employ! Cried the Monarch with passionate tone: Come away then,dear charmer,—my angel,my joy, Nay struggle not now,-'tis in vain to be

coy,

And remember that we are alone.

Blessed Mary, protect me! the Archbishop cried;

What madness is come to the King! In vain to escape from the Monarch he tried, When luckily he on his finger espied The glitter of Agatha's ring.

Overjoy'd, the old Prelate remember'd the spell,

And far in the lake flung the ring; The waters closed round it, and, wondrous to tell, Released from the cursed enchantment of hell,

His reason return'd to the King.

But he built him a palace there close by the bay,

And there did he 'stablish his reign; And the traveller who will, may behold at this day

A monument still in the ruins of Aix
Of the spell that possess'd Charlemain.

THE PIOUS PAINTER.

I.

THERE once was a Painter in Catholic days,
Like Joв who eschewed all evil.
Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze
With applause and with pleasure, but chiefly
his praise

And delight was in painting the Devil.

They were Angels, compared to the Devils he drew,

Who besieged poor St. Anthony's cell; Such burning hot eyes, such a furnace-like hue! And round them a sulphurous vapour he threw

That their breath seem'd of brimstone to smell.

And now had the artist a picture begun,
'Twas over the Virgin's church door;
She stood on the Dragon embracing her Son,
Many Devils already the artist had done,
But this must out-do all before.

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 canvass 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. It was settled the Lady so fair to behold, Should elope from her husband so ugly and

old

With the Painter so pious of late!

Now Satan exults in his vengeance compleat, 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 villainous dauber! Sir Beelzebub cries,

You are paid for your insults to me!

But my tender heart you may easily move That picture, be just! the resemblance If to what I propose you agree;

improve, Make a handsomer portrait, your chains I'll And you shall this instant be free.

remove,

Overjoy'd, the conditions so easy he hears,
He said, and his chain on the Devil appears;
I'll make you quite handsome! he said.
Released from his prison, released from his
fears,
The Painter is snug in his bed.

head,

On the artist she fixes her eyes; The colours are ready, the canvass is spread, He lays on the white, and he lays on the red,

And the features of beauty arise.

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.

And if any one ask my Study to see,
I charge you trust them not with the key;
Whoever may beg, and entreat, and implore,
On your life let nobody enter that door.

There lived a young man in the house, who

in vain

Access to that Study had sought to obtain; And be begg'd and pray'd the books to see, Till the foolish woman gave him the key.

On the Study-table a book there lay, Which Agrippa himself had been reading that day,

The letters were written with blood within, And the leaves were made of dead men's skin.

And these horrible leaves of magic between Were the ugliest pictures that ever were seen, The likeness of things so foul to behold, That what they were is not fit to be told.

The young man, he began to read

He knew not what, but he would proceed,
When there was heard a sound at the door
Which as he read on grew more and more.

And more and more the knocking grew,
The young man knew not what to do;
But trembling in fear he sat within,
Till the door was broke, and the Devil came in.

Two hideous horns on his head he had got,
Like iron heated nine times red-hot;

The breath of his nostrils was brimstone-blue, And his tail like a fiery serpent grew.

What wouldst thou with me? the Wicked One cried,

But not a word the young man replied; Every hair on his head was standing upright, And his limbs like a palsy shook with affright. What wouldst thou with me? cried the

Author of ill,

But the wretched young man was silent still; Not a word had his lips the power to say, And his marrow seem'd to be melting away. What wouldst thou with me? the third time he cries,

And a flash of lightning came from his eyes, And he lifted his griffin-claw in the air, And the young man had not strength for a prayer.

His eyes red fire and fury dart

As out he tore the young man's heart; He grinn'd a horrible grin at his prey, And in a clap of thunder vanish'd away.

THE MORAL.

Henceforth let all young men take heed How in a Conjuror's books they read.

ST. ROMUALD.

Les Catalans ayant appris que St. Romuald vouloit quitter leurs pays, en furent tres affligez; ils délibérèrent sur les moyens de l'en empècher, et le seul qu'ils imaginèrent comme le plus sûr, fut de le tuer, afin de profiter dumoins de ses reliques et des guerisons et autres miracles qu'elles opéreroient aprés sa mort. La devotion que les Catalans avoient pour lui, ne plut point du tout a St. Romuald; il usa de stratageme et leur échappa. ST. Foix essais hist. sur Paris.

St. Foix, who is often more amusing than trustworthy, has fathered the story upon the Spaniards, though it belongs to his own countrymen, the circumstance having happened when Romuald was a monk of the Convent of St. Michael in Aquitaine.

ONE day, it matters not to know
How many hundred years ago,
A Frenchman stopt at an inn-door:
The Landlord came to welcome him, and chat
Of this and that,

For he had seen the Traveller there before.

Doth holy Romuald dwell

Still in his cell?

The Traveller ask'd, or is the old man dead?
No; he has left his loving flock, and we
So good a Christian never more shall see,
The Landlord answer'd,and he shook his head.

If ever there did live a Saint on earth!
Ah, Sir! we knew his worth
Why, Sir, he always used to wear a shirt
For thirty days, all seasons, day and night:
Good man, he knew it was not right
For dust and ashes to fall out with dirt;
And then he only hung it out in the rain,
And put it on again.

With him and the devil there in yonder cell;
There has been perilous work
For Satan used to maul him like a Turk.
There they would sometimes fight
All through a winter's night,
From sun-set until morn,
He with a cross, the Devil with his horn;
The Devil spitting fire with might and main
Enough to make St. Michael half afraid;
He splashing holy water till he made
His red hide hiss again,
This was so common that his face became
And the hot vapour fill'd the smoking cell.
All black and yellow with the brimstone-flame,
And then he smelt,-Oh Lord! how he did
smell!

Then, Sir! to see how he would mortify
The Flesh! If any one had dainty fare,
Good man, he would come there,
And look at all the delicate things, and cry,
O Belly, Belly!

You would be gormandizing now I know;
But it shall not be so;-
Home to your bread and water-home I
tell ye!