I said on its "brow," but I should have said "crown," For 'twas quite on the summit, bleak, barren, and brown, And so high that 'twas frightful indeed to look down Upon Friburg, a place of some little renown, That lay at its foot; but imagine the frown That contracted her brow, when full many a clown She perceived coming up from that horrid post-town. They had follow'd her trail, And now thought without fail, As little boys say, to "lay salt on her tail;" While the Count, who knew no other law but his will, Swore that Herman that evening should marry Odille. Alas, for Odille! poor dear! what could she do? Her father's retainers now had her in view, As she found from their raising a joyous halloo; While the Count, riding on at the head of his crew, In their snuff-colour'd doublets and breeches of blue, Was huzzaing and urging them on to pursue.-- What, indeed, _could_ she do? She very well knew If they caught her how much she should have to go through; But then--she'd so shocking a hole in her shoe! And to go further on was impossible;--true, She might jump o'er the precipice;--still there are few In her place, who could manage their courage to screw Up to bidding the world such a sudden adieu:-- Alack! how she envied the birds as they flew; No Nassau balloon, with its wicker canoe, Came to bear her from him she loath'd worse than a Jew; So she fell on her knees in a terrible stew, Crying "Holy St. Ermengarde! Oh, from these vermin guard Her whose last hope rests entirely on you;-- Don't let papa catch me, dear Saint!--rather kill At once, _sur-le-champ_, your devoted Odille!" It's delightful to see those who strive to oppress Get baulk'd when they think themselves sure of success. The Saint came to the rescue!--I fairly confess I don't see, as a Saint, how she well could do less Than to get such a votary out of her mess. Odille had scarce closed her pathetic address, When the rock, gaping wide as the Thames at Sheerness, Closed again, and secured her within its recess, In a natural grotto, Which puzzled Count Otto, Who could not conceive where the deuce she had got to. 'Twas her voice!--but 'twas _Vox et præterea Nil_! Nor could any one guess what was gone with Odille!