Scrapings of bones, and points of spears, From a prophet's coffin a hallowed nail, The powers of darkness shrank with dread; Could hide him from those chastened eyes. He looked on the bridegroom, he looked on the bride, The young Count smiled, but the old Priest sighed. "Fields with the father I have won ; I am come in my cowl to bless the son. 66 'Greedy hawk must gorge his prey; He frowned as he answered-" Gold and gem, But your bride has skill of the lute, they say; Loud laughed the Count: "And if she refuse I never bid priest to a bridal more." Beside the maiden he took his stand; He gave the lute to her trembling hand; She gazed around with a troubled eye; Had shrouded all the banquet-room, The stern Priest throws an angry glance "Mortal maid, or goblin fairy, Suddenly the maiden bent O'er the gorgeous instrument; Lurley,-Lurley!" And when the sound in the liquid air Of that brief hymn had faded, For a year had masqueraded, But the harp in the midst of the wide hall set Where her last strange word was spoken ; The golden frame with tears was wet, And all the strings were broken. "Des traditions étrangeres, En parlant sans obscurité Mais dans ces sources mensongères, "Nous avons changé tout cela."-MOLIERE. LILY, I've made a sketch, to show As painted by Sir Walter; Those jousting days have all gone by, Yet, Lily! Love has still his darts, Her trophies now are wounded hearts, Instead of broken lances ! Soft tales are told, though not with flowers, But in a simple letter, And on the whole, this world of ours Is altered for the better ! Your stalwart chiefs, and men of might, Our heroes still wear spur on heel, A warrior wasted half his life Or captive, held some twenty years Came back, perchance, without his ears, A yellow fright, like Beppo! Then heads were made to carry weight, Boys were not "brought up for the state," Now (oh! how this round world improves !) In the olden time, when youth had fled, A lady's life was over; For might she not as well be dead As live without a lover? But now, no foolish date we fix, So brisk our Hymen's trade is, Ladies are now at fifty-six But "elderly young ladies." And husbands now, with bolts and springs, Their married ladies had no lutes To sigh beneath their windows, They treated them, those ancient brutes, They moped away their lives, poor souls! Or hauled away through field, or fray, 'Twas easy too, by fraud or force, Their wrongs remain no longer dumb, For now the laws protect them; And canes 66 no thicker than one's thumb" Are suffered to correct them. |