GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A BISHOP.

THE summer and autumn had been so wet,
That in winter the corn was growing yet,
'Twas a piteous sight to see all around
The corn lie rotting on the ground.

Every day, the starving poor
Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door,
For he had a plentiful last-year's store;
And all the neighbourhood could tell
His granaries were furnished well.

At last, Bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay;
He bade them to his great barn repair,

And they should have food for the winter there.

Rejoiced the tidings good to hear,

The folk flocked from far and near;

poor

The great barn was full as it could hold

Of women and children, and young and old.

Then when he saw it could hold no more,
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door,
And while for mercy on Christ they call,
He set fire to the barn, and burnt them all.

"I'faith, tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he,
"And the country is greatly obliged to me,
For ridding it, in these times forlorn,
Of rats that only consume the corn."

66

So then to his palace returned he,
And he sat down to supper merrily,

And he slept that night like an innocent man,
But Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning, as he entered the hall
Where his picture hung against the wall,
A sweat, like death, all over him came,
For the rats had caten it out of the frame.

As he look'd, there came a man from his farm,
He had a countenance white with alarm.

My Lord, I opened your granaries this morn
And the rats had eaten all your corn."

Another came running presently,
And he was pale as pale could be ;
"Fly, my Lord Bishop, fly!" quoth he,
"Ten thousand rats are coming this way,-
The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"

"I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he, ""Tis the safest place in Germany,—

The walls are high, and the shores are steep,
And the tide is strong, and the water deep."

Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away,
And he crost the Rhine without delay,

And reach'd his tower in the island, and barr'd
All the gates secure and hard.

He laid him down, and closed his eyes ;-
But soon a scream made him arise,

He started, and saw two eyes of flame

On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.

He listen'd, and look'd.—it was only the cat ;
But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that,
For she sate screaming, mad with fear,
At the army of rats that were drawing near.

For they have swum over the river so deep,
And they have climb'd the shores so steep,
And now by thousands up they crawl
To the holes and windows in the wall.

Down on his knees the Bishop fell,

And faster and faster his beads did he tell,
As louder and louder, drawing near,

The saw of their teeth without he could hear.

And in at the windows, and in at the door,
And through the walls by thousands they pour,
And down from the ceiling, and up thro' the floor,
From the right and the left, from behind and before,
From within and without, from above and below,
And all at once to the Bishop they go.

They have whetted their teeth against the stones,
And now they pick the Bishop's bones,
They gnawed the flesh from every limb,
For they were sent to do judgment on him!

THE PIOUS PAINTER.

The story of the Pious Painter is related in the "Pia Hilaria" of Gazaus, but the Catholic poet has omitted the conclusion. This is to be found in the "Fabliaux" of Le Grand.

THE FIRST PART.

THERE once was a painter, in Catholic days,
Like Job, who eschewed all evil.

Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze

With applause and with pleasure, but chiefly his

praise

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 damnable hue!

You could even smell brimstone, their breath was so blue,

He painted the devil so well.

And now had the Artist a picture begun,
'Twas over the Virgin's church door;
She stood on the dragon embracing her Son,
Many devils already the Artist had done,
But this must outdo all before.

The old dragon's imps, as they fled thro' the air,
At seeing it, paus'd on the wing,

For he had the likeness so just to a hair,

That they came, as Apollyon himself had been there,
To pay their respects to their king.

Every child at beholding it, shivered with dread,
And scream'd as he turn'd away quick.

Not an old woman saw it, but raising her head, Dropt a bead, made a cross on her wrinkles, and said, "Lord keep me from ugly Old Nick!"

What the Painter so earnestly thought on by day,
He sometimes would dream of by night;
But once he was startled, as sleeping he lay;
"Twas no fancy, no dream, he could plainly survey
That the devil himself was in sight.

"You rascally dauber!" old Beelzebub cries,
"Take heed how you wrong me again!
Tho' your caricatures for myself I despise,
Make me handsomer now in the multitude's eyes,
Or see if I threaten in vain !"

Now the painter was bold, and religious beside,
And on faith he had certain reliance.

So earnestly he all his countenance eyed,

And thank'd him for sitting, with Catholic pride,
And sturdily bade him dedance.

Betimes in the morning, the Painter arose,
He's ready as soon as 'tis light.

Every look, every line, every feature he knows,
"Tis fresh in his eye, to his labour he goes,
And he has the old wicked one quite.

Happy man! he is sure the resemblance can't fail,-
The tip of his nose is red hot,

There's his grin, and his fangs, his skin cover'd with scale,

And that the identical curl of his tail,-
Not a mark, not a claw is forgot.

He looks, and retouches again with delight;
'Tis a portrait complete to his mind!
He touches again, and again gluts his sight.

He looks round for applause, and he sees with affright,
The original standing behind.

"Fool! Idiot!" old Beelzebub grinn'd as he spoke, And stampt on the scaffold in ire.

The Painter grew pale, for he knew it no joke,
"Twas a terrible height, and the scaffolding broke,
The devil could wish it no higher.

"Help! help me, O Mary!" he cried, in alarm,
As the scaffold sunk under his feet.

From the canvas, the Virgin extended her arm,
She caught the good Painter, she saved him from harm,
There were hundreds who saw in the street.

The old dragon fled, when the wonder he spied,
And cursed his own fruitless endeavour.
While the Painter called after, his rage to deride,
Shook his pallet and brushes in triumph, and cried,
"I'll paint thee more ugly than ever!"