"Oh God! Lord William, doft thou know

"How dreadful 'tis to die?

"And can'ft thou without pity hear

"A child's expiring cry?

"How horrible it is to fink
"Beneath the chilly stream,
"To stretch the powerless aims in vain,
"In vain for help to fcream?"-

The fhriek again was heard. It came
More deep, more piercing loud;
That inftant o'er the flood the moon
Shone through a broken cloud.

And near them they beheld a child,
Upon a crag he stood,

A little crag, and all around

Was fpread the rising flood,

The boatman plied the oar, the boat

Approach'd his refting place,

The moon-beam fhone upon the child

And show'd how pale his face.

"Now reach thine hand!" the boatman cried,

Lord William reach and fave!"

The child ftretch'd forth his little hands,

To grafp the hand he gave.

Then

Then William fhriek'd; the hand he touch'd
Was cold, and damp, and dead!
He felt young Edmund in his arms,
A heavier weight than lead,

The boat funk down, the murderer funk
Beneath the avenging stream;

He rofe, he scream'd!-no human ear
Heard William's drowning scream,

No.

No. XXVII.

THE PAINTER OF FLORENCE,

ROBERT SOUTHEY

PART I.

THERE once was a Painter in Catholic days,
Like Job, who efchewed all evil;

Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze
With applause and amazement, but chiefly his praise
And delight was in painting the Devil.

They were angels, compared to the devils he drew,
Who befieged poor St. Anthony's cell;

Such burning hot eyes, fuch a damnable hue,

You could even smell brimftone, their breath was fo blue, He painted his devils fo well.

And now had the Artist a picture begun,
'Twas over the Virgin's church door;
She stood on the dragon embracing her fon :
Many devils already the Artist had done,
But this muft outdo all before.

The old Dragon's imps, as they fled through the air,
At feeing it, paused on the wing,

For he had the likeness so just to a hair,

That they came as Apollyon himself had been there,
To pay their respects to their king.

Every child, at beholding it, shiver'd with dread,
And fcream'd, as he turned away quick;
Not an old woman faw it, but, raifing her head,
Dropp'd a bead, made a crofs on her wrinkles, and faid,
"God help me from ugly Old Nick !"-

What the Painter fo earnestly thought on by day,
He fometimes would dream of by night;
But once he was startled, as fleeping he lay,
'Twas no fancy, no dream-he could plainly furvey
That the Devil himself was in fight,

-"You rafcally dauber," old Beelzebub cries, "Take heed how you wrong me again!

Though your caricatures for myself I despise, "Make me handsomer now in the multitude's eyes, "Or fee if I threaten in vain !

Now the painter was bold, and religious befide,
And on faith he had certain reliance;

So earnestly he all his countenance eyed,
And thank'd him for fitting, with Catholic pride,
And sturdily bade him defiance.

Betimes

Betimes in the morning the Painter arofe,
He is ready as foon as 'tis light;

Every look, every line, every feature he know
'Tis fresh in his eye, to his labour he goes,
And he has the old wicked one quite.

Happy man, he is fure the refeniblance can't fail,

The tip of the nofe is red hot,

There's his grin and his fangs, his skin cover'd with scale, And that the identical curl of his tail,

Not a mark, not a claw is forgot.

He looks, and retouches again with delight;
'Tis a portrait complete to his mind !
He touches again, and again feeds his fight,

He looks round for applaufe, and he fees, with affright,
The original standing behind.

"Fool! idiot!" old Beelzebub grinn'd as he spoke,
And ftamp'd on the scaffold in ire;

The Painter grew pale, for he knew it no joke,
'Twas a terrible height, and the fcaffolding broke;
The Devil could with it no higher.

-"Help! help me! O Mary !" he cried in alarm,
As the scaffold funk under his feet.

From the canvas the Virgin extended her arm,
She caught the good Painter, fhe faved him from harm,
There were thousands who faw in the street.