But at the high gate halting, the old man stands sublime, His harp he seizes wildly, of harps the peerless prime; Against a marble column he hath dashed its strength in twain, Then cries aloud that garden and castle peal amain. “Woe, woe to you, proud halls, no more echo melodious word Through all your vaulted hollows, nor ever song or chord; No, moans alone and wailing, and coward step of slaves, Till sprites of vengeance trample you to dust and mould of graves. “Woe to you, odorous gardens, in May-tide’s lovely light, As ye behold this dead face, so sadly changed to sight; Even so untimely wither, with every fountain dry, And naked all and turned to stone through coming ages lie. “Woe to thee, murderer accurst, of minstrel-craft the bane, For crowns of savage glory strive on, and strive in vain; And be thy name forgotten, in endless midnight sunk, And pass as into vain air that last death-rattle shrunk.” The old man’s voice hath pealed it, and Heaven hath heard on high; The mighty walls are levelled, the halls in ruin lie; One pillar lone and lofty still tells of vanished power; Ev’n that is cloven, and may fall before the morning hour. Around for perfumed gardens is a heath of desert land, No tree sheds welcome shadow, no spring leaps in the sand. That king he perished all unnamed in hero-scroll or verse, Forgotten, blindly overwhelmed!—so wrought the singer’s curse. Shortly before his death Uhland wrote a little epigram on the death of a young child, which it would be inexcusable to attempt to give in any other language than the original, especially as it has not yet appeared in any collected edition of his works. AUF DEN TOD EINES KINDES. Du kamst, du gingst mit leiser Spur, Ein flücht’ger Gast in Erdenland Woher? Wohin?—wir wissen nur Aus Gottes Hand in Gottes Hand. In these lines the childlike spirit of the old poet may have conceived a fitting epitaph for himself, so calm and simple was his life and death. But the “mit leiser Spur,” “with faint footfall,” could not have been applied to his own case except by his own modesty; for, unmistakably, if ever man did so, to use the language of his admirer, Longfellow, Ludwig Uhland has left some very enduring “footsteps on the sands of Time.” MY INVESTMENT IN THE FAR WEST. “A golden opportunity, sir; Fortune knocking at your door, as she knocks but once in a man’s lifetime; and if you refuse to let her in, excuse me, sir, but you will repent it—you will.”