Friedrich had not yet recalled his thoughts, when a horror came over him: he could not rest; he ran into the open air. They wished to keep him back; but he told them that the pilgrim had kissed his lips, and that the kiss was burning him till he found the man again. And so, with inconceivable rapidity, he ran away to seek the Tannenhaeuser, and the mysterious Hill; and, since that day, he was never seen any more. People say, that whoever gets a kiss from any emissary of the Hill, is thenceforth unable to withstand the lure that draws him with magic force into the subterraneous chasm. THE RUNENBERG. A young hunter was sitting in the heart of the Mountains, in a thoughtful mood, beside his fowling-floor, while the noise of the waters and the woods was sounding through the solitude. He was musing on his destiny; how he was so young, and had forsaken his father and mother, and accustomed home, and all his comrades in his native village, to seek out new acquaintances, to escape from the circle of returning habitude; and he looked up with a sort of surprise that he was here, that he found himself in this valley, in this employment. Great clouds were passing over him, and sinking behind the mountains; birds were singing from the bushes, and an echo was replying to them. He slowly descended the hill; and seated himself on the margin of a brook, that was gushing down among the rocks with foamy murmur. He listened to the fitful melody of the water; and it seemed to him as if the waves were saying to him, in unintelligible words, a thousand things that concerned him nearly; and he felt an inward trouble that he could not understand their speeches. Then again he looked aloft, and thought that he was glad and happy; so he took new heart, and sang aloud this hunting-song: Blithe and cheery through the mountains Goes the huntsman to the chase, By the lonesome shady fountains, Till he finds the red-deer's trace. Hark! his trusty dogs are baying Through the bright-green solitude; Through the groves the horns are playing: O, thou merry gay green wood! In some dell, when luck hath blest him, And his shot hath stretch'd the deer, Lies he down, content, to rest him, While the brooks are murmuring clear. Leave the husbandman his sowing, Let the shipman sail the sea; None, when bright the morn is glowing, Sees its red so fair as he, Wood and wold and game that prizes, While Diana loves his art; And, at last, some bright face rises: Happy huntsman that thou art!