It was the English, Kaspar cried,
Who put the French to rout;
But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out.

But every body said, quoth he,
That 'twas a famous victory.

My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground
And he was forc'd to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then,

And new-born infant died.

But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won,
For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that you know must be

After a famous victory.

Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene.
Why 'twas a very wicked thing!
Said little Wilhelmine.

Nay.. nay.. my little girl, quoth he,

It was a famous victory.

And every body praised the Duke
Who such a fight did win.
But what good came of it at last?
Quoth little Peterkin.

Why that I cannot tell, said he,
But 'twas a famous victory.

St. GUALBERTO.

Addressed to a FRIEND.

The work is done, the fabric is compleat; 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.

Long were the tale that told Moscera's pride,
Its columns clustered strength and lofty state,
How many a saint bedeck'd its sculptur'd 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.

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.

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.

So chanced it that Gualberto pass'd that way, Since sainted for a life of holy deeds; He paus'd 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.

D

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.

"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 "Hath slipt away, since last you bade farewell "To me your host and my uncomfortable cell.

"'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 "For you can call to mind our former state; "Come brother, pass with me the new Moscera's gate.