OF A YOUNG MAN THAT WOULD READ UNLAWFUL BOOKS, AND HOW HE WAS PUNISHED.
CORNELIUS AGRIPPA went out one day,
His study he lock'd ere he went away,
And he gave the key of the door to his wife,
And charged her to keep it lock'd on her life.
And if any one ask my study to see,
I charge you trust them not with the key,
Whoever may beg, and entreat, and implore,
On your life let nobody enter that door.
There lived a young man in the house who in vain
Access to that study had strove to obtain,
And he begg'd and pray'd the books to see,
Till the foolish woman gave him the key.
On the study-table a book there lay,
Which Agrippa himself had been reading that day,
The letters were written with blood within,
And the leaves were made of dead men's skin.
And these horrible leaves of magic between
Were the ugliest pictures that ever were seen,
The likeness of things so foul to behold
That what they were is not fit to be told.
The young man, he began to read
He knew not what, but he would proceed,
When there was heard a sound at the door
Which as he read on grew more and more.
And more and more the knocking grew,
The young man knew not what to do;
But trembling in fear he sat within,
Till the door was broke and the Devil came in.
Two hideous horns on his head he had got,
Like iron heated nine times red hot;
The breath of his nostrils was brimstone blue,
And his tail like a fiery serpent grew.
What wouldst thou with me? the wicked one cried,
But not a word the young man replied;
Every hair on his head was standing upright,
And his limbs like a palsy shook with affright.
What wouldst thou with me? cried the author of ill,
But the wretched young man was silent still;
Not a word had his lips the power to say,
And his marrow seem'd to be melting away.
What wouldst thou with me? the third time he cries, And a flash of lightning came from his eyes,
And he lifted his griffin claw in the air,
And the young man had not strength for a prayer.
His eyes with a furious joy were possest
As he tore the young man's heart from his breast,
He grinn'd a horrible grin at his
And in a clap of thunder vanish'd away.
Henceforth let all young men take heed
How in a conjurer's books they read.
THE maiden through the favouring night
From Granada took her flight,
She bade her father's house farewell,
And fled away with Manuel.
No Moorish maid might hope to vie
With Laila's cheek or Laila's eye,
No maiden loved with purer truth,
Or ever loved a lovelier youth.
In fear they fled across the plain
The father's wrath, the captive's chain,
In hope to Murcia on they flee,
To peace, and love, and liberty.
And now they reach the mountain's height,
And she was weary with her flight,
She laid her head on Manuel's breast,
And pleasant was the maiden's rest.
But while she slept, the passing gale
Waved the maiden's flowing veil,
Her father, as he crost the height,
Saw the veil so long and white.
Young Manuel started from his sleep,
He saw them hastening up the steep,
And Laila shriek'd, and desperate now
They climb'd the precipice's brow.
They saw him raise his angry hand,
And follow with his ruffian band,
They saw them climbing up the steep,
And heard his curses loud and deep.
Then Manuel's heart grew wild with woe,
He loosen'd crags and roll'd below,
He loosen'd rocks, for Manuel strove
For life, and liberty, and love.
The ascent was steep, the rock was high,
The Moors they durst not venture nigh,
The fugitives stood safely there,
They stood in safety and despair.
The Moorish chief, unmoved could see"
His daughter bend the suppliant knee;
He heard his child for pardon plead,
And swore the Christian slave should bleed.
He bade the archers bend the bow,
And make the Christian fall below,
He bade the archers aim the dart,
And pierce the maid's apostate heart.
The archers aim'd their arrows there,
She clasp'd young Manuel in despair,
"Death, Manuel, shall set us free!
Then leap below, and die with me."
He clasp'd her close and groan'd farewell,
In one another's arms they fell;
They leapt adown the craggy side,
In one another's arms they died.
And side by side they there are laid,
The Christian youth and Moorish maid,
But never cross was planted there,
To mark the victims of despair.
Yet every Murcian maid can tell
Where Laila lies who loved so well,
And every youth who passes there,
Says for Manuel's soul a prayer.
HENRY THE HERMIT.
IT was a little island where he dwelt,
A solitary islet, bleak and bare,
Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots
Its gray stone surface. Never mariner
Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast,
Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark
Anchored beside its shore. It was a place
Befitting well a rigid anchoret,
Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys,
And purposes of life; and he had dwelt
Many long years upon that lonely isle;
For in ripe manhood he abandoned arms,
Honours and friends and country and the world,
And had grown old in solitude. That isle
Some solitary man in other times
Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found
The little chapel which his toil had built
Now by the storms unroofed; his bed of leaves
Wind-scattered; and his grave o'ergrown with grass,
And thistles, whose white seeds, winged in vain,
Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost.
So he repaired the chapel's ruined roof,
Clear'd the grey lichens from the altar-stone,
And underneath a rock that shelter'd him
From the sea-blast, he built his hermitage.
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