BISHOP BRUNO.

"Bruno, the Bishop of Herbipolitanum, sailing in the river of Danubius, with Henry the Third, then emperour, being not far from a place which the Germanes call Ben Strudel, or the devouring gulfe, which is neere unto Grinon, a castle in Austria, a spirit was heard clamouring aloud, Ho, ho, Bishop Bruno, whither art thou travelling? But dispose of thyselfe how thou pleasest, thou shalt be my prey and spoile.' At the hearing of these words they were all stupified, and the bishop with the rest crost and blest themselves. The issue was, that within a short time after, the bishop feasting with the emperor in a castle belonging to the Countesse of Esburch, a rafter fell from the roof of the chamber wherein they sate, and strooke him dead at the table."Heywood's Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels.

BISHOP BRUNO awoke in the dead midnight,
And he heard his heart beat loud with affright:
He dreamt he had rung the palace bell,
And the sound it gave was his passing knell.

Bishop Bruno smiled at his fears so vain,
He turn'd to sleep, and he dreamt again:
He rung at the palace gate once more,
And Death was the porter that open'd the door.

He started up at the fearful dream,

And he heard at his window the screech owl scream!
Bishop Bruno slept no more that night,—
Oh! glad was he when he saw the daylight!

Now he goes forth in proud array,
For he with the emperor dines to-day;
There was not a baron in Germany
That went with a nobler train than he.

Before and behind his soldiers ride,
The people throng'd to see their pride,
They bow'd the head, and the knee they bent,
But nobody blest him as he went.

So he went on stately and proud,
When he heard a voice that cried aloud,

Ho! ho! Bishop Bruno! you travel with glee--
But I would have you know, you travel to me!

Behind and before, and on either side,
He look'd, but nobody he espied.

And the bishop at that grew cold with fear,
For he heard the words distinct and clear.

And when he rung at the palace bell,
He almost expected to hear his knell;
And when the porter turn'd the key,
He almost expected death to see.

But soon the bishop recover'd his glee,
For the emperor welcom'd him royally;
And now the tables were spread, and there
Were choicest wines and dainty fare.

And now the bishop had blest the meat,
When a voice was heard as he sat in his seat,—
With the emperor now you are dining in glee,
But know, bishop Bruno, you sup with me!

The bishop then grew pale with affright,
And suddenly lost his appetite;

All the wine and dainty cheer

Could not comfort his heart so sick with fear.

But by little and little recovered he,
For the wine went flowing merrily,
And he forgot his former dread,
And his cheeks again grew rosy red.

When he sat down to the royal fare
Bishop Bruno was the saddest man there,
But when the masquers entered the hall,
He was the merriest man of all.

Then from amid the masquer's crowd
There went a voice hollow and loud-
You have past the day, bishop Bruno, with glee!
But you must pass the night with me!

His cheek grows pale and his eye-balls glare,
And stiff round his tonsure bristles his hair ;-

With that there came one from the masquer's band,
And he took the bishop by the hand.

Z

The bony hand suspended his breath,
His marrow grew cold at the touch of death;
On saints in vain he attempted to call,
Bishop Bruno fell dead in the palace hall.

THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS,

AND HOW HE GAINED THEM.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
The few locks that are left you are gray;
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might need them at last.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
And pleasures with youth pass away,

And yet you lament not the days that are gone,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth could not last;
I thought of the future, whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
And life must be hastening away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death! Now tell me the reason, I pray.

I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied;
Let the cause thy attention engage;

In the days of my youth I remember'd my God!
And he hath not forgotten my age.

LYRICAL PIECES.

YOUTH AND AGE.

WITH cheerful step the traveller
Pursues his early way,
When first the dimly-dawning east
Reveals the rising day.

He bounds along his craggy road,
He hastens up the height,
And all he sees and all he hears,
But only give delight.

And if the mist retiring slow,
Roll round its wavy white,
He thinks the morning vapours hide
Some beauty from his sight.

But when behind the western clouds
Departs the fading day,
How wearily the traveller

Pursues his evening way!

Then sorely o'er the craggy road
His painful footsteps creep,

And slow with many a feeble pause,
He labours up the steep.

And if the mists of night close round,
They fill his soul with fear;
He dreads some unseen precipice,
Some hidden danger near.

So cheerfully does youth begin
Life's pleasant morning stage;
Alas! the evening traveller feels
The fears of wary age!

THE EBB TIDE.

SLOWLY thy flowing tide

Came in, old Avon! scarcely did mine eyes, As watchfully I roam'd thy green-wood side, Behold the gentle rise.

With many a stroke and strong The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars, And yet the eye beheld them labouring long Between thy winding shores.

Now down thine ebbing tide
The unlaboured boat falls rapidly along,
The solitary helms-man sits to guide
And sings an idle song.

Now o'er the rocks, that lay
So silent late, the shallow current roars;
Fast flow thy waters on their sea-ward way
Through wider-spreading shores.

Avon! I gaze and know
'The wisdom emblemed in thy varying way,
It speaks of human joys that rise so slow,
So rapidly decay.

Kingdoms that long have stood

And slow to strength and power attain'd at last, Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood Ebb to their ruin fast.

So tardily appears

The course of time to manhood's envied stage, Alas! how hurryingly the ebbing years Then hasten to old age!