Page:Once a Week June to Dec 1863.pdf/542

532 make them look as if they belonged to some other species of the pig genus; and hard by there is a restaurant where the passengers of the steamer have a good half-hour to refresh themselves on the ascending voyage, while the boat is making the long circuit of the promontory. Hence is seen perhaps the finest panoramic view of the Moselle, several reaches of which are visible at once. Especially beautiful are the folds of the hills behind Alf looking down the river. From Alf a short walk down the river round a rocky corner brings us to Bremm. This ancient town shows a long front of cross-beamed gables to the river, as if the houses had been built for the purpose of making picturesque reflections in the water. There is an English artist sketching them in a boat under the shade of a huge umbrella. He appears to have taken up his quarters here for the summer, from the number of his pictures that are lying at the inn in a finished and unfinished state, and to have acted wisely in doing so, as the rocky banks about Bremm are of the grandest, and the inn kept by Herr Amelinger appears to be one of the most comfortable on the Moselle.

On a tongue of flat land opposite Bremm is the shell of the Convent Stuben, looking very beautiful at dusk, and reflected in the still river, but disappointing in broad daylight, as all the architectural details have disappeared, and the hollows of the lancet-shaped windows only remain. The ground on which the ruin stands was once an island. One Egilof, a rich nobleman, gave the ground to the Abbot of Springiersbach, on condition that he would erect a nunnery here where his daughter Gisela might take refuge. It was chartered by Archbishop Albero in 1137 for the reception of 100 ladies, who are called in old records “sorores de insulâ beati Nicolai in Stuppâ.” In 1208 the convent came by gift into possession of a piece of the Holy Cross, taken at the storming of Constantinople out of the Church of St. Sophia, having been worked into a curiously-wrought table. This relic was carried away when the French overran the country, and is now supposed to be somewhere in the possession of the Duke of Nassau. There is a curious legend to the effect that the monks of Bremm being demoralised by the voluptuous songs of the numerous nightingales there, a certain saint banished all the birds to the island of Stuben. The nuns were found less susceptible to the impressions conveyed by the feathered songsters. 2em

dreaming alone on an islet

In the deep and murm’ring sea,

And the song of its rippling waters

Is melody sweet to me.

It rose in rough waves this morning,

That foamed upon its breast,

But a hush has fallen upon it.

Evening has brought it rest.

With white sails furled, the fishermen

Back to the shore have come,

They are resting now at their cabin doors,

Evening has brought them home.

The sea-bird’s wings are tired at last

Of their flight across the foam,

They are folded now in her rocky nest,

Evening has brought her home.

I’m dreaming of my long journey

Across this stormy world,

And the hour when my boat will anchor,

And its tattered sails be furled.

Many a friend has gone from me,

Very far away are some,

But this whisper dries the tear-drops,

Evening will bring them home.

Some may have perhaps forgotten me,

On the battle field of life,

But a bond unites our severed hearts,

We are partners in the strife.

And some—their hearts were blighted

In the early dawn of day,

Their sky is dark with stormy clouds,

Life is very cold and grey.

Others are very faint and worn

In the heat of noonday sun,

They raise their burning hands and cry,

O! when will day be done?

Ye may cease your weary moaning,

There are angels at your side,

Who will lead you through this furnace

To the calm, cool eventide.

Perhaps they had once in sorrow

Across this earth to roam,

But that passed away for ever,

When evening brought them home.

The crimson cloudlets are glowing

Above the water’s breast,

Over the ripples there is a line

Of gold that leads to rest.

The west gets redder and redder,

The shadows are very long,

The time for slumber is coming,

And the hour for evensong.

Lovely and fair is the morning,

Bright is God’s glorious sun,

But weary spirits rest at eve,

When the long, long day is done. G. F. G.