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When silenced was the organ,
"Who art thou, awful stranger?
Our ancient annals say,
That twice two hundred years ago
And, if the tale be true,
Art thou the Wandering Jew ?"
"The Wandering Jew, thou dotard!"
Since that poor stripling died;
The Village Stile.
THE village stile-and has it gone,
And worse, still worse, the elder bush,
Dear, ancient friend! it was to me,
I could have better spared
Old chronicler! to me it spoke
Dwelt ever and anon.
'Twas throng'd with memories of old-
To truth and fancy dear:
Age sat upon't when tired of straying,
There twined their garlands gay:
The milkmaid on its friendly rail
And lingering there awhile,
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;
The village stile is gone.
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."
LEIGH HUNT, (AFTER SCHILLER.)
The Well of St. Kepne.
A WELL there is in the west country,
An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,
And a willow from the bank above
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,