Vain are the searching glance, the love-lorn groan, Too well thy deep regret, thy grief, are known, Too true I judge thy sorrows by my own! Oh! thou hast lost the dearest charm of life, The fondest, tenderest, loveliest, more than wife; One who, with every virtue, only knew The fault, if fault it be, of loving you; One whose soft bosom seem'd as made to share Thine every joy, and solace every care; For crimes like these secluded, doom'd to know The aggravated weight of guilt and woe. Still dear, still lov'd, I learnt to sin of thee, Learn, thou seducer, penitence from me! Oh! that my soul this last pure joy may know, Sometimes to soothe the dreadful hour of woe: HENRY! by all the love my life has shown, By all the sinful raptures we have known, By all the parting pangs that rend my breast, Hear, my lov'd lord, and grant my last request; And, when the last tremendous hour shall come, When all my woes are buried in the tomb, woe, Then grant the only boon this wretch shall crave- THE RACE OF ODIN. LOUD was the hostile clang of arms, When POMPEY scatter'd wild alarms The crimson deluge dreadful dy'd the ground: An iron forest of destructive spears Rear'd their stern stems, where late The bending harvest wav'd its rustling ears: Pour'd her ambitious hosts to slaughter forth: From the cold regions of the North, At length, on raven wings, shall vengeance come, And justice pour the urn of bitterness on Rome. « Roman!»'t was thus the chief of ASGARD cried, Beyond the reach of Rome; Where, upon some colder shore, Freedom yet thy force shall brave, Freedom yet shall find a home: There, where the Eagle dares not soar, Soon shall the Raven find a safe retreat. ASGARD, farewell! farewell my native seat! Farewell for ever! yet, whilst life shall roll Her warm tide through thine injur'd chieftain's breast, Oft will he to thy memory drop the tear: Never more shall ODIN rest, Never quaff the sportive bowl, Or soothe in peace his slothful soul, Whilst Rome triumphant lords it here. Triumph in thy victor might, Mock the chief of ASGARD's flight; But soon the seeds of vengeance shall be sown, And ODIN's race hurl down thy blood-cemented throne.>> Nurtur'd by Scandinavia's hardy soil, Was but the pastime here; Skill'd the bold youth to hurl the unerring spear, To wield the falchion, to direct the dart, Firm was each warrior's frame, yet gentle was his heart. Freedom, with joy, beheld the noble race, The free-born offspring of the free-born sire; From Helicon's meandering rills In clouds she hid her head; « Whilst future ages hymn my name,» The son of ODIN cries, << I shall quaff the foaming bowl With my forefathers in yon azure skies; I hear the shield-roof'd hall resound See where the murderer EGILL stands, He grasps the harp with skilful hands, And pours the soul-emoving tide of song; Mute admiration holds the listening throng: The royal sire forgets his murder'd son; ERIC forgives; a thousand years Their swift revolving course have run, Since thus the bard could check the father's tears, Could soothe his soul to peace, And never shall the fame of EGILL cease. Dark was the dungeon, damp the ground, Beneath the reach of cheering day, Where REGNER dying lay; Poisonous adders all around On the expiring warrior hung, Yet the full stream of verse flow'd from his dauntless tongue : We fought with swords,» the warrior cry'd, << We fought with swords,» he said--he died. Jomsburg lifts her lofty walls, Sparta revives on Scandinavia's shore; Undismay'd each hero falls, And scorns his death in terror to deplore. « Strike, THORCHILL, strike! drive deep the blow, Jomsburg's sons shall not complain, Never shall the brave appear Bound in slavery's shameful chain: Freedom ev'n in death is dear. Strike, THORCHILL, strike! drive deep the blow, We rush to seize the seats above, And gain the warrior's meed of happiness and love.»> The destin'd hour at length is come, And proud oppression laid the GRACCHI low: For freedom led their sinewy foes, Rome bows her lofty walls, << She falls-and lo, the world again is free!»> THE DEATH OF ODIN. SOUL of my much-lov'd FREYA! yes, I come! I rush to meet thee by a self-will'd doom. Shall rush amid the throng of war; Yet shall the nations own my sway Far as yon orb shall dart his all-enlivening ray: Big is the death-fraught cloud of woe That hangs, proud Rome, impending o'er thy wall, As high in air he rear'd the gleaming blade; In silent wonder saw the scene, affray'd: «Ope wide VALHALLA'S shield-roof'd hall, Say, faulters now your chieftain's breath? Or chills pale terror now his death-like face? The first of mortal's valiant race: I go to happier realms above, To realms of friendship and of love. This uumanly grief dispelling, So with ODIN ever dwelling, Meet him in the shield-roofd hall: Still shall ODIN's fateful lance Before his daring friends advance; When the bloody fight beginning, Helms and shields, and hauberks ringing, O'er your affrighted foes shall scatter wild despair. 'Mid the mighty din of battle, Who pours the current of his life; Not such the destin'd joys that wait Big drops their painful way shall trace; Trample on the opposing foe; Be like the raging torrent's force, So spake the dauntless chief, and pierc'd his breast, TO INDOLENCE. I Do not woo thy presence, INDOLENCE! A votary in thy train. I will not ask to wear thy fett' ring flowers, Faint plays the heartless smile! Pale, sickly as the unkindly shaded fruit, No sunny hues of health; There is no radiance in thy listless eye, Its sudden glances with life. That, rushing from the hills, speeds on its foaming I do not wish upon thy downy couch, course. Haste, my sons, to war's alarms, Go, and drench the wolf with blood, Till ye shall hear dark HELA's call, There, wrapt in clouds, the shadowy throng To airy combat glide along; Then, THOR, when thou from fight shall cease, The first of warriors now, and then their god; The Druid throng shall fall away, No more upon the sacred stone, The vanquish'd ODIN, Rome, shall cause thy fall, Yet, my faithful friends, beware Luxury's enerving snare; 'T was this that shook our ASGARD'S dome, That drove us from our native home; "T was this that smooth'd the way for victor Rome: Gaul's fruitful plains invite your sway, Conquest points the destin'd way; Conquest shall attend your call, As in a conscious dream To doze away the hours, Recibio un Cavallero, paraque cultivasse sus tierras, a un Quintero, y para pagarle algo adelantado le pidio fiador, y no teniendo quien le fiasse, le prometio delante del sepulcro de San Isidro, que cumpliria su palabra, y si no, que el santo le castigasse: con lo qual el Cavallero le pago toda su soldada, ye le fió. Mas desegradecido aquel hombre, no baciendo caso de su promessa, se huyo, sin acabar de servir el tiempo concertado. Passo de noche sin reparar en ella, por la Iglesia de San Andres, donde estaba el cuerpo del siervo de Dios. Fuè cosa maravellosa, que andando corriendo toda la noche, no se aparto de la Iglesia, sino que toda se le fue en dar mil bueltas al rededor de ella, hasta que por la manana, yendo And your success shall gild still more VALHALLA's hall. el amo a quexarse de San Isidro, y pedirle cumpliesse su fianza, halló à su Quintero alli, dando mas y mas bueltas, sin poderse haver apartado de aquel sitio. Pidio perdon al santo, y a su amo, al qual satisfizo despues enteramente poc sù trabajo.-Flos Sanctorum, por ALONZO DE VILLEGAS. Ir thy debtor be poor, old Christoval cried, For he who preserves a poor man from want If thy neighbour should sin, old Christoval cried, For remember it is by the mercy of God At sixty and seven the hope of heaven You shall have the farm, young Christoval, But a surety provide, in whom I can confide, I was poor and I had not a friend on earth, We stood by the porch of St Andres' church, INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED TO HIS GRACE IN evil hour, and with unhallowed voice Did he begin to sing, he first who sung If they that make the cause might taste the effect, Stand at safe distance; send their mandate forth To do their bidding. Ah, who then regards Rejoicing, o'er the desolated earth, As at an altar wet with human blood, Sing their mad hymns of triumph, hymns to God And scorn'd the tongues that praise them! Happier, Of Peace and Science friend, hast held thy course THE KILLCROP. A SCENE BETWEEN BENEDICT, A GERMAN PEASANT, Eight years since (said Luther), at Dessaw, I did see and touch a changed childe, which was twelv years of age; Hee had his eies and all his members like another childe: Hee did nothing but feed, and would eat as much as two clowns, or threshers, were able to eat.When one touched it, then it cried out: When any evil happened in the Hous, then it laughed and was joiful; but when all went well, then it cried, and was very sad. I told the Prince of Anbalt, if I were Prince of that countrie, so would I venture Homicidium thereon, and would throw it into the River Moldaw. I admonished the people dwelling in that place devoutly to praie to God to take away the Divel; the same was done accordingly, and the second year after the Changeling died. In Saxonia, near unto Halberstad, was a man that also had a This man was advised that bee A thumping Killcrop! BENEDICT. 'Tis the Devil's changeling: [Uncovers the basket. [Whispering. Yes, 'tween you and I, Our neighbour Balderic's changed for his son Will. KARL. An idle thought! I say it is a child,- BENEDICT. A child! you dreaming grey-beard! Killcrop, who sucked the mother and five other women drie: and Nothing will you believe like other people. besides, devoured very much. should in his pilgrimage at Halberstad make a promiss of the Kill-Did ever mortal man see child like this? crop to the Virgin Marie, and should caus him there to bee rocked. Why, 't is a Killerop, certain, manifest; This advice the man followed, and carried the changeling thither Look there! I'd rather see a dead pig snap in a basket. But going over a river, beeing upon the bridg, another At the butcher's knife, than call this thing a child. Divel that was below in the river called and said Killerop, Killcrop! View how he stares! I'm no young cub, d' ye see. Then the childe in the basket (which never before spake one word) answered, Ho, Ho. The Divel in the water asked further, Whither art thou going? The childe in the basket said, I am going towards Hocklestad to our loving Mother to be rocked. The man being much affrighed thereat, threw the childe, with the basket, over the bridg into the water. Whe eupon the two Divels flew away together, and cried, Ho, Ilo, Ilo, tumbling themselys one over another, and so vanished. Such Changelings and Killerops (said Lutber) supponit Satan in locum verorum filiorum; for the Devil hath this power, that hee changeth children, and instead thereof laieth Divels in the cradles, which prosper not, onely they feed and suck: but such Changelings live not above eighteen or nineteen years. It oftentimes falleth out, that the children of women in childe-bed are changed, and Such KARL. Why, Benedict, this is most wonderful [Looks at the basket. Divels are laid in their stead, the mothers in such sort are sucked not be known the first year; but are known only by sucking the In justice however to Lutber, it should be remembered, that this superstition was common to the age in which he lived. BENEDICT. The diff'rence! mercy on us! That I should talk to such a Heretic D' ye know the difference 'twixt the Moon and Stars? |