Thought, as she watched the lifeless sail,
That she should die "withouten fail ;"
Another morn-and not a whiff!

The Lady grew so weak and stiff
That she could hardly move her stumps;
At last she fed upon her pumps!
And called upon her absent Lord,
And thought of going overboard:
As the dusk evening veiled the sky
She said, "I'm ready now to die !"
She saw the dim light fade away,
And fainted, as she kneeled to pray.

I sing not where and how the boat
With its pale load contrived to float,
Nor how it struck off Hartland Point,
And 'gan to leak at every joint;
"Twill be enough, I think, to tell ye
Linda was shaken to a jelly,

And when she woke from her long sleep,
Was lying in the Giant's keep,

While at a distance, like a log,

Her captor snored,-prodigious Gog!

He spared as yet his captive's life ;
She wasn't ready for the knife,
For toil, and famine, and the sun
Had worn her to a skeleton;

He kept her carefully in view,

And fed her for a week or two;
Then, in a sudden hungry freak,
He felt her arm, and neck, and cheek,
And being rather short of meat,
Cried out that she was fit to eat.
The Monster saw the bright dark eye
That met his purpose fearlessly;

He saw the form that did not quail,
He saw the look that did not fail,
And the white arm that tranquil lay,
And never stirred to stop or stay;

He changed his mind,-threw down the knife,
And swore that she should be his wife.

Linda, like many a modern Miss,
Began to veer about at this;

She feared not roasting! but a ring!—
O Lord! 'twas quite another thing;
She'd rather far be fried, than tied,
And make a sausage, than a bride;
She had no hand at argument,
And so she tried to circumvent.*

* The latter part of Linda's history
In Ariosto's work is an ingredient;

I can't imagine how my monks and he

Happened to hit upon the same expedient;

You'll find it in "Orlando Furioso;'

But Mr. Hoole's translation is but so 80.

"My Lord," said she, "I know a plaster, The which before my sad disaster I kept most carefully in store For my own knight, Sir Paladore; It is a mixture mild and thin; But, when 'tis spread upon the skin, It makes a surface white as snow Sword-proof thenceforth from top to toe, I've sworn to wed with none, my Lord, Who can be harmed by human sword. The ointment shall be yours! I'll make it, Mash it and mix it, rub and bake it; You look astonished!-you shall see, And try its power upon me."

She bruised some herbs; to make them hot
She put them in the Giant's pot;

Some mystic words she uttered there,
But whether they were charm or prayer
The convent legend hath not said;
A little of the salve she spread
Upon her neck, and then she stood
In reverential attitude,

With head bent down, and lips compressed,
And hands enfolded on her breast;

"Strike!" and the stroke in thunder fell

Full on the neck that met it well;

"Strike!" the red blood started out, Like water from a water-spout;

A moment's space-and down it sunk, That headless, pale, and quivering trunk, And the small head with its gory wave Flew in wild eddies round the cave.

You think I shouldn't laugh at this;
You know not that a scene of bliss
To close my song is yet in store;
For Merlin to Sir Paladore

The head and trunk in air conveyed,
And spoke some magic words, and made,
By one brief fillip of his wand,

The happiest pair in all the land.

The Giant-but I think I've done
Enough of him for Canto One.

END OF CANTO L

CANTO II.

THE morn is laughing in the sky,
The sun hath risen jocundly,

Brightly the dancing beam hath shone

On the cottage of clay and the abbey of stone; As on the redolent air they float,

The songs of the birds have a gayer note,

And the fall of the waters hath breathed around

A

purer breath and a sweeter sound;

And why is Nature so richly drest

In the flowery garb she loveth best?

Peasant and monk will tell you the tale!

There is a wedding in Nithys-dale.

With his green vest around him flung,
His bugle o'er his shoulders hung
And roses blushing in his hair,
The Minstrel-Boy is waiting there!
O'er his young cheek and earnest brow
Pleasure hath spread a warmer glow,
And love his fervid look hath dight
In something of ethereal light:
And still the Minstrel's pale blue eye
Is looking out impatiently