Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets That blazing couple of Congreve rockets; And shrunk and shrivell'd that tawny skin Till it hardly cover'd the bones within. The line the Abbot saw him throw Had been fashion'd and form'd long ages ago: And the hands that work'd his foreign vest, Long ages ago had gone to their rest: You would have sworn, as you look'd on them, He had fish'd in the flood with Ham and Shem! There was turning of keys, and creak ing of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. Minnow or gentle, worm or fly It seem'd not such to the Abbot's eye: Gaily it glitter'd with jewel and gem, And its shape was the shape of a diadem. It was fasten'd a gleaming hook about, By a chain within and a chain without; The Fisherman gave it a kick and a spin, And the water fizz'd as it tumbled in! From the bowels of the earth, Cold, by this, was the midnight air; But the Abbot's blood ran colder, When he saw a gasping knight lie there With a gash beneath his clotted hair, And a hump upon his shoulder. And the loyal churchman strove in vain To mutter a Pater Noster: For he who writhed in mortal pain, Was camp'd that night on Bosworth plain, The cruel Duke of Glo'ster! There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. It was a haunch of princely size, Filling with fragrance earth and skies. The corpulent Abbot knew full well The swelling form and the steaming smell; Never a monk that wore a hood Could better have guess'd the very wood Where the noble hart had stood at bay, Weary and wounded, at close of day, Pulling and tugging the Fisherman sate; And the Priest was ready to vomit, When he haul'd out a gentleman, fine and fat, With a belly as big as a brimming vat, And a nose as red as a comet. "A capital stew," the Fisherman said, "With cinnamon and sherry!" And the Abbot turn'd away his head, For his brother was lying before him dead, The Mayor of St Edmond's Bury There was turning of keys, and creak ing of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. It was a bundle of beautiful things, A peacock's tail, and a butterfly's wings, A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl, A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl, And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold Such a stream of delicate odours roll'd, That the Abbot fell on his face, and fainted, And deem'd his spirit was half-way sainted, Sounds seem'd dropping from the skies, Stifled whispers, smother'd sighs, to passion's thrilling words: "Smile, lady, smile!-I will not set A loveless throne through guilt and sin? Or who would reign o'er vale and hill, If woman's heart were rebel still?” One jerk, and there a lady lay, A lady wondrous fair; But the rose of her lip had faded away, And her cheek was as white and cold as clay, And torn was her raven hair. "Ah, ha!" said the Fisher, in merry guise, "Her gallant was hook'd before;" And the Abbot heaved some piteous sighs, For oft he had bless'd those deep blue eyes, The eyes of Mistress Shore! There was turning of keys, and creak. ing of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. Many the cunning sportsman tried, Many he flung with a frown aside; A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest, A hermit's cowl, and a baron's crest, Jewels of lustre, robes of price, Tomes of heresy, loaded dice, And golden cups of the brightest wine That ever was press'd from the Bur. gundy vine. There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre, As he came at last to a bishop's mitre! And awfully were his features wrought By some dark dream, or waken'd thought. Look how the fearful felon gazes On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises, When the lips are crack'd, and the jaws are dry, With the thirst which only in death shall die: Mark the mariner's frenzied frown, As the swaling wherry settles down, Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south, The Abbot will carry my hook in his mouth." The Abbot had preach'd for many years, With as clear articulation Against Emancipation: His words had made battalions quake, He stammer'd and he stutter'd He stutter'd, drunk or dry, Sir Roger de Coverley.-II. The 113th number of the "Spectator" describes Sir Roger de Coverley falling in love with a beautiful widow. The paper is by Steele; and to a reader of the present day it may appear somewhat trite and mawkish. The good old knight looks back upon his unrequited youthful affection with a halfludicrous solemnity. His mistress was a learned lady, who only gave him the encouragement of declaring that "Sir Roger de Coverley was the tamest and most humane of all the brutes in the country." It is scarcely necessary to follow the disconsolate bachelor's relation of his disappointment. The following description, however, of the sheriff riding in state to the assizes will serve, with a little variation of costume, for a picture of the same scene in our own day for who amongst our country readers has not heard the barbarous dis sonance of the sheriff's trumpets, and smiled at the awkward pomp of his mighty javelin-men? : "I came to my estate in my twenty-second year, and resolved to follow the steps of the most worthy of my ancestors who have inhabited this spot of earth before me, in all the methods of hospitality and good neighbourhood, for the sake of my fame; and in country sports and recreations, for the sake of my health. In my twenty-third year I was obliged to serve as sheriff of the county; and in my servants, officers, and whole equipage indulged the pleasure of a young man (who did not think ill of his own person) in taking that public occasion of showing my figure and behaviour to advantage. You may easily imagine to yourself what appearance I made, who am pretty tall, ride well, and was very well dressed, at the head of a whole county, with music before me, a feather in my hat, and my horse well bitted. I can assure you I was not a little pleased with the kind looks and glances I had from all the balconies and windows as I rode to the hall where the assizes were held. But, when I came there, a beautiful creature in a widow's habit sat in the court to hear the event of a cause concerning her dower. This commanding creature (who was born for the destruction of all who beheld her) put on such a resignation in her countenance, and bore the whispers of all around the court with such a pretty uneasiness, I warrant you, and then recovered herself from one eye to another, until she was perfectly confused by meeting something so wistful in all she encountered, that at last, with a murrain to her, she cast her bewitching eye upon me. I no sooner met it but I bowed like a great surprised booby; and knowing her cause to be the first which came on, I cried, like a captivated calf I was, Make way for the defendant's witnesses." This sudden partiality made all the county immediately see the sheriff also was become a slave to the fine widow. During the time her cause was upon trial, she behaved herself, I warrant you, with such a deep attention to her business, took opportunities to have little billets handed to her counsel, then would be in such a pretty confusion, occasioned, you must know, by acting before so much company, that not only I, but the whole court, was prejudiced in her favour; and all that the next heir to her husband had to urge was thought so groundless and frivolous, that when it came to her counsel to reply, there was not half so much said as every one besides in the court thought he could have urged to her advantage.' as In the 115th and 116th numbers of the "Spectator," Sir Roger figures as the lover of country sports-obsolete indeed, to a certain extent, and not such as a fast man of our own day would relish : "After what has been said, I need not inform my readers that Sir Roger, with whose character I hope they are at present pretty well acquainted, has in his youth gone through the whole course of those rural diversions which the country abounds in; and which seem to be extremely well suited to that laborious industry a man. may observe here in a far greater degree than in towns and cities. I have before hinted at some of my friend's exploits: he has in his youthful days taken forty coveys of partridges in a season; and tired many a salmon with a line consisting but of a single hair. The constant thanks and good wishes of the neighbourhood always attended him on account of his remarkable enmity towards foxes; having destroyed more of those vermin in one year than it was thought the whole country could have produced. Indeed the knight does not scruple to own among his most intimate friends, that, in order to establish his reputation this way, he has secretly sent for great numbers of them out of other counties, which he used to turn loose about the country by night, that he might the better signalise himself in their destruction the next day. His hunting-horses were the finest and best managed in all these parts. His tenants are still full of the praises of a gray stone-horse that unhappily staked himself several years since, and was buried with great solemnity in the orchard. "Sir Roger being at present too old for fox-hunting, to keep himself in action, has disposed of his beagles, and got a pack of stop-hounds. What these want in speed, he endeavours to make amends for by the deepness of their mouths and the variety of their notes, which are suited in such a manner to each other, that the whole cry makes up a complete concert. He is so nice in this particular, that a gentleman having made him a present of a very fine hound the other day, the knight returned it by the servant with a great many expressions of civility; but desired him to tell his master that the dog he had sent was indeed a most excel lent bass, but at present he only wanted a counter-tenor. Could |