps vanished in the forest just as the distant hounds became aware of him and joined in a wild chorus. In a few moments the pack came in a rush across our path. Up the different allées rode the horsemen in haste--asking of us news of the stag. We on foot joined in the pursuit,--but at last the forest swallowed one after the other, stag, and hounds, and hunters, and the sound of dog and horn.
On leaving the forest we passed the small Château. Its conical turret roofs and lofty chimneys, and its flashing finials and girouettes make a brave show above the forest trees. The terraces overlook wide meadow lands through which the river winds until it is lost in the hazy distance.
IN Geraudun were brothers three, They had one sister dear; The cruel Baron her lord must be, And the fellest and fiercest knight is he In the country far or near.
He beat that lovely lady sore With a staff of the apple green, Till her blood flowed down on the castle floor, And from head to foot the crimson gore On her milk-white robe was seen.
Her robe was stained with the ruby tide Once pure as the fleece so white; And she hied her to the river-side To wash in the waters bright.
While there she stood three knights so gay Came riding bold and free. "Ho! tell us young serving maiden, pray Where yon castle's lady may be?"
"Alas! no serving maid am I, But the lady of yonder castle high!"
"O sister, sister, truly tell Who did this wrong to thee?"
"Dear brothers it was the husband fell To whom you married me."
The brothers spurred their steeds in haste And the castle soon they gained. From chamber to chamber they swiftly passed Nor paused till they reached the tower at last Where the felon knight remained:
They drew their swords so sharp and bright They thought on their sister sweet; They struck together the felon knight, And his head rolled at their feet! _Translated by_ LOUIS S. COSTELLO.
THE isles of Greece! The isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung,-- Where grew the arts of war and peace,-- Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet But all, except their sun, is set. BYRON.