But now, while on all sides they rode and they ran, To think it high time to "astonish the natives." First, a Rittmeister's Frau, who was weak in both eyes, From one glimpse of his "squint" than from glasses by Dolland. By the slightest approach to the tip of his Nose Megrims, head-ache, and vapours were put to the rout; And one single touch of his precious Great Toes Was a certain specific for chilblains and gout. Rheumatics, sciatica, tic-douloureux ? Apply to his shin-bones-not one of them lingers ;All bilious complaints in an instant withdrew, If the patient was tickled with one of his fingers. Much virtue was found to reside in his Thumbs; When applied to the chest, they cured scantness of breathing, Sea-sickness, and colick; or, rubbed on the gums, Were remarkably soothing to infants in teething. Whoever saluted the nape of his Neck, Where the mark remained visible still of the knife, However east winds perspiration might check, Was safe from sore throat for the rest of his life. Thus, while each acute, and each chronic complaint, So they locked him up, body and bones, in shrine. Through country and town his new Saintship's renown, It seemed as if "wonders had never done ceasing." The three Kings of Cologne began, it was known, His feats were so many--still the greatest of any,- For the German Police were beginning to cease From exertions which each day more fruitless appear'd, If you look back you'll see the aforesaid barbe gris, Had been stuffed in the seat of a kind of settee, Or double-armed chair, to keep the thing quieter. It may seem rather strange, that it did not arrange Be this as it may, the very first day, That the widow Gengulphus sat down on that settee, What occurr'd almost frightened her senses away, Besides scaring her hand-maidens, Gertrude and Betty. They were telling their mistress the wonderful deeds Of the new Saint to whom all the Town said their orisons; And especially how, as regards invalids, His miraculous cures far outrivall'd Von Morison's. "The cripples," said they, "fling their crutches away, And people born blind now can easily see us !"But she, we presume, a disciple of Hume, Shook her head, and said angrily, "Credat Judæus !" "Those rascally liars, the Monks and the Friars, To bring grist to their mill, these devices have hit on. He work miracles! pooh! I'd believe it of you Just as soon, you great Geese, or the Chair that I sit on!" The Chair!-at that word-it seems really absurd, But the truth must be told,-what contortions and grins Distorted her face !-She sprang up from the place Just as though she'd been sitting on needles and pins! For, as if the Saint's beard the rash challenge had heard Like a porcupine's quills when the animal's fretful. That stout maroon leather, they pierced all together, Like tenter-hooks holding when clenched from within, She shriek'd with the pain, but all efforts were vain; And e'en as Macbeth, when devising the death Of his King, heard "the very stones prate of his whereabouts ;" So this shocking bad wife heard a voice all her life Crying "Murder!" resound from the cushion, or thereabouts. With regard to the Clerk, we are left in the dark Both by Ribadaneira and Jaques de Voragine; And away, you, learned Clerks, who're not given to roam, * Qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes, A POET'S DREAM. BY MOTLEY. Once in heavenly musings deep, Dreaming of sweet Paphian bowers. Visions of rare beauty charm'd him, Lo! a form of dazzling brightness While Alphonso lies enchanted, You han't paid for them mutton pies." I dare not trust thy texture now- Thy waist has fallen to waste at last; As on thy alter'd form I gaze, I mourn the joys of other days, Ere poverty I knew, When, ere the light of hope had gone, "In pride of place" I put thee on, My Sunday-coat of blue! THE LAMENT OF THE CHEROKEE. O soft falls the dew, in the twilight descending, Like the storm-spirit, dark, o'er the tremulous main; That Hope has abandoned the brave Cherokee ! Can a tree that is torn from its root by the fountain, Loved graves of my sires! have I left you for ever? And beckoned with smiles to her sad Cherokee ! Is it the low wind through the wet willows rushing, Or is some hermit-rill, in the solitude gushing, Great Spirit of Good, whose abode is the heaven, |