dangling over the fearful abyss; but when a sturdy Virginian reaches down and draws up the lad, and holds him up in his arms before the tearful, breathless multitude-such shouting! and such leaping and weeping for joy never greeted a human being so recovered from the yawning gulf of eternity.-Elihu Burritt.

HOW LADY BLANCHE ARUNDEL HELD
WARDOUR FOR KING CHARLES.

[By kind permission of CHARLES DICKENS, Esq.]

THE first of May, the garland day, that ushers in the spring, Saw Wardour Castle fair and strong in arms for Charles the

king;

The elms were black with noisy rooks, the meadows gilt with flowers,

With rosary of blossoms, Time counts the dying hours.

The butler moved his casks about, the chaplain was at bowls, The grooms were hissing in the stalls, the boys played with the foals,

The Lady Blanche among her maids was busy as the best, Unconcious that the carrion-crow was hovering o'er her nest. All suddenly a group of us upon an outer wall,

Was startled by a warning shout from those within the hall, And through the wind-toss'd avenue, from out a storm of dust,

Galloped a wounded serving man, whose helmet was all rust. One-two-then three, poor frightened knaves, with faces gashed and torn,

One with a broken sword red-wet, who screamed upon a horn;
And then a rout of flying men groaning and very white,
Each swearing, as he hoped for grace, Cromwell would come
that night.

That night our scouts were pouring in, each paler than the last,

The shepherds brought us news of Strode, and every troop they'd passed;

A moment Lady Blanche turned pale, but soon flushed angry

red,

To think Old England's golden crown should deck a brewer's head.

All night the melting lead was poured into our bullet moulds, The trusty pikes were lifted down from the long ratched

holds,

Great stones were piled upon each ledge, the guns were duly scoured,

Upon the highest tower, our flag of angry challenge lowered.

She never chid her serving maids about their tapestry; And yet, of all that busy hive she was the fair Queen Bee. For idleness, or ribaldry, or drunken revelling sport, Dared never e'en to set a foot within the inner court.

Her husband and her lord was gone unto the tented field,
To wring from stone-faced Puritans what Puritans would
yield;

She was alone without a friend, yet never thought of fear,
For gathered in her castle-walls was food for seven year.

That sullen night, just at the dusk, from out those garden

trees

A muffled drum, with mournful throb, sounded upon the

breeze;

And dark and slow the Puritans began their leaguer then, Not in the open manly way of honest gentlemen.

They burnt our stacks, they fired our barns, they harried us all day;

At night they poured the hot shot in where we stood firm at bay.

They scorched our walls, they blacken'd doors, they splinter'd roof and pane,

But to the brave old trusty place no entrance could they gain.

One day a pale-faced trumpeter the rebel dogs sent in,
The gall and bile were oozing through his scurvy, sallow skin;
He bade us all surrender to this Cromwell, "England's lord:"
The women were to go in peace; the men-yield to the sword.

Then Lady Blanche tore up the roll, and trod it under foot; We drove the crop-ear from the gate, with scoffing laugh and hoot;

We crush'd his trumpet, snapp'd his staff, and set the dogs. at him:

Ha!-but for Lady Blanche's grace they'd torn him limb from limb.

Their swords smote blunt upon our steel, and keen upon our buff,

The coldest-blooded man of us had battering enough;

'Twas butt and butt, and point and point, and eager pike to pike,

'Twas foin and parry, give and take, as long as we could strike.

There, in the breach stood Lady Blanche, a banner in her hand,

Urging us on with voice and look to scourge this currish band.

She stood amid the fire and flame in the red gap of wall,
An angel sent to comfort us-the bravest of us all.

The fire-balls vex'd us night and day; their mines shook down a .tower,

Their bullets upon door and roof fell in unpitying shower; At last, on specious promises of mercy to us all,

Our Lady Blanche hung out a flag of white upon the wall.

They burnt our stables, stole our deer, caught all our fattest carp;

They felled the old oaks in the park with axes keen and sharp ;

Unearth'd our leaden conduit-pipes and melted them in bars; Tore our great pictures into strips, and split the floors in stars.

This was the way the Rebel Dogs a sacred treaty kept,
Yet God had not forgotten us, nor had His justice slept;
For that day week Newcastle's "lambs" fell on this lying
rout,

Shot, piked, and sabred half the troop, and burnt the others
out.
-All the Year Round.

THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.

[By kind Permission of Messrs. R. BENTLEY & SON.]

THE Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
Bishop, and abbot, and prior were there;

Many a monk, and many a friar,
Many a knight, and many a squire,

With a great many more of lesser degree,
In sooth a goodly company;

And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Never, I ween,

Was a prouder seen,

Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!

In and out

Through the motley rout,

That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
Here and there

Like a dog in a fair,

Over comfits and cates,
And dishes and plates,

Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier! he hopp'd upon all!
With saucy air,

He perch'd on the chair

Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;
And he peer'd in the face
Of his Lordship's Grace,

With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
"We two are the greatest folks here to-day!"
And the priests, with awe,

As such freaks they saw,

Said, "Whatever has come to that little Jackdaw!"

The feast was over, the board was clear'd,
The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd.
And six little singing-boys,-dear little souls!
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,
Came, in order due,

Two by two,

Marching that grand refectory through!
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Emboss'd, and fill'd with water as pure

As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water and eau-de-Cologne ;
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.

One little boy more

A napkin bore,

Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,
And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in "permanent ink."

The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white:
From his finger he draws

His costly turquoise;

And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
Deposits it straight

By the side of his plate,

While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!

And nobody seems to know what they're about,
But the monks have their pockets all turn'd inside out;
The friars are kneeling,

And hunting, and feeling

The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. The Cardinal drew

Off each plum-colour'd shoe,

And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
He peeps, and he feels

In the toes and the heels;

They turn up the dishes,-they turn up the plates,They take up the poker and poke out the grates, the rugs,

-They turn up

They examine the mugs:-
But, no!—no such thing;-

They can't find THE RING!

And the abbot declared that, "when nobody twigg'd it, Some rascal or other had popp'd in, and prigg'd it!"

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,

He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his book!
In holy anger and pious grief,

He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!

He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;
From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;
He cursed him in sleeping, that every night
He should dream of all evil, and wake in a fright;