The King of the Crocodiles there was seen, He sat upon the eggs of the Queen, And all around a numerous rout The young Prince Crocodiles crawl'd about. The Woman shook every limb with fear, She fell upon her bended knee, And said, "O King, have pity on me, And that's the loss that makes me wild. “A Crocodile ate him for his food ; Now let me have the murderer's blood, The only thing that can give me joy. "I know that Sire! never do wrong, you, You have no tail so stiff and strong, You have no tail to strike and slay, "You have done well," the King replies, And fix'd on her his little eyes; "Good Woman, yes, you have done right, But you have not described me quite. "I have no tail to strike and slay, I have teeth moreover, as you may see, 1798. THE ROSE. BETWENE the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is the felde Floridus, that is to seyne, the felde floriched. For als moche as a fayre Mayden was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that sche hadd don fornicacioun, for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be brent in that place, to the whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre began to brenne about hire, she made her preyeres to oure Lord, that als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synne, that he wold help hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace; and whanne sche had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon was the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, becomen white Roseres, fulle of roses, and theise werein the first Roseres and roses, both white and rede, that every ony man saughe. And thus was this Maiden saved be the grace of God. The Voiage and Traivaile of Sir John Maundeville. NAY, EDITH! spare the Rose; . . perhaps it lives, And feels the noon-tide sun, and drinks refresh'd The dews of night; let not thy gentle hand Tear its life-strings asunder, and destroy The sense of being!... Why that infidel smile? Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful; And thou shalt have a tale of other days, For I am skill'd in legendary lore, So thou wilt let it live. There was a time Ere this, the freshest, sweetest flower that blooms, There dwelt at Bethlehem a Jewish maid, Save the strong ardours of religious zeal, One man there was, a vain and wretched man, Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. Had moulded his broad features; and she fear'd The bitterness of wounded vanity That with a fiendish hue would overcast His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, |