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When silenced was the organ,
And hush'd the vespers loud,
The sacristan approach'd the sire,
And drew him from the crowd:
"There's something in thy visage,
On which I dare not look,
And when I rang the passing bell,
A tremor that I may not tell
My very vitals shook.

"Who art thou, awful stranger?

Our ancient annals say,

That twice two hundred years ago
Another pass'd this way,
Like thee in face and feature;

And, if the tale be true,
'Tis writ that in this very year
Again the stranger shall appear:

Art thou the Wandering Jew ?"

"The Wandering Jew, thou dotard!"
The wondrous phantom cried;
""Tis several centuries ago

Since that poor stripling died;
He would not use my nostrums,
See, shaveling, here they are!
These put to flight ail human ills,
These conquer death,-unfailing pills;
And I'm the inventor, Parr!"


The Village Stile.

THE village stile-and has it gone,
Supplanted by this niche of stone,
So formal and so new?

And worse, still worse, the elder bush,
Where sang the linnet and the thrush,
Say, has that vanish'd too?

Dear, ancient friend! it was to me,
So needful to the scenery,

I could have better spared
A better thing;-but be it so;
Change meets us wheresoe'er we go-
It fares as all have fared.

Old chronicler! to me it spoke
Like oracle from ancient oak,
Save only that its tone
(Unskill'd the future to forecast)
Upon the present or the past

Dwelt ever and anon.

'Twas throng'd with memories of old-
Yea, many a scene it could unfold

To truth and fancy dear:
For not the thorn upon the green
More frequent confidant had been,
To tales they love to hear.

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Age sat upon't when tired of straying,
And children that had been a maying,

There twined their garlands gay:
What tender partings, blissful meetings,
What faint denials, fond entreatings,
It witness'd in its day!

The milkmaid on its friendly rail
Would ofttimes rest her brimful pail,

And lingering there awhile,
Some lucky chance (that tell-tale cheek
Doth something more than chance bespeak)
Brings Lubin to the stile.

But what he said, or she replied,

Whether he ask'd her for his bride,

And she, so sought, was won

There is no chronicler to tell;
For silent is the oracle-

The village stile is gone.

The Globe.

KING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,

And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;

The nobles fill'd the benches, and the ladies in their


And 'mongst them sat the Count de Loye, with one for whom he sigh'd.

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning


Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

The lions and the tigers roar'd with horrid laughing


They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws:

With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd on one another,

'Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thund'rous smother.

The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air:

Saith Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."

De Loye's love overheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame,

With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same;

She thought,―The count, my love, is brave as brave can be ;

He surely would do wond'rous things to show his love of me :

King, ladies, lovers, all look on, the occasion is


I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.

She dropp'd the glove, to prove his love, she look'd at him, and smiled;

He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions

The leap was quick, return was quick; he has regain'd his place ;

Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.

"Well done," said Francis, "rightly done," and he rose from where he sat;

"Not love," quoth he, "but vanity, set love a task like that."


The Well of St. Kepne.

A WELL there is in the west country,
And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the west country
But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,
And behind doth an ash-tree grow,

And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;
Joyfully he drew nigh,

For from cock-crow he had been travelling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he;
And he sat down upon the bank,
Under the willow-tree.

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