"Come hither, thou darling! come, go with me! Fair games know I that I'll play with thee; Many bright flowers my kingdoms hold! My mother has many a robe of gold!" "O father, dear father and dost thou not hear What the Erlie-king whispers so low in mine ear?" "Calm thee, my boy, 'tis only the breeze Rustling the dry leaves beneath the trees!" "Wilt thou go, bonny boy! wilt thou go with me? My daughters shall wait on thee daintilie; My daughters around thee in dance shall sweep, And rock thee, and kiss thee, and sing thee to sleep!" "O father, dear father! and dost thou not mark Erlie-king's daughters move by in the dark?" "I see it, my child; but it is not they, 'Tis the old willow nodding its head so grey!" "I love thee! thy beauty charms me quite; And if thou refusest, I'll take thee by might!" "O father, dear father! he's grasping me-- My heart is as cold as cold can be!" The father rides swiftly--with terror he gasps-- The sobbing child in his arms he clasps; He reaches the castle with spurring and dread; But, alack! in his arms the child lay dead! * * * * * Who has not heard of Mignon?--sweet, delicate little Mignon?--the woman-child, in whose miniature, rather than portrait, it is easy to trace the original of fairy Fenella? We would that we could adequately translate the song, which in its native German is so exquisitely plaintive, that few can listen to it without tears. This poem, it is almost needless to say, is anterior in date to Byron's Bride of Abyos MIGNON. Know'st thou the land where the pale citron grows, And the gold orange through dark foliage glows? A soft wind flutters from the deep blue sky, The myrtle blooms, and towers the laurel high. Know'st thou it well? O there with thee! O that I might, my own beloved one, flee! Know'st thou the house? On pillars rest its beams, Bright is its hall, in light one chamber gleams, And marble statues stand, and look on me-- What have they done, thou hapless child, to thee? Know'st thou it well? O there with thee! O that I might, my loved protector, flee! Know'st thou the track that o'er the mountain goes, Where the mule threads its way through mist and snows, Where dwelt in caves the dragon's ancient brood, Topples the crag, and o'er it roars the flood. Know'st thou it well? O come with me! There lies our road--oh father, let us flee! * * * * *