That there Sir Rudolph's mantle lay, And coiled in many a deadly wreath A venomous serpent slept beneath. * * * * * STANZAS, WRITTEN UNDER A DRAWING OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. EXTRACTED FROM AN ALBUM IN DEVONSHIRE. Most beautiful!--I gaze and gaze In silence on the glorious pile; And the glad thoughts of other days Come thronging back the while. To me dim Memory makes more dear The perfect grandeur of the shrine; But if i stood a stranger here, The ground were still divine. Some awe the good and wise have felt, As reverently their feet have trod On any spot where man hath knelt, To commune with his God; By haunted spring, or fairy well, Beneath the ruined convent's gloom, Beside the feeble hermit's cell, Or the false prophet's tomb. But when was high devotion graced With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne, Than thus the limner's art hath traced From the time-honored stone? The spirit here of worship seems To hold the heart in wondrous thrall, And heavenward hopes and holy dreams, Came at her voiceless call;-- At midnight, when the lonely moon Looks from a vapor's silvery fold; Or morning, when the sun of June Crests the high towers with gold; For every change of hour and form Makes that fair scene more deeply fair; And dusk and day-break, calm and storm, Are all religion there. * * * * * A FRAGMENT OF A BALLAD: TEACHING HOW POETRY IS BEST PAID FOR. Non voglio cento scudi.--Song. Oh say not that the minstrel's art, The pleasant gift of verse, Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart, Can ever be a curse;-- Though sorrow reign within his heart, And Penury hold his purse. Say not his toil is profitless;-- Though he charm no rich relation, The Fairies all his labors bless With such remuneration, As Mr. Hume would soon confess Beyond his calculation. Annuities, and three per cents, Little cares he about them; And India bonds, and tithes, and rents, He rambles on without them: But love, and noble sentiments,-- Oh, never bid him doubt them! * * * * * Young Florice rose from his humble bed, And prayed as a good youth should; And forth he sped, with a lightsome tread, Into the neighboring wood; He knew where the berries were ripe and red, And where the old oak stood. And as he lay, at the noon of day, Beneath the ancient tree, A grayhaired pilgrim passed that way; A holy man was he, And he was wending forth to pray At a shrine in a far countrie. Oh, his was a weary wandering, And a song or two might cheer him. The pious youth began to sing, As the ancient man drew near him; The lark was mute as he touched the string, And the thrush said, "Hear him, hear him!"