Let us well then these fortunate moments | The Old Dragon's imps as they fled through employ! Cried the Monarch with passionate tone: Come away then,dear charmer,—my angel,my joy, Nay struggle not now,-'tis in vain to be coy, And remember that we are alone. Blessed Mary, protect me! the Archbishop cried; What madness is come to the King! In vain to escape from the Monarch he tried, When luckily he on his finger espied The glitter of Agatha's ring. Overjoy'd, the old Prelate remember'd the spell, And far in the lake flung the ring; The waters closed round it, and, wondrous to tell, Released from the cursed enchantment of hell, His reason return'd to the King. But he built him a palace there close by the bay, And there did he 'stablish his reign; And the traveller who will, may behold at this day A monument still in the ruins of Aix THE PIOUS PAINTER. I. THERE once was a Painter in Catholic days, And delight was in painting the Devil. They were Angels, compared to the Devils he drew, Who besieged poor St. Anthony's cell; Such burning hot eyes, such a furnace-like hue! And round them a sulphurous vapour he threw That their breath seem'd of brimstone to smell. And now had the artist a picture begun, Fool! Idiot! old Beelzebub grinn'd as he He is come to her eyes, eyes so bright and so blue! There's a look which he cannot express ;His colours are dull to their quick-sparkling hue; More and more on the Lady he fixes his view, On the canvass he looks less and less. In vain he retouches, her eyes sparkle more, And that look which fair Marguerite gave! Many Devils the Artist had painted of yore, But he never had tried a live Angel before,— St Anthony, help him and save! He yielded, alas! for the truth must be told, To the Woman, the Tempter, and Fate. It was settled the Lady so fair to behold, Should elope from her husband so ugly and old With the Painter so pious of late! Now Satan exults in his vengeance compleat, To the Husband he makes the scheme known; Night comes and the lovers impatiently meet, Together they fly, they are seized in the street, And in prison the Painter is thrown. With Repentance, his only companion, he lies, And a dismal companion is she! On a sudden he saw the Old Serpent arise: Now, you villainous dauber! Sir Beelzebub cries, You are paid for your insults to me! But my tender heart you may easily move That picture, be just! the resemblance If to what I propose you agree; improve, Make a handsomer portrait, your chains I'll And you shall this instant be free. remove, Overjoy'd, the conditions so easy he hears, She seats herself now, now she lifts up her At morn he arises, composes his look, head, On the artist she fixes her eyes; The colours are ready, the canvass is spread, He lays on the white, and he lays on the red, And the features of beauty arise. And proceeds to his work as before; The people beheld him, the culprit they took; They thought that the Painter his prison had broke, And to prison they led him once more. They open the dungeon;-behold in his place | Henry! I never now behold He smirks and he smiles and he leers with That the Painter might catch all the charms of his face, Then vanish'd in lightning away. Quoth the Painter: I trust you'll suspect me no more, Since you find my assertions were true. But I'll alter the picture above the Churchdoor, For I never saw Satan so closely before, KING HENRY V. AND THE HERMIT While Henry V. lay at the siege of Dreux, an name he threatened him with a severe and sudden punishment, if he desisted not from his enterprise. Henry took this exhortation either as an idle whimsey, or a suggestion of the Dauphin's, and was but the more confirmed in his design. But the blow soon followed the threatening; for within some few months after, he was smitten with a strange and incurable disease. He past unquestion'd through the camp, King Henry sate in his tent alone, The map before him lay; King Henry lifted up his eyes With reverence he the Hermit saw, Repent thee, Henry, of the wrongs I have past forty years of peace But what a weight of woe hast thou I used to see along the stream The white sail sailing down, I used to hear the traveller's voice Or maiden as she loiter'd home And if any one ask my Study to see, There lived a young man in the house, who in vain Access to that Study had sought to obtain; And be begg'd and pray'd the books to see, Till the foolish woman gave him the key. On the Study-table a book there lay, Which Agrippa himself had been reading that day, The letters were written with blood within, And the leaves were made of dead men's skin. And these horrible leaves of magic between Were the ugliest pictures that ever were seen, The likeness of things so foul to behold, That what they were is not fit to be told. The young man, he began to read He knew not what, but he would proceed, And more and more the knocking grew, Two hideous horns on his head he had got, The breath of his nostrils was brimstone-blue, And his tail like a fiery serpent grew. What wouldst thou with me? the Wicked One cried, But not a word the young man replied; Every hair on his head was standing upright, And his limbs like a palsy shook with affright. What wouldst thou with me? cried the Author of ill, But the wretched young man was silent still; Not a word had his lips the power to say, And his marrow seem'd to be melting away. What wouldst thou with me? the third time he cries, And a flash of lightning came from his eyes, And he lifted his griffin-claw in the air, And the young man had not strength for a prayer. His eyes red fire and fury dart As out he tore the young man's heart; He grinn'd a horrible grin at his prey, And in a clap of thunder vanish'd away. THE MORAL. Henceforth let all young men take heed How in a Conjuror's books they read. ST. ROMUALD. Les Catalans ayant appris que St. Romuald vouloit quitter leurs pays, en furent tres affligez; ils délibérèrent sur les moyens de l'en empècher, et le seul qu'ils imaginèrent comme le plus sûr, fut de le tuer, afin de profiter dumoins de ses reliques et des guerisons et autres miracles qu'elles opéreroient aprés sa mort. La devotion que les Catalans avoient pour lui, ne plut point du tout a St. Romuald; il usa de stratageme et leur échappa. ST. Foix essais hist. sur Paris. St. Foix, who is often more amusing than trustworthy, has fathered the story upon the Spaniards, though it belongs to his own countrymen, the circumstance having happened when Romuald was a monk of the Convent of St. Michael in Aquitaine. ONE day, it matters not to know For he had seen the Traveller there before. Doth holy Romuald dwell Still in his cell? The Traveller ask'd, or is the old man dead? If ever there did live a Saint on earth! With him and the devil there in yonder cell; Then, Sir! to see how he would mortify You would be gormandizing now I know; |