And there were strange reports about; That she by her own hand had died, This was the very place he chose, They carried her upon a board, In the clothes in which she died; I think they could not have been closed I never saw so dreadful a sight, They laid her here where four roads meet, The earth upon her corpse was prest, THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. I know not whether it be worth reporting, that there is in Cornwall, near the parish of St. Neots, a well arched over with the robes of four kinds of trees, withy, oak, elm, and ash, dedicated to St. Keyne. The reported virtue of the water is this, that whether husband or wife come first to drink thereof, they get the mastery thereby.-Fuller. A WELL there is in the west-country, An oak and an elm tree stand beside, A traveller came to the well of St. Keyne; For from cock-crow he had been travelling He drank of the water so cool and clear, And he sat down upon the bank, Under the willow tree. There came a man from the neighbouring town At the well to fill his pail, On the well-side he rested it, And bade the stranger hail. Now art thou a bachelor, stranger? quoth he, For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life. Or has your good woman, if one you have, For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drank of the well of St. Keyne. I have left a good woman who never was here, The stranger he made reply; But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why. St. Keyne, quoth the countryman, many a time And before the angel summoned her If the husband of this gifted well But if the wife should drink of it first, The stranger stoop'd to the well of St. Keyne, You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes ? He to the countryman said. But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, But i'faith she had been wiser than me, THE PIOUS PAINTER. The story of the Pious Painter is related in the Fabliaux of Le Grand. PART THE FIRST. THERE once was a painter in Catholic days, Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze With applause and with pleasure, but chiefly his praise They were angels, compared to the devils he drew, 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, She stood on the dragon embracing her son, But this must out-do all before. The old dragon's imps, as they fled through the air, For he had the likeness so just to a hair, That they came as Apollyon himself had been there, Every child at beholding it, shivered with dread, Not an old woman saw it, but raising her head, What the painter so earnestly thought on by day, You rascally dauber! old Beelzebub cries, Now the painter was bold, and religious beside, Betimes in the morning the painter arose, Every look, every line, every feature he knows, Happy man! he is sure the resemblance can't fail, The tip of the 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 feeds 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, The painter grew pale, for it knew it no joke, Help-help me! O Mary! he cried in alarm, From the canvas the Virgin extended her arm, The old dragon fled when the wonder he spied, PART THE SECOND. The painter so pious all praise had acquired, The monks the unerring resemblance admired: One there was to be painted the number among The country around of fair Marguerite rung, O painter, avoid her! O painter, take care! Take heed lest you fall in the Wicked One's snare, Of Satan and Marguerite too. She seats herself now, now she lifts up her head On the artist she fixes her eyes; |