The soldier, the statesman, the courtier, the maid,
Alike this their rival detest;
And the good old archbishop who ceased to upbraid
Shook his grey head in sorrow, and silently pray'd
To sing her the requiem of rest.
A joy ill-dissembled soon gladdens them all,
For Agatha sickens and dies.
And now they are ready with bier and with pall,
The tapers gleam gloomy amid the high hall,
And the bell tolls long through the skies.
They came, but he sent them in anger away,
For she should not be buried, he said;
And despite of all counsel, for many a day,
Array'd in her costly apparel she lay,
And he would go sit by the dead.
The cares of the kingdom demand him in vain,
The army in vain ask their lord;
The Lombards, the fierce misbelievers of Spain,
Now ravage the realms of the proud Charlemagne,
And still he unsheathes not the sword.
The soldiers they clamour, the priests bend in prayer,
In the quiet retreats of the cell;
The physicians to counsel together repair,
They pause and they ponder, at last they declare
That his senses are bound by a spell.
With relics protected, and confident grown,
And telling devoutly his beads,
The archbishop prepares him, and when it was known That the king for awhile left the body alone,
To search for the spell he proceeds.
Now careful he searches with tremulous haste
For the spell that bewitches the king;
And under the tongue for security placed,
Its margin with mystical characters faced,
At length he discovers a ring.
Exulting he seiz'd it and hasten'd away,
The monarch re-entered the room;
The enchantment was ended, and suddenly gay,
He bade the attendants no longer delay
But bear her with speed to the tomb.
Now merriment, joyaunce, and feasting again
Enlivened the palace of Aix;
And now by his heralds did king Charlemagne
Invite to his palace the courtier train
To hold a high festival day.
And anxiously now for the festival day
The highly-born maidens prepare;
And now all apparell'd in costly array,
Exulting they come to the palace of Aix,
Young and aged, the brave and the fair.
Oh! happy the damsel who 'mid her compeers
For a moment engaged the king's eye!
Now glowing with hopes and now fever'd with fears,
Each maid or triumphant or jealous appears
As noticed by him or past by.
And now as the evening approach'd, to the ball
In anxious suspense they advance;
Each hoped the king's choice on her beauties might fall,
When, lo! to the utter confusion of all,
He ask'd the archbishop to dance.
The damsels they laugh and the barons they stare,
'Twas mirth and astonishment all;
And the archbishop started and muttered a prayer,
And, wroth at receiving such mockery there,
Withdrew him in haste from the hall.
The moon dimpled over the water with light
As he wandered along the lake side,
When, lo! where beside him the king met his sight,
"Oh, turn thee, archbishop, my joy and delight!
Oh, turn thee, my charmer !" he cried.
"Oh come where the feast, and the dance, and the song Invite thee to mirth and to love;
Or at this happy moment, away from the throng,
To the shade of yon wood let us hasten along
The moon never pierces that grove."
Amazement and anger the prelate possest,
With terror his accents he heard,
Then Charlemagne warmly and eagerly prest
The archbishop's old wither'd hand to his breast,
And kiss'd his old gray grizzle beard.
"Let us well, then, these fortunate moments 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 remembered the spell,
And far in the lake flung the ring;
The waters closed round it, and wond'rous to tell,
Released from the cursed enchantment of hell,
His reason returned 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 now in the ruins at Aix
Of the spell that possess'd Charlemagne.
OF A YOUNG MAN THAT WOULD READ UNLAWFUL BOOKS,
AND HOW HE WAS PUNISHED.
CORNELIUS AGRIPPA went out one day,
His study he lock'd ere he went away,
And he gave the key of the door to his wife,
And charged her to keep it lock'd on her life.
And if any one ask my study to see,
I charge you trust them not with the key,
Whoever may beg, and entreat, and implore,
On your life let nobody enter that door.
There lived a young man in the house who in vain
Access to that study had strove to obtain,
And he 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,
When there was heard a sound at the door
Which as he read on grew more and more.
And more and more the knocking grew,
The young man knew not what to do;
But trembling in fear he sat within,
Till the door was broke and the Devil came in.
Two hideous horns on his head he had got,
Like iron heated nine times red hot;
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 with a furious joy were possest
As he tore the young man's heart from his breast,
He grinn'd a horrible grin at his prey,
And in a clap of thunder vanish'd away.
Henceforth let all young men take heed
How in a conjurer's books they read.
THE maiden through the favouring night
From Granada took her flight,
She bade her father's house farewell,
And fled away with Manuel.
No Moorish maid might hope to vie
With Laila's cheek or Laila's eye,
No maiden loved with purer truth,
Or ever loved a lovelier youth.
In fear they fled across the plain
The father's wrath, the captive's chain,
In hope to Murcia on they flee,
To peace, and love, and liberty.
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