The maid defied the natural dread,

Which made her frail limbs shake and quiver; Praying God's blessing on her head,

She sought that tiny mountain-river: A thousand steps of deep descent Adown the hill's hard surface went, Winding now right, now left, they led Down to the streamlet's narrow bed.

The fountain's silver waves spring up
Above a low rock's hollow rim;
The maiden plunges deep her cup

Till the clear streams o'erflow its brim.
Alas! within a cavern near

His form the beast did slowly rear,

And through those dusky shades, the light
Of his grim eyes gleamed fiery bright.

Forth, forth the furious monster leapt-
She cannot hide, she dares not fly,
But still her steadfast faith she kept,
And, kneeling, raised her prayerful eye;
"O gracious God, have mercy now!
My mother's sorrow pity Thou!
Alas, if I be slain, Thou know'st,
Hope for her sinking life is lost!"

But hark! a sudden sound awoke

Afar, like stifled thunder pealing,
And, pierced as by a lightning-stroke,
She saw the mighty dragon reeling:
A steed's swift tread that thunder-peal—
That flash a lance of gleaming steel,
Hurled by a knightly hand, she saw
That weapon cleave the dragon's jaw.

Hah! how the beast in rage and pain Struggles and writhes, with failing strength, And, low on that polluted plain,

Lies in his sable blood at length! The graceful warrior, tall and slight, Adorned with golden armor bright, Now, from his courser leaping, paid Fair reverence to the wondering maid.

"God's blessing on thy fearless brand!"

All trembling thus the damsel spake ; "Lo! from thy brave and generous hand My life in thankfulness I take !"

Nay, thank thy God!" he cried; "by Him Mine arm hath slain this monster grim!

Thy timid prayer with gracious ear

He heard, and winged my conquering spear."

Beneath a pine-tree's ancient shade

His faithful steed he fastens now,

And to the castle leads the maid

With tranquil and untroubled brow.

That freshening draught the mother takes,
Her eye in grateful light awakes,

The healing waters pour amain

Life, health, and power through every vein.

"Ah, warrior," thus, in tears, she said, "But for thy stalwart arm of force,

I, hapless lady, now were dead,

And this fair child a mangled corse!
Oh, teach me, noble knight the way
Thy generous valor to repay!
Happy were I," she said, and smiled,

"If thou would'st wed my gentle child."

But wondrous pale the maiden grew-
Her eyes, so bright with hope before,
Did sadly gaze through gathering dew
Upon a star-gemmed ring she wore.
"To him who gave this ring," she said,
Sobbing, "though he were cold and dead,
Till in the silent grave I lie,
Changeless I keep my constancy."

"O beauteous maiden, weep no more!"
At once the warrior gently cried,
"Thine Adelstan shall God restore

In health and safety to thy side!
The filial deed thy hand hath done
For thee this fitting meed hath won;
This very night thine eyes shall see
Him thou hast loved so steadfastly."

Even while he spake, there rose around
The martial trumpet's thrilling strains,
And the castle-bridge, with clashing sound,
Fell sternly in its rattling chains;
Sir Adelstan, true knight, hath come
From Syrian shore to German home.

Oh, what a meeting-hour was here
To close such scenes of grief and fear!

The knight, whose hand so bold and brave,

Rescued that maid, and saved that mother, And more-whose noble spirit gave

The faithful damsel to another,

Soon to the spousal altar drew

Beside that pair so fond and true,
And then, with buoyant heart and gay,
Mounted his steed and rode away.

Glad tidings of the dragon's fall

From lip to lip did loudly sound, They thank their God, those peasants all, For many a circling mile around: With tears of joy on every face The fugitives return apace, Until round that forsaken spot Rises full many a cheerful cot.

The hero won his well-earned place
Amid the saints, in death's dread hour;
And still the peasant seeks his grace,
And, next to God, reveres his power!
many a church his form is seen

In

With sword, and shield, and helmet sheen : Ye know him by his steed of pride,

And by the dragon at his side.

But more than all, that spirit high,

That knight without reproach or fear,

Was to the German chivalry

For ever and for ever dear;

Still was a father wont to say,
When in his arms his first-born lay,
(6 Slight tribute to our hero's fame,
Lo, GEORGE shall be the infant's name!"

SKETCHES OF LONDON.

BY E. FERRETT.

THE funniest animal in creation is the genuine Cockney-his genus is peculiar and little known, from the fact of his being rarely seen without the precincts in which he flourishes. It is common for the uninitiated to call all who live in London, cocknies-just as the English call all Americans, yankees-being ignorant of the class to which the cognomen applies.

The Cockney-par excellence-is an individual who has been. born within the sound of Bow Bells;" or in other words, in that part of London which enables him to hear the bells of Bow Church strike. Whether those bells are possessed of attributes peculiar to themselves, whereby they innoculate their constant hearers with idiosyncracies different from other people, I do not pretend to decide, but certain it is that cocknies are a race of themselves as distinct from all other men, as birds from beasts, or quadrupeds from bipeds.

The most considerable and prominent trait in the Cockney's character is his conceit,-self-satisfied to a degree past all conception, he combines with his egotism an unfailing good humor, that no rebuff can destroy. He will make love to his mistressdrink with his friend-bandy insult, and even blows, with his enemy without deviating from his self-satisfied contentment and cheerfulness. If any thing can raise his ire, it is to decry his city of London, and laugh at his river Thames. The true