Now the Painter was bold, and religious beside, So carefully he the grim countenance eyed, Betimes in the morning the Painter arose, He is ready as soon as 'tis light. Every look, every line, every feature, he knows, 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, The Painter grew pale, for he knew it no joke, "Help-help me! O Mary!" he cried in alarm, From the canvas the Virgin extended her arm, The Old Dragon fled when the wonder he spied, PART II. The Painter so pious all praise had acquired The monks the unerring resemblance admired; One there was to be painted the number among The country around of fair Marguerite rung, O Painter, avoid her! O Painter, take care! Take heed lest you fall in the Wicked One's snare, She seats herself now, now she lifts up her head, The colours are ready, the canvas is spread, He is come to her eyes, eyes so bright and so blue! In vain he retouches, her eyes sparkle more, He yielded, alas! for the truth must be told, 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, On a sudden he saw the Old Serpent arise, "But my tender heart you may easily move That picture-be just! the resemblance improve, Overjoy'd, the conditions so easy he hears, At morn he arises, composes his look, And proceeds to his work as before; The people beheld him, the culprit they took; 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, But I'll alter the picture above the church door, And I must give the Devil his due." ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S DAY. The night is come, no fears disturb They trust in kingly faith and kingly oaths, Go to the palace, wouldst thou know Eye is not closed in those accursed walls, The monarch from the window leans, He listens to the night, And with a horrible and eager hope Oh he has hell within him now! For innocence can never know such pangs He looks abroad, and all is still. Hark!—now the midnight bell Sounds through the silence of the night alone- Thy hand is on him, righteous God! He hears the glorying yells of massacre, He hears the murderer's savage shout, In vain they fly-soldiers defenceless now, Righteous and just art thou, O God! Those shrieks and groans re-echoed in his ear, They throng'd around his midnight couch, It prey'd like poison on his powers of life!- Spirits! who suffer'd at that hour 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, 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, MOTHER. Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear CHILD. O, mother, lay your costly robes aside, For you may never be another's bride. MOTHER. I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue, CHILD. One father fondled me upon his knee. THE SABBATH BELLS. The cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard, |