But now, while on all sides they rode and they ran,
Trying all sorts of means to discover the caitiffs,
Losing patience, the holy Gengulphus began

To think it high time to "astonish the natives."

First, a Rittmeister's Frau, who was weak in both eyes,
And supposed the most short-sighted woman in Holland,
Found greater relief, to her joy and surprise,

From one glimpse of his "squint" than from glasses by Dolland.

By the slightest approach to the tip of his Nose

Megrims, head-ache, and vapours were put to the rout; And one single touch of his precious Great Toes

Was a certain specific for chilblains and gout.

Rheumatics, sciatica, tic-douloureux ?

Apply to his shin-bones-not one of them lingers ;All bilious complaints in an instant withdrew,

If the patient was tickled with one of his fingers.

Much virtue was found to reside in his Thumbs;

When applied to the chest, they cured scantness of breathing, Sea-sickness, and colick; or, rubbed on the gums, Were remarkably soothing to infants in teething.

Whoever saluted the nape of his Neck,

Where the mark remained visible still of the knife, However east winds perspiration might check,

Was safe from sore throat for the rest of his life.

Thus, while each acute, and each chronic complaint,
Giving way, proved an influence clearly divine,
They perceived the dead Gentleman must be a Saint,

So they locked him up, body and bones, in shrine.

Through country and town his new Saintship's renown,
As a first-rate physician, kept daily increasing,
Till, as Alderman Curtis told Alderman Brown,

It seemed as if "wonders had never done ceasing."

The three Kings of Cologne began, it was known,
A sad falling off in their off'rings to find;

His feats were so many--still the greatest of any,-
In every sense of the word,--was behind ;

For the German Police were beginning to cease

From exertions which each day more fruitless appear'd,
When Gengulphus himself, his fame still to increase,
Unravelled the whole by the help of his beard!

If you look back you'll see the aforesaid barbe gris,
When divorced from the chin of its murdered proprietor,

Had been stuffed in the seat of a kind of settee,

Or double-armed chair, to keep the thing quieter.

It may seem rather strange, that it did not arrange
Itself in its place when the limbs joined together;
P'rhaps it could not get out, for the cushion was stout,
And constructed of good, strong, maroon-coloured leather.
Or, what is more likely, Gengulphus might choose,
For Saints, e'en when dead, still retain their volition,
It should rest there to aid some particular views,
Produced by his very peculiar position.

Be this as it may, the very first day,

That the widow Gengulphus sat down on that settee, What occurr'd almost frightened her senses away,

Besides scaring her hand-maidens, Gertrude and Betty.

They were telling their mistress the wonderful deeds

Of the new Saint to whom all the Town said their orisons; And especially how, as regards invalids,

His miraculous cures far outrivall'd Von Morison's.

"The cripples," said they, "fling their crutches away, And people born blind now can easily see us !"But she, we presume, a disciple of Hume,

Shook her head, and said angrily, "Credat Judæus !"

"Those rascally liars, the Monks and the Friars,

To bring grist to their mill, these devices have hit on. He work miracles! pooh! I'd believe it of you

Just as soon, you great Geese, or the Chair that I sit on!"

The Chair!-at that word-it seems really absurd,

But the truth must be told,-what contortions and grins Distorted her face !-She sprang up from the place

Just as though she'd been sitting on needles and pins!

For, as if the Saint's beard the rash challenge had heard
Which she uttered of what was beneath her forgetful,
Each particular hair stood on end in the chair,

Like a porcupine's quills when the animal's fretful.

That stout maroon leather, they pierced all together,

Like tenter-hooks holding when clenched from within,
And the maids cried "Good gracious!" how very tenacious!"
They as well might endeavour to pull off her skin!

She shriek'd with the pain, but all efforts were vain;
In vain did they strain every sinew and muscle,-
The cushion stuck fast!-From that hour to her last
She could never get rid of that comfortless "Bustle !"

And e'en as Macbeth, when devising the death

Of his King, heard "the very stones prate of his whereabouts ;" So this shocking bad wife heard a voice all her life

Crying "Murder!" resound from the cushion, or thereabouts.

With regard to the Clerk, we are left in the dark
As to what his fate was; but I cannot imagine he
Got off scot-free, though unnoticed it be

Both by Ribadaneira and Jaques de Voragine;
For cut-throats, we're sure, can be never secure,
And "History's Muse" still to prove it her pen holds,
As you'll see, if you look, in a rather scarce book,
"God's Revenge against Murder," by one Mr. Reynolds.
Now, you grave married Pilgrims, who wander
Like Ulysses of old,* (vide Homer and Naso)
Don't lengthen your stay to three years and a day,
And when you are coming home, just write and say so!

And

away,

you, learned Clerks, who're not given to roam,
Stick close to your books, nor lose sight of decorum;
Don't visit a house when the master's from home,
Shun drinking, and study the " Vita Sanctorum."
Above all, you gay Ladies, who fancy neglect
In your spouses, allow not your patience to fail;
But remember Gengulphus's wife! and reflect
On the moral enforc'd by her terrible tale.

* Qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes,

A POET'S DREAM.

BY MOTLEY.

Once in heavenly musings deep,
Culling Fancy's choicest flowers,
Young Alphonso sank to sleep,

Dreaming of sweet Paphian bowers.

Visions of rare beauty charm'd him,
Fleeting shadows glitter'd round;
Naught dismay'd him, naught alarm'd him,
Fast in Morphean fetters bound.

Lo! a form of dazzling brightness
Softly flitted through the air;
Deck'd in robes of purest whiteness,
Blue her eyes, and gold her hair.

While Alphonso lies enchanted,
Hark! the nymph celestial cries,
"Mr. Smith! get up, you're wanted;

You han't paid for them mutton pies."

I dare not trust thy texture now-
"A thing of shreds and patches,”—thou
Art woful to behold.

Thy waist has fallen to waste at last;
Thy skirts, whose threads are failing fast,
A sad, sad tale unfold!

As on thy alter'd form I gaze,

I mourn the joys of other days,

Ere poverty I knew,

When, ere the light of hope had gone,

"In pride of place" I put thee on,

My Sunday-coat of blue!

THE LAMENT OF THE CHEROKEE.

O soft falls the dew, in the twilight descending,
And tall grows the shadowy hill on the plain;
And night o'er the far distant forest is bending,

Like the storm-spirit, dark, o'er the tremulous main;
But midnight enshrouds my lone heart in its dwelling,
A tumult of woe in my bosom is swelling,
And a tear, unbefitting the warrior, is telling

That Hope has abandoned the brave Cherokee !

Can a tree that is torn from its root by the fountain,
The pride of the valley, green-spreading and fair;
Can it flourish, removed to the rock of the mountain,
Unwamed by the sun, and unwatered by care?
Though Vesper be kind her sweet dews in bestowing,
No life-giving brook in its shadow is flowing,
And when the chill winds of the desert are blowing,
So droops the transplanted and lone Cherokee !

Loved graves of my sires! have I left you for ever?
How melted my heart, when I bade you adieu!
Shall joy light the face of the Indian ?-ah, never!
While memory sad has the power to renew.
As flies the fleet deer when the blood-hound is started,
So fled winged Hope from the poor broken-hearted;
O, could she have turned, ere for ever departed,

And beckoned with smiles to her sad Cherokee !

Is it the low wind through the wet willows rushing,
That fills with wild numbers my listening ear?

Or is some hermit-rill, in the solitude gushing,
The strange-playing minstrel, whose music I hear?
"Tis the voice of my father, slow, solemnly stealing,
I see his dim form, by yon meteor, kneeling,
To the God of the white man, the CHRISTIAN, appealing,
He prays for the foe of the dark Cherokee !

Great Spirit of Good, whose abode is the heaven,
Whose wampum of peace is the bow in the sky;
Wilt thou give to the wants of the clamorous raven,
Yet turn a deaf ear to my piteous cry?
O'er the ruins of home, o'er my heart's desolation,
No more shalt thou hear my unblest lamentation;
For death's dark encounter I make preparation,-
He hears the last groan of the wild Cherokee'