Smiling rang the good old Pastor Glass to glass, and smiling said he: "Your tale has a lucky ending. I remember quite another, Of a young and handsome carpenter, And a Margravine's allurements. But it ended on the gallows. In this case, I am much puzzled How to give you good advice. In my code it is not written How to counsel such a person, Who with songs insults fair ladies, Leaves his law books in the pawn-house, With his trumpet loudly bloweth To himself a rosy future. But when human knowledge faileth, Heaven graciously doth help us. Way down in the forest-city, There in Saekkingen is a worthy Patron saint of all young people, Is the holy Fridolinus, And to-morrow is his feast-day. Never has he yet forsaken Him who prays for help in trouble; Therefore ask Saint Fridolinus." THIRD PART. ST. FRIDOLIN'S DAY. Lo! a ship comes o'er the ocean, Near Franconia's coast approaching, Foreign sails and foreign pendant. At the rudder sits a pale man, Clad in black and monkish robes. Hollow, like a mournful wailing, Sounds the strange speech of the pilgrims, Sound their prayers, and cries of sailors. 'Tis the ancient Celtic language From the Emerald Isle of Erin; And the vessel bears the pious Missionary Fridolinus. "Cease thy grieving, dearest mother; Not with sword nor with the war-axe Shall thy son gain fame and honour: Other ages, other weapons-- Faith and Love are my sole armour. For the love I bear my Saviour I go forth unto the heathen; Celtic blood impels me onward. And in dreams I've seen a vision-- A strange land and pine-clad mountains, A clear stream with a green island, Most as fair as my own country; Thither points the Lord His finger, Thither sails now Fridolinus."