A LEGEND OF CHARITY. BY THE SAME. "WHO calls?"—" A stranger, passing by, Benighted, weary, and astray; He asks relief for charity, And shelter till return of day." "What help, in such a woeful shed, "Forlorn and fainting, here I lie ; A fellow-creature's claim I make : Permit me not for want to die, But help! some help, for mercy's sake!" "Hold on your way, and you shall find "Must I then perish at thy door?"— "Not so-the rich man's board is spread. Alas! he spurneth hence the poor, And I have but one crust of bread; "Of barley bread, full coarse and stale; My children's breakfast that, and mine: Cheese I have none, nor beer, nor ale, Nor bacon-hock, nor flesh of kine." "One crust is all that I require, For dainty cates are not my due; 'Tis cold and wet;-a little fire - Permit, and saints shall comfort you." 'May woe betide the churlish wight, Whose ruthless heart no pity knows! I will arise, the fire I'll light; Come in, for chill the north gale blows. "See here; 't is all the bread I've got." Enough! enough! I ask no more: 66 Hereafter be thy labours less; 66 May favouring saints increase thy store!" Holy Saint Thomas,-is it true! The scraps of bread both stale and small, Have loaves become, full large and new; The pitcher foams with mantling ale! "The fire, too, blazes high and free, Inquire no further - where I dwell, Nor who I am. For thee to know Let it suffice, thou hast done well, "Good health shall make thy labours light, For CHARITY shall thee befriend." ST. JOHN'S EVE IN PALESTINE: * A Legend of the Crusades IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY. I CANNOT tell ye, in sooth, from where I should say, she was damsel of high degree. "Alas!" quoth Sir Guy," thou fair lady, 66 O, fear not for me, thou gentle knight! The spell must be won ere morning's light,— 'Tis a mighty spell; but my knight I'll win From the chains of the haughty Sarrazin." * From a very ingenious and beautiful work, entitled "London in the Olden Time." Second Series. 1827. Sore mourned Sir Guy, as that maiden went,- That she might not for him be in jeopardy. 'Tis the mystic eve of Saint John, I ween,- For spirits and demons are flitting about, For she who shall first dip her hand in the stream, I would ye had seen how that maiden stood, The hour's at hand, the moon 's at her height,- There is shriek-there is shout-there is death-like cry: Joy to thee, maiden! the spell is won Shall gleam o'er the mountains; the water thou holdest Joy to thee, maiden! — look not behind; · Heed not the shouts that are borne on the wind; Mount yon goblin-steed, he dareth not harm thee; While thou bearest that cup, there shall nought alarm thee. The steed flieth swiftly: the bolts of the keep Sir Guy springeth forth; his chains have unbound, And onward, and onward—ay! onward they fly, Haste, haste ye! speed on, while the moon is yet bright; Still, still grasp the chalice! nor heed the fierce rout The gale of the morning breathes fresh and chill; O, joy to thee, maiden! look And, joy to thee, maiden! look down and behold Yes, joy to thee, maiden! thy task is done; |