And close beside the chapel and the way, And sells, both long and short, the waxen tapers, To give of the mysterious truth an inkling, How kind of blessed saints in heaven- No man could fall in love but by a miracle. Is vouched for by a story most veracious. A certain Woman, though in name a wife, Her truant husband having been away Began to think she had sufficient handle 159 160 Sick, single-handed with the world to grapple, And prayed, as she had never prayed before, "Oh Holy Virgin! listen to my prayer! Her prayer, it seemed, was heard; She stood before the Priest with Hans the Second;- To "Unser Frow," and her propitious shrine, She sent two waxen candles superfine, Long enough for a Lapland evening party! Rich was the Wedding Feast and rare- Of sweets and sours there was a perfect glut : And wine so sharp that every one was cut. What pen could ever paint The hubbub when the Hubs were thus confronted! The bridesmen stared-some whistled, and some grunted: MORAL. Ye Coblentz maids, take warning by the rhyme, Only light up one taper at a time. THE KNIGHT AND THE DRAGON. IN the famous old times, (Famed for chivalrous crimes,) As the legends of Rhineland deliver, Once there flourished a Knight, Who Sir Otto was hight, On the banks of the rapid green river! On the Drachenfels' crest He had built a stone nest, From which he pounced down like a vulturo, And with talons of steel Out of every man's meal Took a very extortionate multure. Yet he lived in good fame, With a nobleman's name, As "Your High-and-Well-Born" addressed daily Tho' Judge Park in his wig Would have deemed him a prig, Or a craksman, if tried at th' Old Bailey. It is strange-very strange! How opinions will change! How Antiquity blazons and hallows Both the man and the crime That a less lapse of time Would commend to the hulks or the gallows! Thus enthralled by Romance, In a mystified trance, E'en a young, mild, and merciful Woman Will recall with delight The wild Keep, and its Knight, Who was quite as much Tiger as Human! Now it chanced on a day In the sweet month of May, From his casement Sir Otto was gazing, With his sword in the sheath, At that prospect beneath, Which our Tourists declare so amazing! Yes-he gazed on the Rhine, And its banks, so divine; Yet with no admiration or wonder, But the goût of a thief, As a more modern Chief Looked on London, and cried "What a plunder !" From that river so fast, From that champaign so vast, He collected rare tribute and presents; Water-rates from ships' loads, Highway-rates on the roads, And hard Poor-rates from all the poor Peasants! When behold! round the base Of his strong dwelling-place, Only gained by most toilsome progression, |