When the bold barons met in my father's old hall,
Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball?
In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride,

Was there ever a smile save with THEE at my side?
Alone in my turret I loved to sit best,

To blazon your BANNER and broider your crest.

The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay !
Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-melée.

In the dire battle-hour, when the tourney was done,
And you gave to another the wreath you had won!
Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast,
As I thought of that BATTLE-AXE, ah! and that crest!

But
away with remembrance, no more will I pine
That others usurped for a time what was mine!
There's a FESTIVAL HOUR for my Ulric and me;
Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee;
Once more by the side of the knight I love best
Shall I blazon his BANNER and broider his crest.

THE ALMACK'S ADIEU.

YOUR Fanny was never false-hearted,
And this she protests and she vows,
From the triste moment when we parted

On the staircase of Devonshire House!
I blushed when you asked me to marry,
I vowed I would never forget;
And at parting I gave my dear Harry
A beautiful vinegarette !

We spent en province all December,
And I ne'er condescended to look

At Sir Charles, or the rich county member,
Or even at that darling old Duke.

You were busy with dogs and with horses, Alone in my chamber I sat,

the nicest of purses,

And the smartest black satin cravat!

At night with that vile Lady Frances
(Je faisois moi tapisserie)

You danced every one of the dances,
And never once thought of poor me!
Mon

pauvre petit cœur ! what a shiver

I felt as she danced the last set,

And you gave, oh, mon Dieu! to revive her My beautiful vinegarette!

Return, love! away with coquetting;
This flirting disgraces a man!
And ah! all the while you're forgetting
The heart of your poor little Fan!
Reviens! break away from those Circes,
Reviens, for a nice little chat;

And I've made you the sweetest of purses,
And a lovely black satin cravat!

THE LEGEND OF ST. SOPHIA OF KIOFF.

AN EPIC POEM, IN TWENTY BOOKS.

The Poet describes the city and spelling of Kiow, Kioff,

or Kiova.

A THOUSAND years ago, or more,
A city filled with burghers stout,
And girt with ramparts round about,
Stood on the rocky Dnieper shore.
In armour bright, by day and night,

The sentries they paced to and fro.
Well guarded and walled was this town, and called
By different names, I'd have you to know;
For if you looks in the g'ography books,
In those dictionaries the name it varies

And they write it off Kieff or Kioff,

Its Luildings, public works, and ordinances, religious and civil.

Thus guarded without by wall and redoubt,
Kiova within was a place of renown,

With more advantages than in those dark ages

Were commonly known to belong to a town. There were places and squares, and each year four fairs,

And regular aldermen and regular lord mayors;

And streets, and alleys, and a bishop's palace;

And a church with clocks for the orthodox-
With clocks and with spires, as religion desires;
And beadles to whip the bad little boys

Over their poor little corduroys,

In service-time, when they didn't make a noise;
And a chapter and dean, and a cathedral-green
With ancient trees, underneath whose shades
Wandered nice young nursery-maids.
Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-ding-a-ring-ding,
The bells they made a merry, merry ring,
From the tall tall steeple; and all the people
(Except the Jews) came and filled the

Poles, Russians and Germans,

To hear the sermons

pews

Which HYACINTH preached to those Germans and

Poles,

For the safety of their souls.

III.

A worthy priest he was and a stout—
You've seldom looked on such a one;
For, though he fasted thrice in a week,
Yet nevertheless his skin was sleek;
His waist it spanned two yards about
And he weighed a score of stone.

81

The poet shows how a certain priest dwelt at Kioff, a godly clergyman, and one that preached rare good sermons.

How this priest was short, and fat of body;

IV.

A worthy priest for fasting and prayer
And mortification most deserving,
And as for preaching beyond compare ;
He'd exert his powers for three or four hours,
With greater pith than Sidney Smith

Or the Reverend Edward Irving.

And like unto the author of "Plymley's Letters.

V.

He was the prior of Saint Sophia

(A Cockney rhyme, but no better I know)—

Of what convent he was prior, and when the

convent was built.

Of St. Sophia, that Church in Kiow,

Built by missionaries I can't tell when;

Who by their discussions converted the Russians,
And made them Christian men.

Of Saint Sophia,
of Kioff; and
how her statue
miraculously
travelled
thither.

And how Kioff should have been a happy city; but that

VI.

Sainted Sophia (so the legend vows)
With special favor did regard this house;

And to uphold her converts' new devotion,
Her statue needing but her legs for her ship)
Walks of itself across the German ocean;
And of a sudden perches

In this the best of churches,

Whither all Kiovites come and pay it grateful worship.

VII.

Thus with her patron-saints and pious preachers
Recorded here in catalogue precise,

A goodly city, worthy magistrates,

You would have thought in all the Russian states
The citizens the happiest of all creatures,—

The town itself a perfect Paradise.

Certain wicked Cossacks did besiege it,

VIII.

No, alas! this well-built city
Was in a perpetual fidget;
For the Tartars, without pity,
Did remorselessly besiege it.

Tartars fierce, with sword and sabres,
Huns and Turks, and such as these,
Envied much their peaceful neighbours
By the blue Borysthenes.