Now the Painter was bold, and religious beside,
And on faith he had certain reliance,

So carefully he the grim countenance eyed,
And thank'd him for sitting with Catholic pride,
And sturdily bade him defiance.

Betimes in the morning the Painter arose,

He is ready as soon as 'tis light.

Every look, every line, every feature, he knows,
'Tis fresh in his eye, to his labour he goes,
And he has the old Wicked One quite.

Happy man! he is sure the resemblance can't fail;

The tip of the nose is red-hot,

There's his grin and his fangs, his skin cover'd with scale, And that the identical curl of his tail

Not a mark, not a claw, is forgot.

He looks and retouches again with delight; "Tis a portrait complete to his mind!

He touches again, and again gluts his sight;

He looks round for applause, and he sees with affright The original standing behind.

"Fool! idiot!" old Beelzebub grinn'd as he spoke,
And stamp'd on the scaffold in ire;

The Painter grew pale, for he 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 palette and brushes in triumph, and cried,
"I'll paint thee more ugly than ever!"

PART II.

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 which 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 which fair Marguerite gave!
Many Devils the Artist had painted of yore,
But he never had tried a live 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!" Sir Beelzebub cries,
"You are paid for your insults to me.

"But my tender heart you may easily 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."

Overjoy'd, 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 vanish'd 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. BARTHOLOMEW'S DAY.

The night is come, no fears disturb
The dreams of innocence;

They trust in kingly faith and kingly oaths,
They sleep-alas! they sleep!

Go to the palace, wouldst thou know
How hideous night can be;

Eye is not closed in those accursed walls,
Nor heart at quiet there.

The monarch from the window leans,

He listens to the night,

And with a horrible and eager hope
Awaits the midnight bell.

Oh he has hell within him now!
God, always art thou just!

For innocence can never know such pangs
As pierce successful guilt.

He looks abroad, and all is still.

Hark!—now the midnight bell

Sounds through the silence of the night alone-
And now the signal-gun!

Thy hand is on him, righteous God!
He hears the frantic shriek,

He hears the glorying yells of massacre,
And he repents too late.

He hears the murderer's savage shout,
He hears the groan of death;

In vain they fly-soldiers defenceless now,
Women, old men, and babes.

Righteous and just art thou, O God!
For at his dying hour

Those shrieks and groans re-echoed in his ear,
He heard that murderous yell!

They throng'd around his midnight couch,
The phantoms of the slain!-

It prey'd like poison on his powers of life!-
Righteous art thou, O God!

Spirits! who suffer'd at that hour
For freedom and for faith,

Ye saw your country bent beneath the yoke,

Her faith and freedom crush'd!

And like a giant from his sleep

Ye saw when France awoke;

Ye saw the people burst their double chain,
And ye had joy in Heaven!

ALTHOUGH the poetry of Lamb is greatly above mediocrity, he is better known by a beautiful collection of sketches, under the signature of Elia, his Tales from Shakspeare, and other prose works, teeming with profound philosophy and criticism expressed in the happiest diction. He was born in London, on the 10th of February, 1775, and was educated in Christ's Hospital, after which he received a small appointment in the India House, where he rose by regular gradation during thirty years of service, when he was pensioned off with a comfortable annuity. During this long period, however, his heart was in literature, and he published numerous essays, tales, and dissertations, and associated with several of the most distinguished authors of the day. He died on the 27th of December, 1834.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD.

CHILD.

"O lady, lay your costly robes aside,
No longer may you glory in your pride."

MOTHER.

Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear
Sad songs, were made so long ago, my dear;
This day I am to be a bride, you know-
Why sing sad songs, were made so long ago?

CHILD.

O, mother, lay your costly robes aside,

For you may never be another's bride.
That line I learn'd not in the old sad song.

MOTHER.

I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue,
Play with the bride-maids, and be glad, my boy,
For thou shalt be a second father's joy.

CHILD.

One father fondled me upon his knee.
One father is enough, alone, for me.

THE SABBATH BELLS.

The cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard,
Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice
Of one who from the far-off hills proclaims
Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when
Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear
Of the contemplant, solitary man,