A LEGEND OF CHARITY. BY THE SAME. "WHO calls?"- "A stranger, passing by, Benighted, weary, and astray; He asks relief for charity, And shelter till return of day." "What help, in such a woeful shed, "Forlorn and fainting, here I lie ; A fellow-creature's claim I make : Permit me not for want to die, But help! some help, for mercy's sake!" "Hold on your way, and you shall find "Must I then perish at thy door?" "Not so-the rich man's board is spread. Alas! he spurneth hence the poor, And I have but one crust of bread; "Of barley bread, full coarse and stale; My children's breakfast that, and mine: Cheese I have none, nor beer, nor ale, Nor bacon-hock, nor flesh of kine." "One crust is all that I require, For dainty cates are not my due;· 'Tis cold and wet;-a little fire Permit, and saints shall comfort you." "May woe betide the churlish wight, Whose ruthless heart no pity knows! I will arise, the fire I'll light; Come in, for chill the north gale blows. "See here; 't is all the bread I've got." "Enough! enough! I ask no more : Hereafter be thy labours less; May favouring saints increase thy store!" "Holy Saint Thomas,-is it true! The scraps of bread both stale and small, Have loaves become, full large and new; The pitcher foams with mantling ale! "The fire, too, blazes high and free, Yet small of wood is its supply; 66 Inquire no further — where I dwell, Nor who I am. For thee to know Let it suffice, thou hast done well, And I my blessing will bestow. - “Good health shall make thy labours light, And plenty at thy board attend; Stern death shall not thy soul affright, For CHARITY shall thee befriend." ST. JOHN'S EVE IN PALESTINE:* A Legend of the Crusades IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY. I CANNOT tell ye, in sooth, from where I should say, she was damsel of high degree. "Rise up, Sir Guy! arise at my call,- "Alas!" quoth Sir Guy, " thou fair lady, "O, fear not for me, thou gentle knight ! From the chains of the haughty Sarrazin." * From a very ingenious and beautiful work, entitled "London in the Olden Time." Second Series. 1827. Sore mourned Sir Guy, as that maiden went,- 'Tis the mystic eve of Saint John, I ween,- And a golden cross on her breast she weareth,- For spirits and demons are flitting about, For she who shall first dip her hand in the stream, I would ye had seen how that maiden stood, The hour's at hand,-the moon's at her height,- There is shriek-there is shout-there is death-like cry: Joy to thee, maiden! the spell is won Shall gleam o'er the mountains; the water thou holdest Joy to thee, maiden! — look not behind; Heed not the shouts that are borne on the wind; Mount yon goblin-steed,- he dareth not harm thee ; The steed flieth swiftly the bolts of the keep Sir Guy springeth forth; — his chains have unbound, And onward, and onward - ay! onward they fly, Haste, haste ye! speed on, while the moon is yet bright; Still, still grasp the chalice! nor heed the fierce rout The gale of the morning breathes fresh and chill; O, joy to thee, maiden! look up and see, And, joy to thee, maiden! look down and behold Yes, joy to thee, maiden! thy task is done; |