i

Fool! idiot! old Beelzebub grinn'd as he spoke,
And stampt on the scaffold in ire.

The painter grew pale, for it knew it no joke,
'Twas a terrible height, and the scaffolding broke,
The devil could wish it no higher.

Help-help me! O Mary! he cried in alarm,
As the scaffold sunk under his feet.

From the canvas the Virgin extended her arm,
She caught the good painter, she saved him from harm,
There were hundreds who saw in the street.

The old dragon fled when the wonder he spied,
And cursed his own fruitless endeavour.
While the painter call'd after his rage to deride,
Shook his pallet and brushes in triumph and cried,
I'll paint thee more ugly than ever!

PART THE SECOND.

The painter so pious all praise had acquired,
For defying the malice of hell;

The monks the unerring resemblance admired:
Not a lady lived near but her portrait desired
From one who succeeded so well.

One there was to be painted the number among
Of features most fair to behold;

The country around of fair Marguerite rung,
Marguerite she was lovely, and lively, and young,
Her husband was ugly and old.

O painter, avoid her! O painter, take care!
For Satan is watchful for you!

Take heed lest you fall in the Wicked One's snare,
The net is made ready, O painter, beware
Of Satan and Marguerite too.

She seats herself now, now she lifts

up

her head

On the artist she fixes her eyes;
The colours are ready, the canvas is spread,
He lays on the white, and he lays on the red,
And the features of beauty arise.

He is come to her eyes, eyes so bright and so blue!
There's a look that he cannot express;-
His colours are dull to their quick-sparkling hue,
More and more on the lady he fixes his view,
On the canvas he looks less and less.

In vain he retouches, her eyes sparkle more,
And that look that fair Marguerite gave!
Many devils the artist had painted of yore,
But he never attempted an angel before-
St. Anthony help him and save!

He yielded, alas! for the truth must be told,
To the woman, the tempter, and fate.
It was settled the lady so fair to behold,
Should elope from her husband so ugly and old,
With the painter so pious of late!

Now Satan exults in his vengeance complete,
To the husband he makes the scheme known;
Night comes, and the lovers impatiently meet,
Together they fly, they are seized in the street,
And in prison the painter is thrown.

With repentance, his only companion, he lies,
And a dismal companion is she!

On a sudden he saw the old serpent arise,
Now you
villanous dauber! old Beelzebub cries,
You are paid for your insults to me!

But my tender heart it is easy to move,

If to what I propose you agree;

That picture,-be just! the resemblance improve, Make a handsomer portrait, your chains I'll remove, And you shall this instant be free.

Overjoyed, the conditions so easy he hears,
I'll make you quite handsome! he said,
He said, and his chain on the devil appears,
Released from his prison, released from his fears,
The painter is snug in his bed.

At morn he arises, composes his look,
And proceeds to his work as before;
The people beheld him, the culprit they took,
They thought that the painter his prison had broke
And to prison they led him once more.

They open the dungeon, behold in his place,
In the corner old Beelzebub lay.

He smirks and he smiles, and he leers with a grace,
That the painter might catch all the charms of his face,
Then vanished in lightning away.

Quoth the painter, I trust you'll suspect me no more,
Since you find my assertions were true.
But I'll alter the picture above the church door,
For I never saw Satan so closely before,
And I must give the devil his due.

ST. JUAN GUALBERTO.

I.

THE work is done, the fabric is complete;
Distinct the traveller sees its distant tower,
Yet ere his steps attain the sacred seat,

Must toil for many a league and many an hour.
Elate the abbot sees the pile and knows
Stateliest of convents now, his new Moscera rose.

II.

Long were the tale that told Moscera's pride,
Its columns' clustered strength and lofty state,
How many a saint bedeck'd its sculptured side,
What intersecting arches graced its gate;
Its tower how high, its massy walls how strong,
These fairly to describe were sure a tedious song.

III.

Yet while the fane rose slowly from the ground,
But little store of charity, I ween,
The passing pilgrim at Moscera found;

And often there the mendicant was seen
Hopeless to turn him from the convent door,
For this so costly work still kept the brethren poor,

IV.

Now all is perfect, and from every side
They flock to view the fabric, young and old.
Who now can tell Rodulfo's secret pride,

When on the sabbath day his eyes behold
The multitudes that crowd his chapel floor,
Some sure to serve their God, to see Moscera more.

V.

So chanced it that Gualberto pass'd that way,
Since sainted for a life of holy deeds;
He paused the new-rear'd convent to survey,
And, whilst o'er all its bulk his eye proceeds,
Sorrows, as one whose holier feelings deem
That ill so proud a pile did humble monks beseem.

VI.

Him, musing as he stood, Rodulfo saw, And forth he came to greet the holy guest For he was known as one who held the law Of Benedict, and each severe behest So duly kept with such religious care, That Heaven had oft vouchsafed its wonders to his prayer.

VII.

"Good brother, welcome!" thus Rodulfo cries, "In sooth it glads me to behold you here; It is Gualberto! and mine aged eyes

Did not deceive me: yet full many a year Has slipt away since last you bade farewell To me your host and my uncomfortable cell.

VIII.

""Twas but a sorry welcome then you found, And such as suited ill a guest so dear; The pile was ruinous old, the base unsound, It glads me more to bid you welcome here That you can call to mind our former stateCome, brother, pass with me the new Moscera's gate."

IX.

So spake the cheerful abbot, but no smile
Of answering joy softened Gualberto's brow;
He raised his hand, and pointed to the pile,
"Moscera better pleased me then, than now!
A palace this, befitting kingly pride!

Will holiness, my friend, in palace pomp abide ?"

X.

"Ay," cries Rodulfo, "'tis a goodly place!
And pomp becomes the house of worship well.
Nay, scowl not round with so severe a face!

When earthly kings in seats of grandeur dwell, Where art exhausted decks the sumptuous hall, Can poor and sordid huts beseem the Lord of all ?"

XI.

66 And ye have rear'd these stately towers on high To serve your God ?" the monk severe replied. "It rose from zeal and earnest piety,

And prompted by no worldly thoughts beside ?
Abbot, to him who
In humble hermit cell, God will incline his ear.
prays with soul sincere

XII.

"Rodulfo! whilst this haughty building rose, Still was the pilgrim welcome at your door? Did charity relieve the orphans' woes?

Clothed ye the naked ? did ye feed the poor? He who with alms most succours the distrest, Proud abbot, know, he serves his heavenly Father best.

XII.

"Did they in sumptuous palaces go dwell Who first abandoned all to serve the Lord? Their place of worship was the desert cell, Wild fruits and berries spread their frugal board, And if a brook, like this, ran murmuring by, They blest their gracious God, and thought it luxury."