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Then, reeling for the light, they steer,
The hut is reach'd; a man appears
With dark suspicious frown.
"Indeed, to tell honours true,
But solace such as straw may yield
Most piteously upon his paunch
The parson cast his eye; "How now, thou fat rotundity,
On straw couch wilt thou lie ?""Sub sole nil perfectum est,'
Said Bakel" here I'll take my rest."
He said, and soon was fast asleep.
Between the guests and host alone
They heard him sing an evening hymn,
"My dear, as soon as morning dawns,
Oh, how that bullet-round one will-
"Ah, Bakel! do you sleep? or hear
That, when the morning sun ascends,
"Proh dolor, Sir; but still there's hope, We're not in Charon's barge;
Still may some good Convivia
"Yea! such a goose-quill thing as you
Now Bakel used his eloquence
The unknown dreadful leap to dare.
Which first the leap should try;
Replied, "Oh no, not I.”
He lighted salva venia,.
And bounding from the dirt unhurt
He sank up to the waist, nor could
While Bakel cursed and scampered round,
In impotent despair;
Meantime the roof poured torrents down On the poor parson's naked crown.
Now Bakel found all efforts vain
And though his friend there still had lain,
At last a powerful lever's found;
With it he heaves him from the ground.
But ah, how adverse is their fate!
Thus fruitless all these dangers run
Now they prepare their hearts to sing
So found the candidates for death
It was a hovel near a shade
Where cattle used to feed.
But they had burst their little door,
And in the garden with their snouts
"Oh think, dear Bakel, that the grave
There beggars equal mighty kings;
"Ah, yes, how truly says the bard, Si hora mortis ruit
Is fit Irus subito,
Qui modo Cræsus fuit."
Now hideously the door did creak,
And mutter'd as he rubb'd away,
"Ye black ones, ye shall die to-day!"
The host a Flesher was by trade,
That he their lives design'd to take.
"The Devil! oh, ye powers of light!"
Now was their foolish blunder clear;
At parting all swore solemnly
CORINNA AT THE CAPITOL.
MRS. MARIE J. FOTHERBY (MARIE J. EWEN). THERE were footsteps on the Corso before the purple dawn,
And gatherings in the Forum ere the rosy blush of morn,
Loud voices round the Capitol, and on the marble stair A breathless crowd assembled, as for a triumph there. The chimes of San Giovanni, how merrily they ring! As if to all the city round a soul of joy to bring; There's noise of many chariots, and sounds of tramping
And horses well caparison'd, and minstrels in the street. What mean the balconies, all hung with tapestry so fine? And why are garlands wreathed around the Arch of Constantine?
What mean those banners streaming bright, o'er tower and glittering dome,
Ye ladies fair, and gentlemen, that throng the streets of Rome!
It is a day of triumph, and the brightest of its kind, The victory of genius-the "triumph of the mind."