"A thousand miracles appall'd

The cruel Pagan's mind;

Our brother Pedro brings them here,

In Coimbra to be shrined."

4

Every altar in Coimbra

Is drest for the festival day;

All the people in Coimbra

Are dight in their richest array ;

Every bell in Coimbra

Doth merrily, merrily, ring;

The Clergy and the Knights await,

To go forth with the Queen and the King.

"Come forth, come forth, Queen Orraca! We make the procession stay."

"I beseech thee, King Affonso, Go you alone to-day.

"I have pain in my head this morning, I am ill at heart also:

Go without me, King Affonso,

For I am too faint to go."

"The relics of the Martyrs five
All maladies can cure;
They will requite the charity

You show'd them once, be sure :

"Come forth then, Queen Orraca ! You make the procession stay: It were a scandal and a sin

To abide at home to-day."

Upon her palfrey she is set,

And forward then they go;
And over the long bridge they pass,
And up the long hill wind slow.

"Prick forward, King Affonso,
And do not wait for me;
To meet them close by Coimbra,
It were discourtesy ;

"A little while I needs must wait,

Till this sore pain be gone;

I will proceed the best I can,

But do you and your Knights prick on."

The King and his Knights prick'd up the hill
Faster than before;

The King and his Knights have topt the hill,
And now they are seen no more.

As the King and his Knights went down the hill
A wild boar crost the way;

"Follow him! follow him!" cried the King; "We have time by the Queen's delay!"

A-hunting of the boar astray

Is King Affonso gone:

Slowly, slowly, but straight the while,
Queen Orraca is coming on.

And winding now the train appears
Between the olive-trees:

Queen Orraca alighted then,

And fell upon her knees.

The Friars of Alanquer came first,
And next the relics past; . .
Queen Orraca look'd to see

The King and his Knights come last.

She heard the horses tramp behind;
At that she turn'd her face:
King Affonso and his Knights came up
All panting from the chase.

"Have pity upon my poor soul,
Holy Martyrs five!" cried she:
"Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Virgin, pray for me!”

5

That day in Coimbra

Many a heart was gay;

But the heaviest heart in Coimbra
Was that poor Queen's that day.

The festival is over,

The sun hath sunk in the west; All the people in Coimbra

Have betaken themselves to rest.

Queen Orraca's Father Confessor
At midnight is awake;
Kneeling at the Martyrs' shrine,
And praying for her sake.

Just at the midnight hour, when all
Was still as still could be,
Into the Church of Santa Cruz,

Came a saintly company:

All in robes of russet grey,

Poorly were they dight;

Each one girdled with a cord,

Like a Friar Minorite.

But from those robes of russet grey,
There flow'd a heavenly light;

For each one was the blessed soul
Of a Friar Minorite.

Brighter than their brethren,

Among the beautiful band:

Five were there who each did bear
A palm branch in his hand.

He who led the brethren,
A living man was he;
And yet he shone the brightest
Of all the company.

G

Bris

Before the steps of the altar,

Each one bow'd his head;

And then with solemn voice they sung
The Service of the Dead.

"And who are ye, ye blessed Saints?" The Father Confessor said;

"And for what happy soul sing ye

The Service of the Dead?"

"These are the souls of our brethren in bliss, The Martyrs five are we :

And this is our father Francisco,

Among us bodily!

"We are come hither to perform

Our promise to the Queen;

Go thou to King Affonso,

And say what thou hast seen."

There was loud knocking at the door,
As the heavenly vision fled;
And the porter called to the Confessor,
To tell him the Queen was dead.

Bristol, 1803.

HENRY THE HERMIT

IT was a little island where he dwelt,
A solitary islet, bleak and bare,

Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots
Its grey stone surface. Never mariner
Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast,
Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark
Anchor'd beside its shore. It was a place
Befitting well a rigid anchoret,

Dead to the hopes and vanities and joys,
And purposes of life: and he had dwelt
Many long years upon that lonely isle ;
For in ripe manhood he abandon'd arms,
Honours and friends and country and the world,
And had grown old in solitude. That isle
Some solitary man in other times

Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found
The little chapel which his toil had built