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 entered the hall,
He was the merriest man of all.
Then from amid the masquer's crowd
There went a voice hollow and loud-
You have past the day, bishop Bruno, with 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 masquer's band,
And he 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.
AND HOW HE GAINED THEM.
You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
The few locks that are left you are gray;
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might need them at last.
You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
And pleasures with youth pass away,
And yet you lament not the days that are gone,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth could not last;.
I thought of the future, whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past.
You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
And life must be hastening away;
You are cheerful, and love to converse upon
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied;
Let the cause thy attention engage;
In the days of my youth I remember'd my God!
And he hath not forgotten my age.
WITH cheerful step the traveller
Pursues his early way,
When first the dimly-dawning east
Reveals the rising day.
He bounds along his craggy road,
He hastens up the height,
And all he sees and all he hears,
But only give delight.
And if the mist retiring slow,
Roll round its wavy white,
He thinks the morning vapours hide
Some beauty from his sight.
But when behind the western clouds
Departs the fading day,
How wearily the traveller
Pursues his evening way!
Then sorely o'er the craggy road
His painful footsteps creep,
And slow with many a feeble pause,
He labours up the steep.
And if the mists of night close round,
They fill his soul with fear;
He dreads some unseen precipice,
Some hidden danger near.
So cheerfully does youth begin
Life's pleasant morning stage;
Alas! the evening traveller feels
The fears of wary age!
SLOWLY thy flowing tide
Came in, old Avon! scarcely did mine eyes,
As watchfully I roam'd thy green-wood side,
Behold the gentle rise.
With many a stroke and strong
The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars,
And yet the eye beheld them labouring long
Between thy winding shores.
Now down thine ebbing tide
The unlaboured boat falls rapidly along,
The solitary helms-man sits to guide
And sings an idle song.
Now o'er the rocks, that lay
So silent late, the shallow current roars;
Fast flow thy waters on their sea-ward way
Through wider-spreading shores.
Avon! I gaze and know
The wisdom emblemed in thy varying way,
It speaks of human joys that rise so slow,
So rapidly decay.
Kingdoms that long have stood
And slow to strength and power attain'd at last, Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood Ebb to their ruin fast.
The course of time to manhood's envied stage,
Alas! how hurryingly the ebbing years
Then hasten to old age!
A COLLOQUIAL POEM.
JACOB! I do not love to see thy nose
Turned up in scornful curve at yonder pig.
It would be well, my friend, if thou and Ĩ
Had, like that pig, attained the perfectness
Made reachable by Nature! why dislike
The sow-born grunter?-he is obstinate,
Thou answerest, ugly, and the filthiest beast
That banquets upon offal. Now I pray you
Hear the pig's counsel.
Is he obstinate?
We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words,
By sophist sounds. A democratic beast,
He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek
Their profit, and not his. He hath not learnt
That pigs were made for man, born to be brawn'd
And baconiz'd; that he must please to give
Just what his gracious masters please to take;
Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave
For self-defence, the general privilege;
Perhaps-hark, Jacob! dost thou hear that horn?
Woe to the young posterity of pork!
Their enemy is at hand.
The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him!
Those eyes have taught the lover flattery.
His face,-nay, Jacob, Jacob! were it fair
To judge a lady in her dishabille?
Fancy it drest, and with saltpetre rouged.
Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that
The wanton hop marries her stately spouse;
So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair
Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love.
And what is beauty but the aptitude
Of parts harmonious? give thy fancy scope,
And thou wilt find that no imagined change
Can beautify this beast. Place at his end
The starry glories of the peacock's pride;
Give him the swan's white breast for his horn-hoofs;
Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves
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