And, but that entering neighbours quell'd the fray, The vintner then had seen his dying day.

The matter soon was to the king made known (Count Henry of Champagne possess'd the throne); And first the plaintive vintner stoutly spoke, And claim'd redress:-Wine lost, and vessels broke.

The prince doom'd not the knight to recompense, But will'd him first to argue his defence:

He the plain truth from end to end exposed;
Then with these words his frank recital closed:
'Great sire!' he said, this worthy host of mine
Foretold much good would spring from spilling
wine;

That I, forsooth, whose cup was half thrown down,
Should soon become the wealthiest wight in town:
My gratitude, I own, o'ercame me here, [dear,
And, weening wealth might ne'er be bought too
I strove to make him richer than myself,
And shed full half a cask to purchase pelf.'

He ceased; loud plaudits rang through all the No tale was ever told so full of sport:

[court: All ranged them seemly by the Norman's side, While good King Henry laugh'd until he cried; Then thus dismiss'd the parties and their suit'What's spilt is spilt,―betide or bale or boot.'

WAY.

THE LAND OF COKAIGNE.

FROM THE ANCIENT FRENCH.

WELL I Wot 'tis often told,
Wisdom dwells but with the old;

Yet do I, of greener age,

Boast and bear the name of sage:

Briefly, sense was ne'er conferr'd
By the measure of the beard.

List, for now my tale begins,—
How to rid me of my sins,
Once I journeyed, far from home,
To the gate of holy Rome :
There the Pope, for my offence,
Bade me straight in penance thence,
Wandering onward, to attain

The wondrous land, that hight Cokaigne.
Sooth to say, it was a place

Bless'd with Heaven's especial grace;
For every road and every street
Smoked with food for man to eat:
Pilgrims there might halt at will,
There might sit and feast their fill,
In goodly bowers that lined the way,
Free for all, and nought to pay.
Through that blissful realm divine
Roll'd a sparkling flood of wine:
Clear the sky, and soft the air,
For eternal spring was there;
And, all around, the groves among,
Countless dance, and ceaseless song.
Strife and ire and war were not,
For all was held by common lot;
And every lass that sported there
Still was kind, and still was fair;
Free to each as each desired,
And quitted when the year expired;
For, once the circling seasons past,
Surest vows no more might last.
But the chiefest, choicest treasure,
In that land of peerless pleasure,

THOU hast an eye of tender blue,

And thou hast locks of Daphne's hue,
And cheeks that shame the morning's break,
And lips that might for redness make
Roses seem pale beside them;

But whether soft or sweet as they,
Lady, alas! I cannot say,

For I have never tried them.

Yet, thus created for delight,
Lady! thou art not lovely quite;
For dost thou not this maxim know,
That Prudery is Beauty's foe,
A stain that mars a jewel!

And e'en that woman's angel face
Loses a portion of its grace,
If woman's heart be cruel!

Love is a sweet and blooming boy,
Yet glowing with the blush of joy,
And (still in youth's delicious prime)
Though aged as patriarchal Time,
The withering god despises :
Lady! wouldst thou for ever be
As fair and young and fresh as he-
Do all that Love advises.

THOU pride of the forest! whose dark branches spread

[green,

To the sigh of the south wind their tremulous And the tinge of whose buds is as rich and as red As the mellowing blushes of maiden eighteen!

O'er thee may the tempest in gentleness blow, And the lightnings of summer pass harmlessly by; For ever thy buds keep their mellowing glow, Thy branches still wave to the southernly sigh, Because in thy shade, as I lately reclined,

The sweetest of visions arose to my view; 'Twas the swoon of the soul-'twas the transport of mind

'Twas the happiest minute that ever I knew. For this shalt thou still be my favourite tree,In the heart of the poet thou never canst fade; It shall often be warm'd by remembering thee, And the dream which I dreamt in thy tremulous shade.

LORD STRANGFORD.

SONNET.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF DE MATOS.

HIGH in the front of conquering hosts to ride
Be yours, ye sons of fortune, sons of fame!
Be yours the triumph of a deathless name,
While spoils of vanquish'd nations swell your pride!
Lift to the breeze your banners streaming wide,
While captive nations bend the knee below!
Let the fair galley's lofty gilded prow

Shine o'er the dancing billows of the tide !
With vaunted chiefs of Greece and mighty Rome
Be yours beneath the sacred shade to march,
Where palm and laurel form the victor's arch,
While lofty minstrels chant the nations' doom!
But leave to me the conquest of my fair,
With her soft azure eyes and auburn hair.

DR. LEYDEN.

THE LAY OF THE LITTLE BIRD.

FROM A FRENCH FABLIAU.

IN days of yore, at least a century since,
There lived a carle as wealthy as a prince :
His name I wot not; but his wide domain
Was rich with stream and forest, mead and plain ;
To crown the whole, one manor he possess'd,
In choice delight so passing all the rest,
No castle, burgh, or city might compare

With the quaint beauties of that mansion rare.
The sooth to say, I fear my words may seem
Like some strange fabling or fantastic dream,
If, unadvised, the portraiture I trace,

And each brave pleasure of that peerless place;
Foreknow ye then, by necromantic might
Was raised this paradise of all delight;

A good knight own'd it first; he, bow'd with age,
Died, and his son possess'd the heritage :
But the lewd stripling, all to riot bent
(His chattels quickly wasted and forespent),
Was driven to see this patrimony sold
To the base carle of whom I lately told.

Ye wot right well there only needs be sought

One spendthrift heir to bring great wealth to

nought.

A lofty tower and strong, the building stood
Midst a vast plain surrounded by a flood;
And hence one pebble-paved channel stray'd,
That compass'd in a clustering orchard's shade:
'Twas a choice charming plat; abundant round
Flowers, roses, odorous spices clothed the ground;
Unnumber'd kinds, and all profusely shower'd
Such aromatic balsam as they flower'd,