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Reluctant now, as night came on,

His lonely couch he prest; And wearied out, he sunk to sleep,To sleep-but not to rest.

Beside that couch his brother's form, Lord Edmund seem'd to stand, Such and so pale as when in death Ile grasp'd his brother's hand;

Such and so pale his face as when, With faint and faultering tongue, To William's care, a dying charge, Ile left his orphan son.

«I bade thee with a father's love
My orphan Edmund guard-
Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge!
Now take thy due reward.»

He started up, each limb convulsed
With agonizing fear:

He only heard the storm of night,—
"T was music to his ear.

When lo! the voice of loud alarm

His iamost soul appals;

« What ho! Lerd William, rise in haste! The water saps thy walls!»>

appear;

He rose in haste, beneath the walls
He saw the flood
It hemm'd him round, 't was midnight now,
No human aid was near.

He heard the shout of joy, for now

A boat approach'd the wall,

And

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eager to the welcome aid

They crowd for safety all.

My boat is smail,» the boatman cried,
«T will bear but one away;

Come in, Lord William, and do ye
In God's protection stay.»

Strange feeling fill'd them at his voice,
Even in that hour of woe,

That, save their Lord, there was not one
Who wish'd with him to go.

But William leapt into the boat,
Ilis terror was so sore:

« Thou shalt have half my gold,» he cried, Hlaste-haste to yender shore.>>

The boatman plied the oar, the boat
Went light along the stream;
Sudden Lord William heard a cry
Like Edmund's drowning scream.

The boatman paused, « Methought I heard
A child's distressful cry!»

«T was but the howling wind of night,» Lord William made reply.

«Haste-haste-ply swift and strong the oar! Haste-haste across the stream!»

Again Lord William heard a cry

Like Edmund's drowning scream,

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« There's one who like a Christian lies

Beneath the church-tree's shade; I'd rather go a long mile round Than pass at evening through the ground Wherein that man is laid.

<< There's one who in the church-yard lies For whom the bell did toll;

He lies in consecrated ground,

But for all the wealth in Bristol town 1 would not be with his soul!

«Didst see a house below the hill

Which the winds and the rains destroy? 'T was then a farm where he did dwell, And I remember it full well When I was a growing boy.

« And she was a poor parish giri Who came up from the west : From service hard she ran away, And at that house in evil day Was taken in to rest.

« The man he was a wicked man, And an evil life he led ;

Rage made his face grow deadly white, And his grey eyes were large and light, And in anger they grew red!

«The man was bad, the mother worse, Bad fruit of evil stem;

'T would make your hair to stand on end If I should tell to you, my friend,

The things that were told of them!

<< Didst see an out-house standing by?
The walls alone remain;
It was a stable then, but now
Its mossy roof has fallen through
All rotted by the rain.

« The poor girl she had served with them Some half-a-year or more,

When she was found hung up one day, Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay, Behind that stable door!

<< It is a wild and lonesome place, No hut or house is near;

Should one meet a murderer there alone 'T were vain to scream, and the dying groan Would never reach mortal ear.

« And there were strange reports about; But still the Coroner found

That she by her own hand had died, And should buried be by the way-side, And not in Christian ground.

This was the very place he chose, Just where these four roads met; And I was one among the throng That hither follow'd them along, I shall never the sight forget!

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Here followeth the History of HATTO, Archbichop of Mentz. It hapned in the year 914, that there was an exceeding great famine in Germany, at what time Otho surnamed the Great was Emperor, and one Hatto, once Abbot of Fulda, was Archbishop of Mentz, of the Bishops after Crescens and Crescentius the two and thirtieth, of the Archbishops after St Bonifacius the thirteenth.This Hatto in the time of this great famine afore-mentioned, when he saw the poor people of the country exceedingly oppressed with famine, assembled a great company of them together into a Barne, and, like a most accursed and mercilesse caitiffe, burnt up those poor innocent souls, that were so far from doubting any such matter, that they rather hoped to receive some comfort and relief at his hands. The reason that moved the prelat to commit that execrable impiety was, because he thought the famine would the sooner cease, if those unprofitable beggars that consumed more bread than they were worthy to eat, were dispatched out of the world. For he said that those poor folks were like to Mice, that were good for nothing but to devour corne. But God Almighty, the just avenger of the poor folks quarrel, did not long suffer this hainous tyranny, this most detestable fact, unpunished. For he mustered up an army of Mice against the Archbishop, and sent them to persecute him as bis furions Alastors, so that they afflicted him both day and night, and would not suffer him to take his rest in any place. Whereupon the Prelate thinking that he should be secure from the injury of Mice if he were in a certaine tower, that standeth in the Rhine near to the towne, betook himself unto the said tower as to a safe refuge and sanctuary from his enemies, and locked himself in. But the innumerable troupes of Mice chased him continually very eagerly, and swumme unto him upon the top of the water to execute the just judgment of God, and so at last he was most miserably devoured by those sillie creatures; who pursued him with such bitter hostility, that it is recorded they scraped and knawed out his very name from the walls and tapistry wherein it was written, after they had so cruelly devoured his body. Wherefore the tower wherein he was eaten up by the Mice is shown to this day, for a perpetual monament to all succeeding ages of the barbarous and inhuman tyranny of this impious Prelate, being situate in a little green Island in the midst of the Rhine near to the towne of Bing,' and is commonly called in the German Tongue, the MowsE-TURN.-CORYAT'S Crudities p. 571, 572.

Other Authors who record this tale say that the Bishop was eaten by Rats.

THE summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet,

'T was a piteous sight to see all around
The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor
Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door,
For he had a plentiful last-year's store,
And all the neighbourhood could tell
His granaries were furnish'd well.

Hodie Bingen.

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The Old Dragon's imps as they fled through the air,
At seeing it paused on the wing;

For he had the likeness so just to a hair,
That they came as Apollyon himself had been there,
To pay their respects to their King.

Every child at beholding it shiver'd with dread,
And scream'd as he turn'd away quick;
Not an old woman saw it, but, raising her head,
Dropt a bead, made a cross on her wrinkles, and said,
Lord keep me from ugly Old Nick!

What the Painter so earnestly thought on by day,
He sometimes would dream of by night;
But once he was startled as sleeping he lay;
T was no fancy, no dream, he could plaiuly survey
That the Devil himself was in sight.

«You rascally dauber!» old Beelzebub cries, «Take heed how you wrong me again! Though your caricatures for myself I despise, Make me handsomer now in the multitude's eyes, Or see if I threaten in vain !»

Now the Painter was bold, and religious beside,

And on faith he had certain reliance, So carefully he the grim countenance eyed, And thank'd him for sitting with Catholic pride, And sturdily bade him defiance.

Betimes in the morning the Painter arose,

He is ready as soon as 't is light. Every look, every line, every feature he knows, 'T is fresh in his eye, to his labour he goes, And he has the old Wicked One quite.

Happy man! he is sure the resemblance can't fail; The tip of the nose is red-hot,

Ile is come to her eyes, eyes so bright and so blue!
There's a look which he cannot express;-
His colours are dull to their quick-sparkling hue;
More and more on the lady he fixes his view,
On the canvas he looks less and less.

In vain he retouches, her eyes sparkle more, And that look which fair Marguerite gave! Many Devils the Artist had painted of yore, But he never had tried a live Angel before,St Anthony, help him and save!

He yielded, alas! for the truth must be told, To the Woman, the Tempter, and Fate.

There's his grin and his fangs, his skin cover'd with It was settled the Lady so fair to behold,

scale,

And that the identical curl of his tail,

Not a mark, not a claw, is forgot.

He looks and retouches again with delight;
T is a portrait complete to his mind!
He touches again, and again gluts 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,
And stampt on the scaffold in ire;
The Painter grew pale, for he knew it no joke,
"T was a terrible height, and the scaffolding broke,
The Devil could wish it no higher.

Help-help me! O Mary!» he cried in alarm,
As the scaffold sunk under his feet.
From the canvas the Virgin extended her arm,

She caught the good Painter, she saved him from harm,
There were hundreds who saw in the street.

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Should elope from her husband so ugly and old, With the Painter so pious of late!

Now Satan exults in his vengeance complete,

To the Husband he makes the scheme known; Night comes and the lovers impatiently meet, Together they fly, they are seized in the street, And in prison the Painter is thrown.

With Repentance, his only companion, he lies, And a dismal companion is she!

On a sudden he saw the Old Serpent arise,
«Now, you villanous dauber!» Sir Beelzebub cries,
<«< You are paid for your insults to me!

<< But my tender heart you may easily move
If to what I propose you agree;

That picture, be just! the resemblance improve,
Make a handsomer portrait, your chains I'll remove,
And you shall this instant be free.>>

Overjoy'd, the conditions so easy he hears,

<< I'll make you quite handsome!» he said.
He said, and his chain on the Devil appears;
Released from his prison, released from his fears,
The Painter is suug in his bed.

At morn he arises, composes his look,

And proceeds to his work as before;
The people beheld him, the culprit they took;
They thought that the Painter his prison had broke,
And to prison they led him once more.

They open the dungeon;-behold in his place
In the corner old Reelzebub lay.

He smirks and he smiles and he leers with a grace,
That the Painter might catch all the charms of his

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