his spies, false traitor, seeking to kill us youth. Now, show us where he is, or we will slay thee."

"In sooth, sirs, if ye wish to find Death, ye have but to turn up that crooked path, for, by my faith, I left him there under a tree. See ye that oak, there will ye find him; farewell."

When they heard this, the drunkards ran hastily right forward, leaving the old man, and with curses and oaths trying each one to be first to strike Death; but at the foot of the oak they found not Death, but a large heap of gold florins, bright and sparkling. So they thought no more of Death, but, astounded and rejoiced, sat them down by the bright metal. The worst of them was the first to break silence. "Brethren," cried he, "I reckon that this gold belongs to us, the finders, and a good heap it is to spend in jollity and wine. we must get it to our houses. Now, if we carry so much of it (for it is nearly eight bushels), in the day time, men will think we have stolen it; therefore, let us wait till night, and in the mean time let us draw lots for one to run into the town and fetch us wine and bread to make merry with.”

But

Well, they drew lots, and it fell upon the youngest, to whom they gave gold in plenty, and sent forward to the town to fetch provisions. He was no sooner out of sight, than the eldest of the two remaining cast his eye upon his fellow, and then upon the gold significantly enough, but neither of them spoke; at last he broke silence, saying, "Methinks, brother, that this heap of gold would share better between two than three of us."

"By St. Ursula, my very thoughts," quoth the other.

"Right, boy," said the first; "and suppose you jerk this youngster under the ribs as he sits down. Thou hast a long dagger, and I will strike him over the head in front, and so despatch him; and then, by my faith, it will be a heap to share. We shall live for years in jollity." And so saying, he plunged his arm up to the elbow in the glittering heap of gold.

"Agreed," said the other.

Now the youngest had no sooner gotten from the other two, than the devil also entered into his head, persuading him that he could, if he chose, possess all that money himself, and easily too. What more so than to poison the wine they should drink?

"Enough," muttered the boy, for he was little better, "I'll do it, and live like a rich lord ever after." So he went to the tavern, and procured three bottles of wine, and marked them so that he could distinguish them. Then went he to an apothecary, and asked him for strong poison, for his brother was much plagued with rats, and would be rid of them.

"Here," said the man of physic, "is a poison of which if any living thing drink, it is sure death.

"And sudden?" asked the youth.

"Ay, and sudden."

"It will do," quoth the boy, and went his way. At the beginning

f the wood he stopped, and mixed the poison in two of the flasks, carefully replacing the corks; and soon after he came unto his two fellows watching the gold. "Here is wine, boys," he cried, placing the bottles before them, and sitting down.

"And here thy guerdon-take this," cried they, both at once striking him with their daggers. No need of a second stroke-not a word spoken-he was dead, quite dead, with his face looking to the sky, and the blood slowly oozing, drop, drop, drop, upon the green turf. ""Tis soon over," cried the eldest," and now let us drink, brother -drink!"

may

be sure;

What need we more? the poison did its work, and quickly, ye and as the sun that evening glided between the forest trees, he shone upon three dead bodies-the one pale and bloody, the others with the faces bloated, the eyes staring, the lips frothy and swollen; and lighted up the heap of gold which sparkled brightly, and sent the rays dancing back in the dark forest beyond.

THE HAPPY MIND.

Our upon the calf, I say,

Who turns his grumbling head away,
And quarrels with his feed of hay

Because it is not clover.
Give to me the happy mind,
That will ever seek and find

Something fair and something kind
All the wide world over.

'Tis passing good to have an eye
That always manages to spy
Some star to bear it company,

Though planets may be hidden.

And Mrs. Eve was foolish, very,
Not to be well content and merry
With peach, plum, melon, grape, and cherry,
When apples were forbidden.

We love rare flowers; but suppose
We're far from Italy's rich rose,

Must we then turn up our nose
At lilies of the valley?

Can't we snuff at something sweet,
In the "bough-pots" that we meet
Cried and sold in city street

By "Sally in our Alley?"

Give me the heart that spreads its wings
Like the free bird that soars and sings,
And sees the bright side of all things
From Behring's Straits to Dover.

It is a bank that never breaks,
It is a store thief never takes,
It is a rock that never shakes,
All the wide world over.

We like to give old Care the slip,
And listen to the "crank and quip
At social board from fluent lip;
No fellowship is better:

But he must lack the gentle grace
That marks the best of human race,
Who cannot see a friendly face
In mastiff, hound, or setter.
Our hungry eyes may fondly wish
To revel amid flesh and fish,
And gloat upon the silver dish
That holds a golden plover;
Yet, if our table be but spread,
With savoury cheese and oaten bread,
Be thankful if we're always fed
As well, the wide world over.
We may prefer Italian notes,
Or choose the melody that floats
About the gay Venetian boats,
Half wild in our extolling:
But surely music may be found
When some rough native harp unbound
Strikes up
like cherries, "round and sound,"

With English fol-de-rolling.

We may be poor-but then, I guess,
Our trouble with our pomp is less,
For they who wear a russet dress
May never fear the rumpling.
And though champagne froth never hums
Between our fingers and our thumbs,
Red apoplexy rarely comes

To dine with plain stone dumpling.

Then out upon the calf, I say,
Who turns his grumbling head away,
And quarrels with his feed of hay
Because it is not clover.

Give to me the happy mind,
That will for ever seek and find

Something good and something kind

All the wide world over!

Eliza Cook's Poems.

THE COUNT DE FOIX; OR, THE "LOVE PHILTRE."

FROM FROISSArt.

SOME of my readers are, doubtlessly, strangers to Froissart, the rare, quaint old chronicler of our battles with the French. And full of curious old stories is he, too; some sad, some gay. But among them all, I think there are few more interesting than the one I am about to relate.

The Count de Foix had married the sister of Louis, King of France, with a dowry of fifty thousand francs. Now it happened that this count took prisoner in battle the Lord D'Albret, and fixed his ransom at fifty thousand francs. As D'Albret happened to be a great friend and ally of Louis of Navarre, the brother of the Count de Foix's wife, he naturally wished him to be released; but the price of the ransom was too great for him to pay at once, so the king pledged his royal word to the Count de Foix, that if he chose to release him, he would see that the fifty thousand francs were paid.

But the king bore a bad character for payments; and the Count refused in such a manner, that the king was piqued with him: and his wife was also displeased at the distrust her husband had shown to her brother. So she told her husband that he should not doubt her brother, and that he himself owed the king fifty thousand francs, as her dower, which he had with her; and, that, therefore, if the king did not pay, he would not stand any risk.

"By my faith," said the Count, "so I do; but I would not trust the king with a franc, let alone fifty thousand. But as you wish me to do so, I will free D'Albret, and see how all this turns out."

Thereon, D'Albret was let free; and, being so, he went honourably to the King Louis, and paid him the ransom. But the king, whose character for dishonour was not undeserved, kept the money, and let two whole years pass without even offering to pay a part to the Count de Foix. Now the count, when he set D'Albret free, had jokingly said to his wife, that should her brother, the king, not pay, her little head should be the forfeit of her brother's dishonesty; and the lady remembered this.

Well, time rolled on; and at last the countess proposed to go and see her brother himself, and to intercede for him, and get the ransom.

"Agreed," said her husband. So he sent her forward, with a right royal train of knights and esquires, till she came to Pampeluna, where the king her brother dwelt-leaving with her husband the young Count Gaston de Foix, a little child of two years of age. Whether she was piqued with what her husband had let fall about "having her head," or whether the king had so worked upon her that her love was turned to hate, I know not; but she never came again back to her husband and child.

Fourteen years had passed, and young Gaston had grown almost to

The Count de Foix; or, the Love Philtre.

65

manhood, and had been brought up, too, in all the accomplishments of the age. What knight was there more skilful in the tournay than he? What youth more ardent or active in the chase? Truly, none. might his father's heart swell with pride when he beheld in his young son the future Count de Foix.

Well

The old Count's heart needed something to make it cheer, and to bear it up against the sorrow which eat it, like rust into an unused sword. Sorrow for his absent and unkind wife sorrow for his brother-in-law, Louis of Navarre, so full of deceit and double dealing-but chiefly for his faithless wife; she who had plighted her troth to him-she who had sworn to love him, to leave him thus wifeless, and his boy motherless. Well, well, who knows what influenced her? Who knows, perchance, but that the king, wishing to keep the ransom as her dowry, might not even force her to stay with him? These thoughts rose like stars in the dark night of the Count's despair, and he at last determined not to credit the accounts which told him that his wife was gay and happy without him, but to send his son-their son-to woo her back again to his arms; and thus it was that, with a gallant retinue of knights, men-at-arms, and esquires, the young Count Gaston rode on his way, rejoicing; never doubting of cheering his old father's heart by bringing him his mother again.

Oh, how he loved them both! His father dearly, really, and with veneration his mother with ideality, imagination, and, as we may say, traditionally. What games did his fancy play with him: conjuring up happy days, afar off, but soon to come. Yes: soon, soon to

come. Now you must recollect, that should Gaston succeed, that old fox, Louis, brother of the countess, would have to pay fifty thousand francs, with fourteen years' interest, and heavy payment else, to the angry Count. Even so. So Louis wished it not, you may be sure, and did all in his power to prevent it. But he was sly and cunning, so he received the young Gaston as though he had been a father to him, and led him to his mother, where the boy wept plenteously on his mother's neck, and prayed her to return. But the king begged him to stay, and feasted him and his knights right royally, and won the heart of Gaston; so much so, that he persuaded him that his father did not love his mother as he should. "But I can make him to love her, could I but get near him," said the king. "How so?" gasped Gaston.

tr

"For heaven's sake tell me how. I will risk all to do so. Oh, what a reward to make them happy." "A good son," said the old king. "Then I will tell you. An aged priest once gave me a philtre; a simple white powder, which, once mixed in the drink or food of any one, never fails in making them love dearly the person whose name you then whisper in their Do so to your father, and remember your mother's name." Well, the credulous and innocent Gaston promised this and at the same time the king promised that his mother should return to the Count de Foix, her husband, within one week after he had done as

ear.

N. S. VOL. XXXV.

K