There’s yet one window of that pile, Which he built above the Nun’s green isle; Thence sad and oft looked he (When the chant and organ sounded slow) On the mansion of his love below, For herself he might not see. She died!—He sought the battle plain; Her image filled his dying brain, When he fell and wished to fall: And her name was in his latest sigh, When Roland, the flower of chivalry, Expired at Roncevall. [73] The tradition which forms the substance of these stanzas is still preserved in Germany. An ancient tower on a height, called the Rolandseck, a few miles above Bonn on the Rhine, is shown as the habitation which Roland built in sight of a nunnery, into which his mistress had retired, on having heard an unfounded account of his death. Whatever may be thought of the credibility of the legend, its scenery must be recollected with pleasure by every one who has visited the romantic landscape of the Drachenfells, the Rolandseck, and the beautiful adjacent islet of the Rhine, where a nunnery still stands. THE SPECTRE BOAT. A BALLAD. Light rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn, Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek from scorn. One night he dreamt he wooed her in their wonted bower of love, Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the birds sang sweet above. But the scene was swiftly changed into a churchyard’s dismal view, And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from love’s delicious hue. What more he dreamt, he told to none; but, shuddering, pale, and dumb, Looked out upon the waves, like one that knew his hour was come. ’Twas now the dead watch of the night—the helm was lashed a-lee, And the ship rode where Mount Ætna lights the deep Levantine sea; When beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a woman in her shroud, Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud:— “Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders unforgiven! Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace with heaven!”— It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her call, Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent’s thrall. You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from the sight, For the spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with hideous light; Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her hand, And round they went, and down they went, as the cock crew from the land. THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS ON HER BIRTH-DAY. If any white-winged Power above My joys and griefs survey, The day when thou wert born, my love— He surely blessed that day. I laughed (till taught by thee) when told Of Beauty’s magic powers, That ripened life’s dull ore to gold, And changed its weeds to flowers. My mind had lovely shapes portrayed, But thought I earth had one Could make e’en Fancy’s visions fade Like stars before the sun?