but the
philosopher, who made his precepts his own rule of life, pressed the
point, observing that he could not in conscience hold a situation to which
a considerable salary was attached without performing the duties of it.
Would that such political philosophy were more common in our days! From
this time, Locke lived wholly in retirement, where he applied himself to
the study of the Scriptures, till, in 1704, after nearly two years'
declining health, he fell asleep. He was buried at Oates, where there is a
neat monument erected to his memory, with a modest Latin inscription
indited by himself.

* * * * *

THE KNIGHT OF TOGGENBURG.

FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

(_For the Mirror_.)

"Knight, a sister's truest love,
This mine heart devotes to thee--
Ask no other love to prove;
Marriage! no, that ne'er can be.
Still unmov'd to all appearing,
Calmly can I see thee fly--
Still break the chain no sorrow fearing,
Save a tear from lover's eye."

This he heard without replying,
Silent woes his bosom wrung;
In his arms he clasp'd her sighing--
On his courser's back he sprung.
Thro' the Switzer's rugged land
Vassals, at their lord's behest,
Sought Judea's sainted strand--
Each the red-cross on his breast.

Mighty deeds all dangers braving
Wrought the Christian hero's arm;
Oft his helmet plumes were waving
High above the Paynim _swarm_.[2]
But tho' Moslem hosts were quaking
At the Toggenburger's name,
Still his breast, with anguish breaking,
Felt its sorrow yet the same:

Felt it till a year departed--
Felt it of all hope bereft;
Restless, joyless, broken-hearted,
Then the warring bands he left;--
Bade on Joppa's sandy shore
Seamen hoist the swelling sail;
Swift the bark to Europe bore
O'er the tide the fav'ring gale.

When the pilgrim, sorrow laden,
Sought the gates he lov'd so well;
From the portals of his maiden
_Words of thunder_[3] rang his knell:
"She ye seek has ta'en the veil,
To God alone her thoughts are given;
Yestere'en the cloisters pale
Saw the bride betroth'd to heaven."

From the castle of his sires,
Mad with grief, the hero flew;
War no more his bosom fires,
Arms he spurns, and courser true.
Far from Toggenburg alone
Wends he on his secret way,
To friend and foe alike unknown,
Clad in peasant's mean array.