And close beside the chapel and the way,
A chandler, at her stall, sits day by day,

And sells, both long and short, the waxen tapers,
Smartened with tinsel-foil and tinted papers.

To give of the mysterious truth an inkling,
Those who in this bright chapel breathe a prayer
To"Unser Frow," and burn a taper there,
Are said to get a husband in a twinkling:
Just as she-glow-worms, if it be not scandal,
Catch partners with their matrimonial candle.

How kind of blessed saints in heaven-
Where none in marriage, we are told, are given—
To interfere below in making matches,
And help old maidens to connubial catches!
The truth is, that instead of looking smugly
(At least, so whisper wags satirical)
The votaries are all so old and ugly,

No man could fall in love but by a miracle.
However, that such waxen gifts and vows
Are sometimes for the purpose efficacious
In helping to a spouse,

Is vouched for by a story most veracious.

A certain Woman, though in name a wife,
Yet doomed to lonely life,

Her truant husband having been away
Nine years, two months, a week, and half a day-
Without remembrances by words or deeds-

Began to think she had sufficient handle
To talk of widowhood and burn her weeds,
Of course with a wax-candle.

159

160

Sick, single-handed with the world to grapple,
Weary of solitude, and spleen, and vapors,
Away she hurried to Our Lady's Chapel,
Full-handed with two tapers-

And prayed, as she had never prayed before,
To be a bonâ fide wife once more.

"Oh Holy Virgin! listen to my prayer!
And for sweet mercy, and thy sex's sake,
Accept the vows and offerings I make-
Others set up one light, but here's a pair!"

Her prayer, it seemed, was heard;
For in three little weeks, exactly reckoned,
As blithe as any bird,

She stood before the Priest with Hans the Second;-
A fact that made her gratitude so hearty,

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-
What sausages were there!

Of sweets and sours there was a perfect glut :
With plenteous liquors to wash down good cheer
Brantwein, and Rhum, Kirsch-wasser, and Krug Bier,

And wine so sharp that every one was cut.
Rare was the feast-but rarer was the quality
Of mirth, of smoky-joke, and song, and toast—
When just in all the middle of their jollity—
With bumpers filled to Hostess and to Host,
And all the unborn branches of their house,
Unwelcome and unasked, like Banquo's Ghost,
In walked the long-lost Spouse!

What pen could ever paint

The hubbub when the Hubs were thus confronted!
The bridesmaids fitfully began to faint;

The bridesmen stared-some whistled, and some grunted:
Fierce Hans the First looked like a boar that's hunted,
Poor Hans the Second like a suckling calf:
Meanwhile, confounded by the double miracle,
The two-fold bride sobbed out, with tears hysterical,
"Oh Holy Virgin, you're too good-by half!"

MORAL.

Ye Coblentz maids, take warning by the rhyme,
And as our Christian laws forbid polygamy
For fear of bigamy,

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,