Say, shall I to you Flemish church, And at a Popish altar kneel? Oh, do not leave me in the lurch,-- I'll cry, ye patron-saints of Lille! Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops, Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal, Look kindly down! before you stoops The miserablest man in Lille. And lo! as I beheld with awe A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real), It smiled, and turned to grandmamma!-- It did! and I had hope in Lille! 'Twas five o'clock, and I could eat, Although I could not pay my meal: I hasten back into the street Where lies my inn, the best Lille. What see I on my table stand,-- A letter with a well-known seal? 'Tis grandmamma's! I know her hand,-- "To Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, Lille." I feel a choking in my throat, I pant and stagger, faint and reel! It is--it is--a ten-pound note, And I'm no more in pawn at Lille! [He goes off by the diligence that evening, and is restored to the bosom of his happy family.] THE WILLOW-TREE. Know ye the willow-tree Whose gray leaves quiver, Whispering gloomily To yon pale river; Lady, at even-tide Wander not near it, They say its branches hide A sad, lost spirit? Once to the willow-tree A maid came fearful, Pale seemed her cheek to be, Her blue eye tearful; Soon as she saw the tree, Her step moved fleeter, No one was there--ah me! No one to meet her! Quick beat her heart to hear The far bell's chime Toll from the chapel-tower The trysting time: But the red sun went down In golden flame, And though she looked round, Yet no one came! Presently came the night, Sadly to greet her,-- Moon in her silver light, Stars in their glitter; Then sank the moon away Under the billow, Still wept the maid alone-- There by the willow! Through the long darkness, By the stream rolling, Hour after hour went on Tolling and tolling. Long was the darkness, Lonely and stilly; Shrill came the night-wind, Piercing and chilly. Shrill blew the morning breeze, Biting and cold, Bleak peers the gray dawn Over the wold. Bleak over moor and stream Looks the grey dawn, Gray, with dishevelled hair, Still stands the willow there-- THE MAID IS GONE! Domine, Domine! Sing we a litany,-- Sing for poor maiden-hearts broken and weary; Domine, Domine! Sing we a litany, Wail we and weep we a wild Miserere! THE WILLOW-TREE. (ANOTHER VERSION). I. Long by the willow-trees Vainly they sought her, Wild rang the mother's screams O'er the gray water: "Where is my lovely one? Where is my daughter? II. "Rouse thee, sir constable-- Rouse thee and look; Fisherman, bring your net, Boatman your hook. Beat in the lily-beds, Dive in the brook!" III.