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; And still shall live e'en when this heart is dead! J. C. BENTLEY. SPECIMENS OF MODERN GERMAN POETS. TRANSLATED BY MARY HOWITT. HEINRICH HEINE. WE sate by the fisher's dwelling, Forth from the lofty lighthouse And in the farthest distance We spoke of storm and shipwreck; 'Twixt joy and fear each day. We took a world-wide range, And manners new and strange. Of the fragrant, glittering Ganges, Of Lapland's filthy people, Flat-headed, wide-mouthed, we spake : 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- That St. Patrick, at least, has got one of his own In a tight little Island' that stands in a Lake Called Lough-dearg'-that's 'The Red Lake,' unless I mis take, In Fermanagh or Antrim-or Donegal—which 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,- But no matter-lay The locale where you may ; -And where it is no one exactly can say― 'Entertainment's' there worse Both for 'Man and for Horse ;'- They use Lord Mayor's coals; Then the sulphur's inferior, and boils up much slower Mere sloe-leaves to Souchong ; The 'prokers' are not half so hot, or so long, The Vipers and Snakes are less sharp in the tooth, Made for what's called by Cockneys a' Minor The-atre.' Than the House,' that's so much better lighted and warmer, 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 Most miraculous keys Not only the Pope, but his clargy,' with ease Had brought matters about, If the little old woman would but have spoke out,' Or passes which clear both the great gates and wickets; Or short turn on the Mill, And with no worse a singeing, to purge her iniquity, 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, And the consequence was, when the last mortal throe 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 "Faint Heart ne'er won fair Lady," then how win a saint ;- One can but apply; 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, And scarce would allow her to make her case clear, He applied his great toe with some force au derrière, 'Alas! poor Ghost!' It's a doubt which is most To be pitied-one doom'd to fry, broil, boil, and roast,- To be all abroad' to be stump'd'-not to know where As not to be 'placed,' 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— That the Hare whom the hounds and the huntsmen pursue,' 'Returns back again to the place whence she flew,' When only conceive her dismay and surprise, As a Ghost how she open'd her cold stony eyes, When there, on the spot where she'd hid her 'supplies,'- 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 ! 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. |