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Young Roger de Tracy, and Ralph Bornaville,
The moon she shone mildly, the stars twinkled bright,
“Ho! ho !” cried young Roger, “ a night such as this,
Then loud laugh'd his comrades, and shouted assent, “Let us to the green;" but now, as they went, The holy monk Francis besought them to stay ; “Oh! sin not,” he cried, “oh ! think on the dayOh! think that God hallowed this day out of sevenOh! think that to pleasure six days hath he given !”
Away with thy priestcraft,” cried Roger, with scorn, “We will dance, we will jest, we will revel till morn! Nay, to punish thy pride, and throw shame on thy face, Instead of the green, we will dance in this place ! Over the grave-stones, and over the dead !” “ Ay, ay,” all his revelling company said.
All but one; and he was the young Amourduille ; The rest of the band could not hear-could not feel. “Dear Matilda,” cried he, "oh ! quit, love, this place! But she jeer'd at his fears, and laugh'd in his face, “Go, coward,” she said, “go, pray if you will, Give me dance, and high revel, the sun-beams until.”
And now each brave youth has a fair partner led,
Ay,-dance on for ever, for ever, for aye !"
Then revell’d they on, and the moon she shone bright,
Still they danc'd,--still they danc’d, but now nothing
said ! As they rush'd over the grave-stones, and over the dead. No laughter's now heard, no revel, no jeer, They seem'd not to see, or to feel, or to hear ! The maidens look'd pale, and no cheek there was red, As they flew o'er the grave-stones, 'and over the dead.
The morning-blush now, had just dappled the sky,
pray, some lament, some weep, and some kneel, When rush'd from the village the young Amourduille.
"Matilda! Matilda, oh! stop thee,” he cried ;
Amourduille rush'd--the band soon came
Then vanish'd the band, though that night every year
New Monthly Magazine.
The entire merit of the following jeu d'esprit, consists in the original thought which suggested it. Throughout the whole, there is no variation in the thought, but the contrast of the name and character is so happily imagined, that it deserves a place in this selection. The versification is smooth, and the manner possesses the curiosa felicitas of genius.-ED.
Men once were surnamed from their shape or estate,
(You all may from history worm it,) There was Lewis the Bulky, and Henry the Great,
John Lackland, and Peter the Hermit. But now, when the door-plates of misters and dames
Are read, each so constantly varies From the owner's trade, figure, and calling, surnames,
Seem given by the rule of contraries.
Mr. Box, though provoked, never doubles his fist,
Mr. Burns in his grate has no fuel,
Mr. Coward was winged in a duel.
Mr. Coffin's uncommonly sprightly,
While driving fat Mrs. Golightly,
Mrs. Angel's an absolute fury,
Tweak his nose in the lobby of Drury.
At Bath, where the feeble go more than the stout,
(A conduct well worthy of Nero,) Over poor Mr. Lightfoot, confined with the gout,
Mr. Heaviside danced a Bolero. Miss Joy, wretched maid, when she chose Mr. Love,
Found nothing but sorrow await her:
That fondest of mates Mr. Hayter.
Miss Sage is of madcaps the archest;
Old Mr. Younghusband's the starchest.
Mr. Stone like an aspen-leaf shivers,
Ever since she became Mrs. Rivers.
He moves as though cords had entwin'd him; Mr. Metcalfe ran off, upon meeting a cow,
With pale Mr. Turnbull behind him. Mr. Barker's as mute as a fish in the sea,
Mr. Miles never moves on a journey, Mr. Gotobed sits up till half-after-three,
Mr. Makepeace was bred an attorney.
Mr. Wild with timidity draws back,
Mr. Foot all his journeys on horseback.
Kick'd down all the fortune his dad won ; Large Mr. Le Fever's the picture of health,
Mr. Goodenough is but a bad one.