Preeminent. He, nerving his young frame
With manly exercise, had scaled the cliff,
And dashing in the torrent's foaming flood,
Stemm'd with broad breast its fury; so his form,
Sinewy and firm, and fit for loftiest deeds,
Tower'd high amid the throng effeminate;
No dainty bath had from his hardy limbs
Effaced the hauberk's * honourable marks;

His helmet bore of hostile steel the dints

Many and deep; upon his pictur'd shield
A Lion vainly struggled in the toils,
Whilst by his side the cub with pious rage,
His

young mane floating to the desart air, Rends the fallen huntsman. Tremouille him behind,

Afin d'empêcher les impressions que ce treillis de fer devait laisser sur la peau, ou avait soin de se matelasser en dessous. Malgré ces precautions cependant il en laissait encore ; ces marques s'appellaient camois, et on les faisait disparaître par le bain.

Le Grand

The worthless favourite of the slothful Prince,
Stalk'd arrogant, in shining armour clasp'd,
Emboss'd with gold and gems of richest hue,
Gaudily graceful, by no hostile blade
Defaced, and rusted by no hostile blood;
Trimly-accoutred court habiliments,
Gay lady-dazzling armour, fit to adorn
In dangerless manæuvres some review,
The mockery of murder! follow'd him
The train of courtiers, summer-flies that sport
In the sun-beam of favour, insects sprung
From the court dungbill, greedy blood-suckers,
The foul corruption-gender'd swarm of state.

As o'er some flowery field the busy bees Pour their deep music, pleasant melody To the tired traveller, under some old oak Stretch'd in the checquer'd shade; or as the sound Of many waters down the far-off steep Dash'd with loud uproar, rose the murmur round

Of admiration. Every gazing eye

Dwelt on the mission'd Maid ; of all beside,
The long procession and the gorgeous train,
Tho' glittering they with gold and sparkling gems,
And their rich plumes high waving to the air,
Heedless.

The consecrated dome they reach,
Reard to St. Catharine's holy memory.
Her tale the altar told; when Maximin,
His rais'd lip kindled with a savage smile,
In such deep fury bade the tenter'd wheel
Tear her life piecemeal, that the very face
Of the hard executioner relax'd
With horrour ; calm she heard, no drop of blood
Forsook her cheek, her steady eye was turn'd
Heaven-ward, and Hope and meekest Piety
Beam'd in that patient look. Nor vain her trust,
For lo! the Angel of the Lord descends
And crumbles with his fiery touch the wheel !
One glance of holy triumph Catharine cast,

Then bow'd her to the sword of * martyrdoni.

Her eye averting from the storied woe, The delegated damsel knelt and pour'd To Heaven the earnest prayer.

* Such is the legend of St. Catharine, Princess of Alexandria, whose story has been pictured upon sign-posts and in churches, but whose memory will be preserved longer by the ale-house than by the altar. The most extravagant perhaps of Dryden's Plays is upon this subject. In my former edition I had, ignorantly, represented Catharine as dying upon the wheel, and the description of her sufferings was too painfully minute. Dryden has committed the last fault in a far greater degree ; the old Martyrologies particularize no cruelties more revolting to the reader than he has detailed in the speech of Maximin when he orders her to execution.

From a passage in the Jerusalen Conquistada it should seem that St. Catharine was miraculously betrothed to her heavenly spouse.

As the Crusaders approach Jerusalem, they visit the holy places on

the way,

Qual visita el lugar con llanto tierno,

Donde la hermosa virgen Caterina
Se desposo con el Esposo eterno,

La Angelica Rachel siendo madrina;

A trophied tomb Close to the altar rear'd its ancient bulk. Two pointless javelins and a broken sword, Time-mouldering now, proclaim'd some warrior slept The sleep of death beneath. A massy stone

Aquel Esposo, que el nevado invierno

Se cubrio con escarcha matutina,
El que tiene los ojos de palomas
Y del labio de lirio vierte aromas.

Lope de Vega. The marginal note adds La Virgen fue Madrina en los desporios de Caterina y Christo.

Of St. Margaret, the other favourite Saint of the Maid, I find recorded by Bergomensis, that she called the Pagan Præfect an impudent dog, that she was thrown into a dungeon, where a horrible dragon swallowed her, that she crossed herself, upon which the dragon immediately burst and she came out safe, and that she saw the Devil standing in the corner like a black man, and seized him and threw him down.

Absurd as this legend is, it once occasioned a very extraordinary murder. A young Lombard after hearing it, prayed so earnestly for an opportunity of fighting with the Devil like St. Margaret, that he went into the fields in full expectation