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BISHOP BRUNO.

BISHOP Bruno awoke in the dead midnight, And he heard his heart beat loud with affright:

He dreamt he had rung the palace-bell,
And the sound it gave was his passing knell.

Bishop Bruno smiled at his fears so vain,
He turned to sleep and he dreamt again;
He rung at the palace-gate once more,
And Death was the porter that open'd the door.

He started up at the fearful dream,
And he heard at his window the screech-owl
scream!

Bishop Bruno slept no more that night,—
Oh! glad was he when he saw the day-light!

Now he goes forth in proud array,
For he with the Emperor dines to-day;
There was not a Baron in Germany
That went with a nobler train than he.

Before and behind his soldiers ride,
The people throng'd to see their pride;
They bow'd the head, and the knee they bent,
But nobody blest him as he went.

So he went on stately and proud,
When he heard a voice that cried aloud:
Ho! ho! Bishop Bruno! you travel with
glee,—

But I would have you know, you travel to me!

Behind and before and on either side,
He look'd, but nobody he espied ;
And the Bishop at that grew cold with fear,
For he heard the words distinct and clear.

And when he rung at the palace-bell, He almost expected to hear his knell; And when the porter turn'd the key, He almost expected Death to see.

But soon the Bishop recover'd his glee, For the Emperor welcom'd him royally; And now the tables were spread, and there Were choicest wines and dainty fare.

And now the Bishop had blest the meat, When a voice was heard as he sat in his seat,

With the Emperor now you are dining in glee,
But know, Bishop Bruno! you sup with me!

The Bishop then grew pale with affright,
And suddenly lost his appetite;
All the wine and dainty cheer

Could not comfort his heart so sick with fear.

But by little and little recovered he,
For the wine went flowing merrily,
And he forgot his former dread,
And his cheeks again grew rosy-red.

When he sat down to the royal fare Bishop Bruno was the saddest man there; But when the masquers enter'd the hall, He was the merriest man of all.

Then from amid the masquers' crowd There went a voice hollow and loud,— You have past the day, Bishop Bruno, in glee! But you must pass the night with me!

His cheek grows pale, and his eye-balls glare, And stiff round his tonsure bristles his hair; With that there came one from the masquers' band

And took the Bishop by the hand.

The bony hand suspended his breath,
His marrow grew cold at the touch of Death;
On saints in vain he attempted to call,
Bishop Bruno fell dead in the palace-hall.

A TRUE BALLAD OF ST. ANTIDIUS, THE POPE, AND THE DEVIL.

Ir is Antidius the Bishop
Who now at even-tide
Taking the air and saying a prayer,
Walks by the river-side.

The Devil had business that evening,
And he upon earth would go;
For it was in the month of August,
And the weather was close below.

He had his books to settle,
And up to earth he hied,
To do it there in the evening-air,
All by the river-side.

His imps came flying around him,
Of his affairs to tell;
From the north, and the south, and the east,
and the west;
They brought him the news that he liked best,
Of the things they had done, and the souls
they had won,
And how they sped well in the service of Hell.

There came a devil posting in
Returned from his employ,
Seven years had he been gone from Hell,
And now he came grinning for joy.

Seven years, quoth he, of trouble and toil
Have I labour'd the Pope to win;
And I to-day have caught him,
He hath done the deadly sin.
And then he took the Devil's book,
And wrote the deed therein.

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All in robes of russet gray, Poorly were they dight; Each one girdled with a cord, Like a friar minorite.

But from those robes of russet grey,
There flow'd a heavenly light;
For each one was the blessed soul
Of a friar minorite.

Brighter than their brethren,

Among the beautiful band, Five there were, who each did bear A palm-branch in his hand.

He who led the brethren,

A living man was he; And yet he shone the brightest Of all the company.

Before the steps of the altar,

Each one bow'd his head; And then with solemn voice they sung The service of the dead.

And who are ye, ye blessed saints?
The father confessor said;
And for what happy soul sing ye
The service of the dead?

These are the souls of our brethren in bliss,
The Martyrs five are we;

And this is our father Francisco,
Among us bodily.

We are come hither to perform
Our promise to the Queen;

Go thou to King Alfonso,

And say what thou hast seen.

There was loud knocking at the door,
As the heavenly vision fled;
And the porter called to the confessor,
To tell him the Queen was dead.

A BALLAD,

SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER.

A. D. 852. Circa dies istos, mulier quaedam malefica, in villa quae Berkeleia dicitur degens, gulae amatrix ac petulantiae, flagitiis modum usque in senium et auguriis non ponens, usque ad mortem impudica permansit. Hæc die quadam cum sederet at prandium, cornicula quam pro deliciis pascebat nescio quid garrire cœpit, quo audito, mulieris cultellus de manu excidit, simul et facies pallescere coepit, et emisso rugitu, hodie, inquit, accipiam grande incommodum, hodieque ad sulcum ultimum meum pervenit aratrum. Quo dicto, nuncius doloris intravit; muliere vero percunctata ad quid veniret, affero, inquit, tibi filii tui obitum et totius familiæ ejus ex subità ruina interitum. Hoc quoque dolore mulier per: mota, lecto protinus decubuit graviter infirmata; sentiensque morbum subrepere ad vitalia, liberos

quos habuit superstites, monachum videlice monacham, per epistolam invitavit; advenes autem voce singultiente alloquitur. Ega, im o pueri, meo miserabili fato daemoniacis m artibus inservivi; ego omnium vitiorum sent ego illecebrarum omnium fui magistra. is tamen mihi inter hæc mala spes vestre This nis, quæ meam solidaret animam desperatam expectabam propugnatores contra damers tores contra saevissimos hostes. NUR & quoniam ad finem vitæ perveni, rogo To materna ubera, ut mea tentatis alleviare a menta. Insuite me defunctam in corio cera ac deinde in sarcophago lapideo supponite, « culumque ferro et plumbo constringite, ac lapidem tribus catenis ferreis et fortissima ( cumdantes, clericos quinquaginta psalmereno tores, et tot per tres dies presbyteros misern celebratores applicate, qui feroces lenige:& versariorum incursus. Ita si tribus noctibes cura jacuero, quarta die me infodite hume. Fa tumque est ut præceperat illis. Sed, proh dzir nil preces, nil lacrymæ, nil demum valuere o tenae. Primis enim duabus noctibus, can cor psallentium corpori assistebant, advenien Daemones ostium ecclesiæ confregerant ing obice clausum, extremasque catenas neg" levi dirumpunt; media autem quæ fortior es illibata manebat. Tertia autem nocte, cires a licinium, strepitu hostium adventantion, on monasterium visum est a fundamento me Unus ergo dæmonum, et vultu cæteris terri et statura eminentior, januas Ecclesia jay violento concussas in fragmenta dejecit. Diver runt clerici cum laicis, metu steterunt om capilli, et psalmorum concentus defecit. Dza ergo gestu ut videbatur arroganti ad sepulch accedens, et nomen mulieris modicum ingenin surgere imperavit. Qua respondente, quod r quiret pro vinculis, jam malo tuo, inquit, s ris ; et protinus catenam quæ cæterorua i” ciam daemonum deluserat, velut stuppern culum rumpebat. Operculum etiam sept pede depellens, mulierem palam omnibus ab m clesia extraxit, ubi præ foribus niger egun e perbe hinniens videbatur, uncis ferreis etter undique confixus, super quem misera mulier jecta, ab oculis assistentium evanuit. Audi tur tamen clamores per quatuor fere ma horribiles, auxilium postulantes. Ista itaque retuli incredibila non erunt, si legatur Gregorii dialogus, in quo refert, hominem in clesia sepultum a dæmonibus foras ejectus apud Francos Carolus Martellus, insignis vir tudinis, qui Saracenos Galliam ingresso N paniam redire compulit, exactis vitæ suæ deb in Ecclesia beati Dionysii legitur fuisse s tus. Sed quia patrimonia, cum decimis m fere ecclesiarum Galliæ, pro stipendio coms tonum suorum mutilaverat, miserabiliter a m lignis spiritibus de sepulchro corporaliter w sus, usque in hodiernum diem nusquam esa paru MATHEUS WESTE

THE Raven croaked as she sate at her as And the Old Woman knew what he And she grew pale at the Raven's tale, And sicken'd and went to her bed.

Now fetch me my children, and fetch the with speed.

The Old Woman of Berkeley said, The monk my son, and my daughter the su Bid them hasten or I shall be dead.

The monk her son, and her daughter the
And they have brought with pious thoug:
Their way to Berkeley went,
The holy sacrament.

=The Old Woman shrlek'd as they enter'd her | The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down,

door,

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Away they sent the sacrament, The fit it left her weak,

And her eyes grew deadly dim, Short came her breath and the struggle of death

Did loosen every limb.

They blest the old woman's winding sheet
With rites and prayers due,

With holy water they sprinkled her shroud,
And they sprinkled her coffin too.

And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone,
And with iron barr'd it down,

She look'd at her children with ghastly eyes, And in the church with three strong chains

And faintly struggled to speak.

All kinds of sin I have rioted in, And the judgment now must be, But I secured my children's souls, Oh, pray, my children, for me!

I have suck'd the breath of sleeping babes,
The fiends have been my slaves,

I have 'nointed myself with infants' fat,
And feasted on rifled graves.

And the Devil will fetch me now in fire,
My witchcrafts to atone;
And I who have rifled the dead man's grave
Shall never have rest in my own.

Bless, I entreat, my winding sheet,
My children, I beg of you!

And with holy water sprinkle my shroud,
And sprinkle my coffin too!

And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone,
And fasten it strong, I implore,
With iron bars, and with three chains
Chain it to the church-floor.

And bless the chains and sprinkle them, And let fifty priests stand round, Who night and day the mass may say, Where I lie on the ground.

And see that fifty choristers

Beside the bier attend me, And day and night by the taper's light With holy hymns defend me. Let the church-bells all both great and small, Be toll'd by night and day,

To drive from thence the fiends who come To bear my body away.

And ever have the church-door barr'd

After the even-song;
And I beseech you, children dear,

Let the bars and bolts be strong.

And let this be three days and nights

My wretched corpse to save, Keep me so long from the fiendish throng, And then I may rest in my grave.

They chain'd it to the ground.

And they blest the chains and sprinkled them,
And fifty priests stood round,
By night and day the mass to say
Where she lay on the ground.

And fifty sacred choristers

Beside the bier attend her Who day and night by the taper's light Should with holy hymns defend her.

To see the priests and choristers
It was a goodly sight,
Each holding, as it were a staff,

A taper burning bright.

And the church-bells all both great and small, Did toll so loud and long,

And they have barr'd the church-door hard, After the even-song.

And the first night the tapers' light
Burnt steadily and clear,
But they without a hideous rout
Of angry fiends could hear;

A hideous roar at the church-door
Like a long thunder-peal,

And the priests they pray'd, and the choristers sung

Louder in fearful zeal.

Loud toll'd the bell, the priests pray'd well,
The tapers they burnt bright,
The monk her son, and her daughter the nun,
They told their beads all night.

The cock he crew, the fiends they flew
From the voice of the morning away;
Then undisturb'd the choristers sing,
And the fifty priests they pray;
As they had sung and pray'd all night,
They pray'd and sung all day.

The second night the tapers' light
Burnt dismally and blue,

And every one saw his neighbour's face
Like a dead man's face to view.

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