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And bids him run,

To this kind promise listened content,
And couldn't contain their astonishment,
When Saint Sophia moved and went
Down from her wooden pedestal,
And twisted her legs, sure as eggs is eggs,

Round Hyacinthus's shoulders !
“Ho! forwards,” cries Sophy,“ there's no time for

waiting, The Cossacks are breaking the very last gate in : See the glare of their torches shines red through

the grating; We've still the back door, and two minutes or

more.
Now, boys, now or never, we must make for the

river,
For we only are safe on the opposite shore.
Run swiftly to-day, lads, if ever you ran,-
Put out your best leg, Hyacinthus, my man:
And I 'll lay five to two that you carry us through,

Only scamper as fast as you can.”

He runneth,

XVIII.
Away went the priest through the little back door,
And light on his shoulders the image he bore:

The honest old priest was not punished the least,
Though the image was eight feet, and he measured

four.
Away went the prior, and the monks at his tail
Went snorting, and puffing, and panting full sail ;

And just as the last at the back door had passed,
In furious hunt behold at the front
The Tartars so fierce, with their terrible cheers;
With axes, and halberds, and muskets, and spears,
With torches a-flaming the chapel now came in
They tore up the mass-book, they stamped on the

psalter,
They pulled the gold crucifix down from the altar;

The vestments they burned with their blasphemous

fires,
And many cried “ Curse on them ! where are the

friars ?”
When loaded with plunder, yet seeking for more,
One chanced to fling open the little back door,
Spied out the friars' white robes and long shadows
In the moon, scampering over the meadows,
And stopped the Cossacks in the midst of their

arsons,
By crying out lustily, “ THERE GO THE PARSONS !”
With a whoop and a yell, and a scream and a shout,
At once the whole murderous body turned out;
And swift as the hawk pounces down on the

pigeon,
Pursued the poor short-winded men of religion.

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When the sound of that cheering came to the

monks' hearing, 0 Heaven! how the poor fellows panted and • blew ! At fighting not cunning, unaccustomed to running, When the Tartars came up, what the deuce

should they do ? “ They'll make us all martyrs, those blood-thirsty

Tartars!” · Quoth fat Father Peter to fat Father Hugh. The shouts they came clearer, the foe they drew

nearer; Oh, how the bolts whistled, and how the lights

shone!
“I cannot get further, this running is murther ;
Come carry me, some one!” cried big Father

John.
And even the statue grew frightened, “Od rat you!''

It cried, “ Mr. Prior, I wish you'd get on!”
On tugged the good friar, but nigher and nigher

1 2

And the pursuers fixed arrows into their tayls.

How, at the last gasp,

Appeared the fierce Russians, with sword and with

fire.
On tugged the good prior at Saint Sophy's desire, —
A scramble through bramble, through mud, and

through mire.
The swift arrows' whizziness causing a dizziness,
Nigh done his business, fit to expire.
Father Hyacinth tugged, and the monks they

tugged after :
The foemen pursued with a horrible laughter.
And hurld their long spears round the poor

brethren's ears, So true, that next day in the coats of each priest, Though never a wound was given, there were found

A dozen arrows at least.

Now the chace seemed at its worst,
Prior and monks were fit to burst;
Scarce you knew the which was first,

Or pursuers or pursued ;
When the statue, by Heaven's grace,
Suddenly did change the face
Of this interesting race,

As a saint, sure, only could.
For as the jockey who at Epsom rides,

When that his steed is spent and punished sore,
Diggeth his heels into the courser's sides,
And thereby makes him run one or two furlongs

more;
Even thus, betwixt the eighth rib and the ninth,
The saint rebuked the prior, that weary creeper;

Fresh strength into his limbs her kicks imparted,
One bound he made, as gay as when he started.
Yes, with his brethren clinging at his cloak,
The statue on his shoulders—fit to choke-
One most tremendous bound made Hyacinth,
And soused friars, statue, and all, slap dash into

the Dnieper !

The friars won, and jumped into Borysthenes fluvius.

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And how the
Russians saw

And when the Russians, in a fiery rank,

Panting and fierce, drew up along the shore ;

(For here the vain pursuing they forbore, Nor cared they to surpass the river's bank), Then, looking from the rocks and rushes dank,

A sight they witnessed never seen before, And which, with its accompaniments glorious, Is writ i' the golden book, or liber aureus.

The statue get off Hyacinth his back, and sit down with the friars on Hyacinth his cloak.

Plump in the Dnieper flounced the friar and

friends,-
They dangling round his neck, he fit to choke,

When suddenly his most miraculous cloak
Over the billowy waves itself extends.
Down from his shoulders quietly descends

The venerable Sophy's statue of oak ;
Which, sitting down upon the cloak so ample,
Bids all the brethren follow its example !

How in this manner of boat they sayled away.

Each at her bidding sat, and sat at ease;

The statue 'gan a gracious conversation,

And (waving to the foe a salutation)
Sail'd with her wondering happy protégés
Gaily adown the wide Borysthenes,

Until they came unto some friendly nation.
And when the heathen had at length grown shy of
Their conquest, she one day came back again to

Kioff.

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THINK NOT, O READER, THAT WE'RE LAUGHING

AT YOU;
YOU MAY GO TO KIOFF NOW, AND SEE THE

STATUE !

TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE.

LILLE, Sept. 2, 1843. My heart is weary, my peace is gone,

How shall I e'er my woes reveal ? I have no money, I lie in pawn,

A stranger in the town of Lille.

With twenty pounds but three weeks since

From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel, I thought myself as rich a prince

As beggar poor I'm now at Lille.

Confiding in my ample means

In troth, I was a happy chiel !
I passed the gates of Valenciennes,

I never thought to come by Lille.

I never thought my twenty pounds

Some rascal knave would dare to steal; I gaily passed the Belgic bounds

At Quiévrain, twenty miles from Lille.

To Antwerp town I hasten’d post,

And as I took my evening meal
I felt my pouch,-my purse was lost,

O Heaven! Why came I not by Lille ?

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