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That very morn the Landlord's power

Had seized the little left.
And now the sufferer found himself

Of every thing hereft.

He leant his head upon his hand,

His elbow on his knee,
And so by Jaspar's side he sate,

And not a word said he.

Nay—why so downcast? Jaspar cried,

Come, cheer up, Jonathan! Drink, neighbour, drink! 'twill warm thy heart—

Come! come! take courage, man!

He took the cup that Jaspar gave,
And down he drain'd it quick;

I have a wife, said Jonathan,
And Bhe is deadly sick.

She has no bed to lie upon,

I saw them take her bed—
And I have children—would to God

That they and I were dead!

Our Landlord he goes home to-night

And he will sleep in peace—
I would that I were in my grave,

For there all troubles cease.

In vain I pray'd him to forbear,
Though wealth enough has he!

God be to him as merciless
As he has been to me!

When Jaspar saw the poor man's soul

On all his ills intent,
He plied him with the heartening cup,

And with him forth he went.

This landlord on his homeward road

'Twere easy now to meet.
The road is lonesome, Jonathan!—

And vengeance, man! is sweet.

He listen'd to the tempter's voice,
The thought it made him start; . .

His head was hot, and wretchedness
Had harden'd now his heart.

Along the lonely road they went

And waited for their prey,
They sate them down beside the stream

That cross'd the lonely way.

They sate them down beside the stream,

And never a word they said, They sate and listen'd silently

To hear the traveller's tread.

The night was calm, the night was dark,

No star was in the sky,
The wind it waved the willow-boughs.

The stream llow'il quietly

The night was calm, the air ni still
Sweet sung the nightingale;

The soul of Jonathan was sooth'd.
His heart began to fail.

'Tis weary waiting here, he cried,
And now the hour is late;—

Methinks he will not come to-night
No longer let us wait.

Have patience, man! the ruffian said.

A little we may wait,
But longer shall his wife expect

Her husband at the gate.

Then Jonathan grew sick at heart,
My conscience yet is clear!

Jaspar—it is not yet too late—
I will not linger here.

How now! cried Jaspar; why, I UiMgfc
Thy conscience was asleep.

No more such qualms, the night It itA.
The river here is deep.

What matters that, said Jonathan,
Whose blood began to freeze.

When there is One above whose eye
The deeds of darkness sees!

We are safe enough, said Jaspar thei.

If that be all thy fear!
Nor eye below, nor eye above.

Can pierce the darkness here.

That instant as the murderer spake
There came a sudden light;

Strong as the mid-day-sun it shone,
Though all around was night:

It hung upon the willow-tree,

It hung upon the flood,
It gave to view the poplar-isle,

And all the scene of blood.

The traveller who journies there,

He surely hath espied
A madman who has made his home

Upon the river's side.

His cheek is pale, his eye is wild.
His look bespeaks despair;

For Jaspar since that hour has made
His home unshelter'd there.

And fearful arc his dreams at nifbt
And dread to him the day;

He thinks upon his untold crime.
And never dares to pray.

The summer-suns, the winter-storoii

O'er him unheeded roll.
For heavy is the weight of blood

Upon the maniac's soul!


No eye beheld when William plunged
Young Edmund in the stream,

No human ear but William's heard
Young Edmund's drowning scream.

Submissive all the vassals own'd
The murderer for their Lord,

And he, as rightful heir, possess'd
The house of Erlingford.

The ancient house of Erlingford

Stood in a fair domain,
And Severn's ample waters near

Roll'd through the fertile plain.

And often the way-faring man
Would love to linger there,

Forgetful of his onward road,
To gaze on scenes so fair.

But never could Lord William dare
To gaze on Severn's stream;

In every wind that swept its waves
He heard young Edmund scream.

In vain, at midnight's silent hour,
Sleep closed the murderer's eyes,

In every dream the murderer saw
Young Edmund's form arise.

In vain by restless conscience driven
Lord William left his home,

Far from the scenes that saw his guilt,
In pilgrimage to roam.

To other climes the pilgrim fled,

But could not fly despair;
He sought his home again, but peace

Was still a stranger there.

Slow were all passing hours, yet swift
The months appear'd to roll;

And now the day return'd that shook
With terror William's soul.

A day that William never felt

Return without dismay,
For well had conscience kalendar'd

Young Edmund's dying day.

A fcnrful day was that! the rains

Fell fast with tempest-roar,
And the swoln tide of Severn spread

Far on the level shore.

In vain Lord William sought the feast,

In vain he quaffd the bowl.
And strove with noisy mirth to drown

The anguish of his soul;

The tempest, as its sudden swell

In gusty howlings came, With cold and death-like feelings scem'd

To thrill his shuddering frame.

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
He 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,
He 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,—

Twas music to his ear.

When lo! the voice of loud alarm

His inmost soul appals:
What ho! Lord William, rise in haste!

The water saps thy walls!

He rose in haste, beneath the walls

He saw the flood appear; It hemm'd him round, 'twas midnight now,

No human aid was near.

He heard the shout of joy, for now

A boat approach'd the wall. And eager to the welcome aid

They crowd for safety all.

My boat is small, the boatman cried,

Twill 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,

His terror was so sore;
Thnu shalt have half my gold, he cried,

Haste—haste to yonder 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: Mi'thought I heard

A child's distressful cry!
Twas 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.

I heard a child's distressful voice,

The boatman cried again.
Nay hasten on—the night is dark—

And we should search in vain.

O God! Lord William, dost thou know

How dreadful 'tis to die?
And canst thou without pitying hear

A child's expiring cry?

How horrible it is to sink

Beneath the closing stream,
To stretch the powerless arms in vain,

In vain for help to scream!

The shriek again was heard: it came
More deep, more piercing loud;

That instant o'er the flood the moon
Shone through a broken cloud;

And near them they beheld a child,

Upon a crag he stood,
A little crag, and all around

Was spread the rising flood.

The boatman plied the oar, the boat

Approoch'd his resting-place;
The moon-beam shone upon the child,

And show'd how pale his face.

Now reach thine hand! the boatman cried,
Lord William, reach and save!

The child stretch'd forth his little hands
To grasp the hand he gave.

Then William shriek'd; the hand he touch'd

Was cold and damp and dead! He felt young Edmund in his arms

A heavier weight than lead.

The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk

Beneath the avenging stream,
He rose, he shriek'd,—no humun ear

Heard William's drowning scream.


Tiikbr was an old man breaking stones

To mend the turnpike-way; He sate him down beside a brook, And out his bread and cheese he look. For now it was mid-day.

He leant his back against a post,

His feet the brook ran by; And there were water-cresses growing. And pleasant was the water's flowing,

For he was hot and dry.

A soldier with his knapsack os

Came travelling o'er the dim; The sun was strong and he vsi tini And he of the old man enquired: How far to Bristol town?

Half an hour's walk for a yoasr, su

By lanes and fields and stiki; But you the foot-path do not lorn And if along the road you go Why then 'tis three good milr.

The soldier took his knapsack nil.

For he was hot and dry; And out his bread and cheese he U*t And he sat down beside the brook

To dine in company.

Old friend! in faith, the soldier •»;•

I envy you almost; My shoulders have been sorely pr- -' And I should like to sit and rest

My back against that post

In such a sweltering day as this

A knapsack is the devil!
And if on t'other side I sat,
It would not only spoil our chat

But moke me seem uncivil.

The old man laugh'd and moved—i i*1

It were a great-ami'd chair! But this may help a man at nrei:And yet it was a cursed deed That ever brought it there.

There's a poor girl lies buried bm.

Beneath this very place. The earth upon her corpse is pre»l The stake is driven into her brestt.

And a stone is on her face.

The soldier had but just leant bait

And now he half rose up. There's sure no harm in dining bm My friend 't and yet, to be sincerr. I should not liko to sup.

God rest her! she is still enough

Who sleeps beneath my feet! The old man cried.—No harm I tr»' She ever did herself, though nov She lies where four roads meet

I have past by about that hour
When men are not most brave;

It did not make my courage fail.

And I have heard the nightingale
Sing sweetly on her grave.

I have past by about that boor

When Ghosts their freedom hs" ■ But there was here no ghastly «if»u And quietly the glow-worm's light Was shining on her grave.

There's one who like a Christian lies

Ilencath 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; lie lies in consecrated ground, But for all the wealth in Bristol town

I would not be with his soul!

Didst see a house below the hill
Which the winds and the rains destroy T

Twas 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-girl
Who came up from the west;

I'rom service hard she ran away,

And at that house in evil day
Was taken in to rest. ■'

I'hc man he was a wicked man,

And an evil life he led; lage made his face grow deadly white, V ml his gray eyes were large and light,

And in anger they grew red.

riie man was had, the mother worse,

Bad fruit of evil stem; I'm oulri make your hair to stand on-end f I should tell to you, my friend,

The things that were told of them!

lidst sec an out-house standing by V

The walls alone remain; t was a stable then, but now is mossy roof has fallen through

All rotted by the rain.

he poor girl she had served with them

Some half-a-year or more,

'lien she was found hung up one day,

tiff as a corpse and cold as clay,

Behind that stable-door!

is a wild and lonesome place,
No hut or house is nenr;
■ mi Id one meet a murderer there alone
were vain to scream, and the dying groan
Would never reach mortal ear.

id there were strange reports about;
But still the Coroner found
tat she by her own hand had died,
id should buried be by the way-side
And not in Christian ground.

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

They carried her upon a board

In the clothes in which she died; I saw the cap blow off her head, Her face was of a dark dark red, Her eyes were starting wide:

I think they could not have been closed,

So widely did they strain.
I never saw a ghastlier sight,
And it often made me wake at night,

For I saw it in dreams again.

They laid her here where four roads meet,

Beneath this very place.
The earth upon her corpse was prest,
This stake is driven into her breast,

And a stone is on her face.


Thk summer and autumn had been so wet,
That in winter the corn was growing yet,
'Twas 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.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay,
He bade them to his great Barn repair.
And they should have food for the winter

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,
The poor folk flock'd from far and nenr;
The great Barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old.

Then when he saw it could hold no more,
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;
And while for mercy on Christ they call,
He set fire to the Barn and burnt them all.

I'fnith 'tis an excellent bonfire! quoth he,
And the country is greatly obliged to me,
For ridding it in these times forlorn
Of Rats that only consume the corn.

So then to his palace returned he.
And he sat down to supper merrily,
And he slept that night like an innocent man,
Hut Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning as he enter'd the hall,
Where his picture hung against the wall,
A sweat like death all over him came.
For the Hats had eaten it out of the frnme,
A* he look'd there came a man from his farm,
He had a countenance white with alarm:
My Lord, I open'd your granaries this morn,
And the Rate had eaten all yonr corn.

Another came running presently,
And he was pale as pale could be,
Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly, quoth he,
Ten thousand Rats are coming this way,—
The Lord forgive you for yesterday!

I'll go to my tower in the Rhine, replied he,
Tis the safest place in Germany,
The walls are high and the shores are steep
And the stream is strong and the water deep.

Bishop Hatto fearfully hastcn'd away,
And he crost the Rhine without delay,
And reach'd his tower, and barr'd with care
All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there.

He laid him down and closed his eyes;
But soon a scream made him arise,
He started, and saw two eyes of flame
On his pillow, from whence the screaming

Helisten'd and look'd ;—it was only the cat;
But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that,
For she sat screaming, and with fear
At the Army of Rats that were drawing near.

For they have swam over the river so deep,
And they have climb'd the shores so steep,
And now by thousands up they crawl
To the holes and windows in the wall.

Down on his knees the Bishop fell,

And faster and faster his bends did he tell,

As louder and louder drawing near

The saw of their teeth without he could hear.

And in at the windows and in at the door, And through the walls by thousands they

pour, And down from the ceiling and up through

the floor, From the right and the left, from behind

and before, From within and without, from above and

below, And all at once to the Bishop they go.

They have whetted their teeth against the

stones. And now they pick the Bishop's bones, They gnnw'tl the flesh from every limb. For they were sent to do judgment on him!


Fr.incoiiPetrarque.fort renomme entre leePstoi ltaliens, disconrant en nne cpistre Sob rejiga de France et de lAlleroagne, nous raconte est passant par la villc d'Aii, il apprit de qoelqin Pre 'sire* nne hieloire prodigieuse qu'ile teaoieit de main en main pour Ires veritable. Qui ctue que Charles le Grand, apres avoir conqotrr pluaienra pays, a'eajierdit de telle faeoa ea faraour d'nne simple femme, que mettant tout k» nenr et reputation en arnere, il oublia u> settlement lea affaires de son royaume, aau anaai le soin de aa propre peraonne, an graii deaplaieir de chacun eatant settlement eataata* a court iser ceate dame: laqnelle par bonkn: commenca a a'aliter d'nne grosse maladie. ati lni apporta la mort. Dont lea Princes et gnat Seigneura fnrent fort reajonia, eeperana que Hi ceate mort, Charles reprendroit comme drvnt et sea eeprita et lea anairea da royaome ea mia-. tonteefoia il ee trouva tenement infatue de cast amoar, qa' encores cheriseoit-il ce cadavre. Teabraeaant, baiaant, accolant de la mesne facta est devant, et an lieu de preater l'oreille a»i leptiona qui lui aurvenoient, il 1'entreteBoit at mille bayee, comme a'il euat eate pleia de tit. Ce corpe commencoit deja non settlement a an) aentir, maia auasi ae tournoit en putrefaction, R neantmoina n'y avoit ancun de sea favorif eoi luy en osaet parler; dont advint que 1'ArcW veaque Turpin mieiix advise que lea antrea, p*er penaa qne telle chose ne ponvoit eetre adiesac Bans quelqne sorcellerie. Au moyen de esaj eBpiant un Jour l'heure qne le Roy aVatait aaeente de la chambre, commenca de foutller )•corpa de toutesparta, finalement troova dans at bouche au deesoua de sa langue un anaeaa eel] lui oata. Ce jour meamc Charlcmaigiie retesr nant aur aea premierea brteeee, ae troaia fart eatonne de voir une carcaaae ainai pnaate. Par quoy, comme a'il ae fust reeveille d'nn prsisaa sommcil, enmmanda que Ton Tenaevelist prnstment. Ce qui fut fait; maia en eoatr'escsasfr de ceste folie, il tourna tons see peasemeaeirn l'Archeveeque porteur de ceet aaaeaa, ae »» vain eetre de la en avant aans lui, et le savna en tons lea endroita. Quoy voyaat ce sajre Preht et craignant que cest anneau ne tonibaat en aaana de quelqne autre, le jetta daas ua lac peecsjie de la ville. Depnia lequel tempi on dit ajaaat Roy ae trouve ai eapria de l'amonr da lien, es'il ne deaempara la ville d'Aix, on il batit aa fa laia, et un Monaaterc, en I'un desquels il par* le reate de sea joura et en Paotre vonlat ntrc ensevely, nrdonnant par aon testament que laat lee Empersura de Home euaaent a sefaire astro premierement en ce lieu. Ptsqvua, 1111.

It was strange that he loved her, for ywrxi
was gone by.
And the bloom of her beauty was fled:
Twas the glance of the harlot that git*"*

in her eye. And all but the Monarch could plainly descry From whence came her white and her rra

Yet he thought with Agatha none mici-
And he gloried in wearing her chain:
The court was a desert if she were r

there. To him she alone among worurn arras' fair. Such dotage possess'd ('Imrleninin

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