He the bland canaster puffing,
As upon his round he paces,
Sudden sees a ragamuffin

Clambering swiftly up the glacis.

Who goes there?" exclaims the sentry;
"When the sun has once gone down
No one ever makes an entry

Into this here fortified town!"

Shouted thus the watchful Sneezoff;

But, ere any one replied,

Wretched youth! he fired his piece off,
Started, staggered, groaned, and died!

How the sentrie Sneezoff was surprised and slayn.

XV.

Ah, full well might the sentinel cry, "Who goes

there ?"

But echo was frightened too much to declare.
there? who goes there? Can any one

Who

goes

swear

To the number of sands sur les bords de la mer,
Or the whiskers of D'Orsay Count down to a hair?
As well might you tell of the sands the amount,
Or number each hair in each curl of the Count,
As ever proclaim the number and name

Of the hundreds and thousands that up the wall
came!

Down, down the knaves poured with fire and with

sword:

There were thieves from the Danube and rogues

from the Don;

There were Turks and Wallacks, and shouting

Cossacks;

Of all nations and regions, and tongues and reli

gions

Jew, Christian, Idolater, Frank, Mussulman:

How the Cossacks rushed in suddenly and took the citie.

Of the Cossack troops,

And of their manner of

burning, murdering, and ravishing.

How they burned the whole citie

down, save the church,

Whereof the bells began to ring.

Ah, a horrible sight was Kioff that night!

The gates were all taken-no chance e'en of flight;
And with torch and with axe the bloody Cossacks
Went hither and thither a-hunting in packs:

They slashed and they slew both Christian and
Jew-

Women and children, they slaughtered them too.
Some, saving their throats, plunged into the moats,
Or the river-but, oh, they had burned all the
boats!

*

But here let us pause-for I can't pursue further
This scene of rack, ravishment, ruin, and murther.
Too well did the cunning old Cossack succeed!
His plan of attack was successful indeed!
The night was his own-the town it was gone;
'Twas a heap still a-burning of timber and stone.
One building alone had escaped from the fires,
Saint Sophy's fair church, with its steeples and
spires.

Calm, stately, and white,

It stood in the light;

And as if 'twould defy all the conqueror's power,-
As if nought had occurred,

Might clearly be heard.

The chimes ringing soberly every half-hour!

XVI.

How the Cossack chief bade them burn the church too.

The city was defunct-silence succeeded
Unto its last fierce agonising yells;
And then it was the conqueror first heeded
The sound of these calm bells.

Furious towards his aides-de-camps he turns,

And (speaking as if Byron's works he knew) "Villains!" he fiercely cries, "the city burns, Why not the temple too?

Burn me yon church, and murder all within!"
The Cossacks thundered at the outer door;
And Father Hyacinth, who heard the din
(And thought himself and brethren in distress,
Deserted by their lady patroness)

Did to her statue turn, and thus his woes out-
pour.

How they stormed it; and of Hyacinth, his anger thereat.

XVII.

"And is it thus, O falsest of the saints,
Thou hearest our complaints?

Tell me, did ever my attachment falter
To serve thy altar ?

Was not thy name, ere ever I did sleep,
The last upon my lip?

Was not thy name the very first that broke
From me when I awoke ?

Have I not tried with fasting, flogging, penance,
And mortified counténance

For to find favor, Sophy, in thy sight?
And lo! this night,

Forgetful of my prayers, and thine own promise,
Thou turnest from us;

Lettest the heathen enter in our city,

And, without pity,

Murder our burghers, seize upon their

Burn down their houses!

spouses,

Is such a breach of faith to be endured?

See what a lurid

Light from the insolent invader's torches
Shines on your porches !

E'en now, with thundering battering-ram and
hammer

And hideous clamour;

With axemen, swordsmen, pikemen, billmen, bow

men,

The conquering foemen,

His prayer to the Saint Sophia.

The statue suddenlie speaks;

But is interrupted by the breaking in of the Cossacks.

O Sophy! beat your gate about your ears,
Alas! and here's

A humble company of pious men,

Like muttons in a pen,

Whose souls shall quickly from their bodies be thrusted,

Because in you they trusted.

Do you not know the Calmuc chief's desires-
KILL ALL THE FRIARS!

And

you of all the saints most false and fickle,
Leave us in this abominable pickle.

"RASH HYACINTHUS!"

(Here, to the astonishment of all her backers, Saint Sophy, opening wide her wooden jaws, Like to a pair of German walnut-crackers, Began) "I did not think that you had been thus,— O monk of little faith! Is it because

A rascal scum of filthy Cossack heathen

Besiege our town, that you distrust in me, then?
Think'st thou that I, who in a former day
Did walk across the Sea of Marmora
(Not mentioning, for shortness, other seas),-
That I, who skimmed the broad Borysthenes,
Without so much as wetting of my toes,
Am frightened at a set of men like those?
I have a mind to leave you to your fate:
Such cowardice as this my scorn inspires."

Saint Sophy was here

Cut short in her words,

For at this very moment in tumbled the gate,

And with a wild cheer,

And a clashing of swords,

Swift through the church porches,

With a waving of torches,

And a shriek, and a yell,

Like the devils of hell,

With pike and with axe

In rushed the Cossacks,

In rushed the Cossacks, crying, "MURDER THE
FRIARS!"

Ah! what a thrill felt Hyacinth,

When he heard that villanous shout Calmuc!

Now, thought he, my trial beginneth;

Saints, O give me courage and pluck! "Courage, boys, 'tis useless to funk!" Thus unto the friars he began, "Never let it be said that a monk

Is not likewise a gentleman.

Though the patron saint of the church,

Spite of all that we've done and we've pray'd,
Leaves us wickedly here in the lurch,
Hang it, gentlemen, who's afraid ? "

As thus the gallant Hyacinthus spoke,

He with an air as easy and as free as
If the quick-coming murder were a joke,
Folded his robes around his sides, and took
Place under sainted Sophy's legs of oak,

Like Cæsar at the statue of Pompeius.
The monks no leisure had about to look
(Each being absorbed in his particular case),
Else had they seen with what celestial grace,
A wooden smile stole o'er the saint's mahogany face.

"Well done, well done, Hyacinthus, my son!" Thus spoke the sainted statue.

"Though you doubted me in the hour of need,
And spoke of me very rude indeed,

You deserve good luck for showing such pluck,
And I wont be angry at you."

The monks by-standing, one and all,
Of this wondrous scene beholders,

VOL. I.

H

Of Hyacinth, his outrageous address,

And preparation for dying.

Saint Sophia, her speech.

She gets on the prio's shoulder straddleback,