'THE Castle of Schöenberg was lofty and fair, And seven countesses ruléd there: Lovely, and noble, and wealthy I trow-- Every sister had suitors enow. Crowned duke and belted knight Sigh'd at the feet of those ladies bright: And they whispered hope to every one, While they vow'd in their hearts they would have none! Gentles, list to the tale I tell; 'Tis many a year since this befel: Women are altered now, I ween, And never say what they do not mean! 'At the Castle of Schöenberg 'twas merriment all-- There was dancing in bower, and feasting in hall; They ran at the ring in the tilt-yard gay, And the moments flew faster than thought away! But not only moments--the days fled too-- And they were but as when they first came to woo; And spake they of marriage or bliss deferr'd, They were silenced by laughter and scornful word! Gentles, list to the tale I tell; 'Tis many a year since this befel: And ladies now so mildly reign, They never sport with a lover's pain! 'Knight look'd upon knight with an evil eye-- Each fancied a favored rival nigh; And darker every day they frowned, And sharper still the taunt went round; Till swords were drawn, and lances in rest, And the blood ran down from each noble breast; While the sisters sat in their chairs of gold, And smiled at the fall of their champions bold! Gentles, lift to the tale I tell; 'Tis many a year since this befel; Times have changed, and we must allow, Countesses are not so cruel now. 'Morning dawn'd upon Schöenberg's towers, But the sisters were not in their wonted bowers; Their damsels sought them the castle o'er-- But upon earth they were seen no more; Seven rocks are in the tide, Ober-wesel's walls beside, Baring their cold brows to heaven: They are called, 'The Sisters Seven.' Gentles, list to the tale I tell; 'Tis many a year since this befel: And ladies now may love deride, And their suitors alone be petrified!' THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS. 'THEIR voice shall be heard in other ages, When the kings of Temora have failed.' OSSIAN. YE say, we sing no household songs, To those beside our hearths at play; No minstrelsy to us belongs, No legends of our by-gone day: No old traditions of the hills, Our giant land no memory fills-- We have no proud heroic lay! Ye ask the time-worn storied page-- Ye ask the things of other age, From us--a race of yesterday!