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BOPPARD.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

A furious charge, - one broken spear, -

A sudden clutch at the horse's mane, -

Deep drops of blood on the armor clear,

Crimson as sunset clouds, appear;

And the victor bends o'er the prostrate slain.

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The trembling peasant tells the tale,

Crossing his breast in holy dread:

He found his bride in that coat of mail;

Called her name, - but to no avail;

Turned in despair from the virgin dead.

He built this convent with pious zest,

Rich and precious and fair its shrine;

Sought in the East an hero's rest;

Fell at Ptolomais pierced in the breast, -

Knight Bayer of Boppard on the Rhine.

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