Not so Sir Strado. When he had reached the entrance, he carefully put down his light and pitched his dog into the vault, to see what would happen. The instant that the lucky animal had reached the ground there came such a puff of flame towards our valiant knight that he was glad to back out, and stand at a convenient distance. He heard his faithful dog howling in all the agonies of being roasted alive, but this did not seem a sufficient reason to move him from his safe retreat until he had cause to believe that the fire was extinguished. He then returned to the vault, and was agreeably surprised to find his dog alive. The enchanted maiden had taken a fancy to the animal, and was holding him in her lap, where he had remained quite secure in the midst of the pyrotechnic exhibition, which had so greatly scared his master. Prudence is not always the better part of valour, and if our knight had not been so greatly afraid of singeing his whiskers his lot would have been much happier. Judge of his surprise, when, while examining the curiosities of the vault, which he had now ventured to enter, he discovered a marble slab with the following inscription : Woe to him that seeketh me, Considered as a poetical composition the inscription was bad enough, but it was greatly to the purpose, and in point of clearness certainly surpassed most oracular communications. The first thing that struck the knight was, that as he had chucked the dog before him instead of venturing into the vault himself, the dog was the cause of the threatened calamity. Therefore, with that fine sense of justice which distinguished the King of Bohemia, when he decapitated his tutor, he drew his sabre, and struck off the dog's head. No sooner had he dealt this fatal blow, than the diamond king and the maiden vanished from the vault. Their place was filled by raging fire and offensive smoke, which dazzled the eyes, and filled the nostrils of our hero. When he had reached that happy state of confusion that he did not precisely know where he was, a huge dragon issued from a corner, and after eyeing him for some time with considerable contempt, swallowed him entire, armour and all. Having got Sir Strado of the Fir-Tree into the dragon's mouth we bring this delightful story to a close, for a great deal happened before he got out again, and his deliverance fell in a later period of King Eginhard's reign, when Bohemia was invaded by giants, who-but do not let us anticipate; for the invasion of the giants furnishes the material for another story, which we trust to tell at some future time, and which is even more delectable than the present. A very Ancient Variation of the Legend of the Most Holy St. Dunstan, Archbishop of Canterbury. BY ROBERTSON NOEL, ESQ., LL.D. THE Archfiend determined one day to make trial The legend informs us the dress that he wore Was with crosses adorned, both behind and before; And sent back to Hades equerries and pages. His equipage now was so saintly and meek His garments so flowing, his mule was so sleek, None would ever expect to see him where hard knocks come, As he ambled-he pondered on how he should act, Afar from his palace-afar from the court Their vow was, each night, till their lives should be ended, A most mischievous thought crossed the wicked one's pate He told the good brothers he'd heard of their fame, The friars found out 'twas in vain to remonstrate- So he racked his invention, and puzzled his brains, When the herbs, as if willing to lighten their grief, Suspecting who 'twas had a hand in the treat; "But, my friends," said St. Dunstan, "'twill do you no harm-I have blessed it-so fear neither cantrip nor charm." So they took his advice, and without further thought, The monks were all edified!-living so well! Now one or two ladies, thought he of the sable, And the saints of the chapel, with sober stone faces, Became sweet living damsels, as fair as the graces! Thus with love, wine, and wassail, with song and with kiss, And they made the stone coffin no longer their bed, But each upon pillows of down laid his head. How laughed the strange novice whose cunning had wrought The fathers assembled one cold winter night, A glance from the Primate, calm, thoughtful, and stern, The Sacristan placed himself close by the fire, And with turf, furze, and log, made the flame to mount higher; * See "Tracts for the Times," and other Puseyite publications, passim. In the choice of a song for a moment he wavered, In high praise of their practice to drive away care. Father John's Song. Ave Maria! 'tis the bell Is pealing forth its nightly knell, Come, fill the bowl and pass it round, For gentle love and mantling wine, Is pealing forth its nightly knell, Not alone sang the father: the voice of the lute Nor few their applauses, the tones of the lyre But mightier the triumph when soft like the air O'er the harpstrings that sweeps, rose the voice of the fair. First Damsel's Song. (To the Evening Star.) There's a shadow wherever thy soft beams are falling, In the blue arch of heaven there are stars that shine brightly, But shadowless all, for their rays touch us lightly As coldly they sweep round the star-lighted pole! And 'tis thus with love's passion, though pure as the splendour That beams from thy circlet of radiance afar, In the bloom of our days, when the young heart is tender, Then-then life is cloudless as thou art, O star! But, alas, there's a shadow in love, and he blendeth Full bitter a dash in the goblet of bliss, And for each charm he gives there's a sorrow that rendeth With anguish the heart he hath chosen for his. Ha! see you the Prior? he lies at the feet Of the damsel whose lips and whose strains are so sweet. As he tunes to the praises of Bacchus his lyre! Leave lawn sleeves to deans and to chapters, my boys! Are from captures all free, For the bottle affords us our raptures, my boys! Hurrah! for the Abbot, the holy, the bold! Second Bamsel's Song. (Constancy.) Constancy! look on the first green leaves Look on the sea when the waves are smooth, Gaze upon these, and forget the time When the earth her flowers must weep, Then seek if thou wilt for pageantry, There's a tear in the eye of the Abbot so gay, |