SONNET On presenting a young Lady with a locket of his hair interlaced with her own at a time when fate seemed to make it impossible for him to meet her again. THE love thou gavest with my own is wreathed; The raven tresses of my queen, and sleep J. C. BENTLEY. SPECIMENS OF MODERN GERMAN POETS. TRANSLATED BY MARY HOWITT. HEINRICH HEINE. WE sate by the fisher's dwelling, And in the farthest distance We spoke of storm and shipwreck; We spoke of lands far distant; Of the fragrant, glittering Ganges, And handsome, quiet people, Of Lapland's filthy people, The maidens listened so gravely; COUNTY LEGENDS. No. III. BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY. THE LAY OF THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GREY. CANTO II. Now it seems there's a place they call Purgat'ry-so To say if it's in this world, or if in the next- In a tight little Island' that stands in a Lake Called Lough-dearg'-that's 'The Red Lake,' unless I mis take, In Fermanaghor Antrim-or Donegal-which I declare I can't tell, But I know very well It's in latitude 54, nearly their pitch: (At Tappington, now, I could look in the Gazetteer, But I'm out on a visit, and nobody has it here.) There are some, I'm aware, Who don't stick to declare There's ' no differ' at all 'twixt 'this here' and 'that there.' That it's all the same place, but the Saint reserves his entry For the separate use of the 'finest of pisentry,' And that his is no more Than a mere private door From the rez-de-chaussée-as some call the ground-floor, To the one which the Pope had found out just before. But no matter-lay The locale where you may; -And where it is no one exactly can say There's one thing, at least, which is known very well, That it acts as a Tap-room to Satan's Hotel. ، Entertainment's' there worse Both for 'Man and for Horse ;' For broiling the souls They use Lord Mayor's coals ; Then the sulphur's inferior, and boils up much slower Than the fine fruity brimstone they give you down lower, It's by no means so strong Mere sloe-leaves to Souchong; The 'prokers' are not half so hot, or so long, By an inch or two, either in handle or prong; The Vipers and Snakes are less sharp in the tooth, -You understand where I don't question-down there Where, in lieu of wood blocks, and such modern inventions, The Paving Commissioners use 'Good Intentions,' Materials which here would be thought on by few men, With so many founts of Asphaltic bitumen At hand, at the same time to pave and illumine. To go on with my story, This same Purga-tory, (There! I've got in the O, to my Muse's great glory,) Is close locked, and the Pope keeps the keys of it-that I can Boldly affirm-in his desk in the Vatican; -Not those of St. Peter These, of which I now treat, are A bunch by themselves, and much smaller and neater- Now it seems that by these Not only the Pope, but his 'clargy,' with ease And Basil, no doubt, Had brought matters about, If the little old woman would but have 'spoke out,' So far as to get for her one of those tickets, Or passes which clear both the great gates and wickets; So that after a grill, Or short turn on the Mill, And with no worse a singeing, to purge her iniquity, Than a Freemason gets in 'The Lodge of Antiquity,' She'd have rubbed off old scores, Popped out of doors, And sheered off at once for a happier port, Like a white-washed Insolvent that's gone through the Court.' But Basil was one Who was not to be done By any one, either in earnest or fun; The cunning old beads-telling son of a gun, In all bargains, unless he'd his quid for his quo, Would shake his bald pate, and pronounce it 'No Go.' So, unless you're a dunce, When you come to consider the facts of the case, he, For what could she do? If she went to the gates I have mentioned to you, And his Holiness not only gets the cold shoulder,' Well-what shall she do ? What's the course to pursue ? 'Try St. Peter?-the step is a bold one to take; For the Saint is, there can't be a doubt, " wide awake;" But then there's a quaint Heart ne'er won fair Lady," then how win a saint ; Old Proverb says "Faint I've a great mind to try One can but apply; The sky If things come to the worst why he can but deny 's rather high To be sure-but, now I That cumbersome carcass of clay have laid by, I am just in the "order" which some folks-though why I am sure I can't tell you would call " Apple-pie." Then "never say die!" It won't do to be shy, So I'll tuck up my shroud, and-here goes for a fly!' -So said and so done-she was off like a shot, And kept on the whole way at a pretty smart trot. When she drew so near That St. Peter could see her, The Saint in a moment began to look queer, 'Alas! poor Ghost!' It's a doubt which is most To be pitied-one doom'd to fry, broil, boil, and roast, Or one banded about thus from pillar to post, To be all abroad'-to be 'stump'd'-not to know where To go so disgraced As not to be 'placed,' However that be, Or, as Crocky would say to Jem Bland, 'to be No-where.' The affaire was finie, And the poor wretch rejected by all, as you see ! Mr. Oliver Goldsmith observes-not the Jew- 'Returns back again to the place whence she flew,' In an underground cellar of very small size, Working hard with a spade, All at once she survey'd That confounded old bandy-legged 'Tailor by trade.' Fancy the tone Of the half moan, half groan, Which burst from the breast of the Ghost of the crone! As she stood there, -a figure 'twixt moonshine and stone, Only fancy the glare in her eyeballs that shone ! Although, as Macbeth says, 'they'd no speculation,' While she utter'd that word, Which American Bird, Or John Fenimore Cooper, would render Tarnation!!' * "E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires ! - GRAY. A position at which Experience revolts, Credulity hesitates, and even Fancy stares!-JOHNSON. |