Or some dark passage chose to woo, Whilst all too fast the minutes flew. Now must her pride come down to do In church the penance meet. He'll surely wed her! MARGARET. ELIZABETH. Not a bit. He'd be a fool to think of it. A sharp young lad like him is free, MARGARET. That is not right. ELIZABETH. But even if she Got him, she'd little better be. Her bridal wreath would sure be torn By mocking boys, and we would strew Chaff at her door, her bridal morn.* According to an old German custom, the friends of a bride used to strew sand and flowers before her door on the morning of her wedding. But if the virtue of the bride had not been proof against temptation, cut straw was substituted for the flowers; the tearing of her bridal wreath indicated a similar misadventure. MARGARET-returning home. How stoutly I, 'tis but the other day, Hard words enough to speak my mind. How black and blacker still to me it seemed; ZWINGER.* In a niche of the wall an image of the Mater MARGARET places fresh flowers in the vase. Mother of woes divine, Thy gracious brow incline On my extremity. Keener than pangs of steel When thine uplifted eye Zwinger, in its original signification, means a castle erected more for the purpose of curbing the inhabitants of a town, than of contributing to the defence of a place against external enemies. The Emperor of Russia's celebrated address to the citizens of Warsaw, on the subject of the citadel, is a familiar modern illustration of the ancient meaning of the word; but its import has changed; there is a Zwinger palace in Dresden, built about the beginning of the last century, without reference to any military purpose. Retsch places this scene in the immediate neighbourhood of a church. Marked thy son's latest breath Lifting thy tearful eyes, Unto the Lord on high Sending thy heavy sighs, And thine extremity. Who feels what agony Riots unceasingly, In this poor wasted frame. Thou, only thou, canst tell, Why trembling on it fell, Wherever I may go, Still woe, still woe, still woe, Deep in my heart doth wake. Ah! 'tis not all alone, I moan, I moan, I moan; My heart swells nigh to break. The flower-pots at my window |