observed, as it was understood
that the former wished no notice to be taken of his going or coming, and
the duchess had also waved her hand, not to interrupt Father Gleim. The
poet has just finished the new poem of melodious rhythm of imprisoned
Shubart. As he paused to wipe the perspiration from his brow and sip
a little raspberry water, a tall, slender young man, in the Werther
costume, approached, bowing, and regarding the poet so kindly, that the
glance of his fine black eyes fell like a sunbeam on the heart of the
old man. "You appear somewhat fatigued, my good sir," said the unknown,
in a sweet, sonorous voice. "Will you not permit me to relieve you, and
read in your stead from this glorious book of yours?"

"Do so, my dear Gleim," said the Duchess Amelia, smiling, "you seem
really exhausted; let the young man continue the agreeable and welcome
entertainment."

Father Gleim was very well pleased; he handed the book to the young
stranger with a graceful bow, as the latter seated himself opposite to
him, and next to Fraulein Gochhausen.

He commenced in a clear, distinct voice. The verses flowed from his lips
gracefully, and in a cultivated style. The company listened with devoted
attention, and Father Gleim, the protector of all the young poets,
sat delighted, nodding consent, with a pleasant smile. It must all be
charming--it had come into existence under his fostering care. What
beautiful verses to listen to! "Die Zephyre lauschen, Die Balche
rauschen, Die Sonus Verbreitet ihr Licht mit Wonne!"

And how charmingly the young man read them! Suddenly Father Gleim
startled, and the smile died upon his lips. What was it? What was the
young man reading? Verse which were not in the collection, and which
were more remarkable than he had ever heard from his young poets. "Those
are not in the Annual," cried Gleim, quite forgetting decorum,--"that--"

One glance from the fine black eyes of the young man so confounded
Father Gleim, that he ceased in the midst of a sentence, and, staring
in breathless astonishment, listened. Glorious thoughts were expressed
therein, and the poets of the Muse Almanach might have thanked God if
the like had occurred to them. Love was not the burden of the song;
neither hearts, griefs, nor bliss, but satire, lashing right and left
with graceful dexterity, and dealing a harmless thrust to every one. All
were forced to laugh; the happy faces animated and inspired every thing.
The brilliant sa