For my part, I am well content Fasting is all very well for those But I am quite sure it does not agree That are always distressed in body and And at times it really does me good It is the home of the Counts of Calva; With the latent power and love of truth, well have I known these scenes Well I remember each tower and tur wood, and the wold. And with virtues fervent and manifold. ret, remember the brooklet, the I have heard it said, that at Easter-tide, ELSIE. Hark! from the little village below us Begins to stir itself, and ferment, Now here is a cask that stands alone, And has stood a hundred years or more, Its beard of cobwebs, long and hoar, Trailing and sweeping along the floor, Like Barbarossa, who sits in his cave, Taciturn, sombre, sedate, and grave, Till his beard has grown through the table of stone! It is of the quick and not of the dead! In its veins the blood is hot and red, And a heart still beats in those ribs of oak That time may have tamed, but has not broke ! It comes from Bacharach on the Rhine, But that I do not consider dear, Less with its longings and more with its prayers. But now there is no such awkward condition, No danger of death and eternal perdition; So here's to the Abbot and Brothers all, Who dwell in this convent of Peter and Paul! He drinks. O cordial delicious! O soother of pain! It flashes like sunshine into my brain! A benison rest on the Bishop who sends Such a fudder of wine as this to his friends! And now a flagon for such as may ask A draught from the noble Bacharach cask, Four butts are sent to the Pope of And I will be gone, though I know full Rome. In particular, Würzburg well may boast Of its blessed wine of the Holy Ghost, Which of all wines I like the most. This I shall draw for the Abbot's drinking, well The cellar's a cheerfuller place than the cell. Behold where he stands, all sound and good, Brown and old in his oaken hood; As any Carthusian monk may be; rest! What a seething and simmering in his breast! As if the heaving of his great heart Would burst his belt of oak apart! Let me unloose this button of wood, And quiet a little his turbulent mood. Sets it running. See! how its currents gleam and shine, Who seems to be much of my way of As if they had caught the purple hues thinking. Fills a flagon. Ah! how the streamlet laughs and sings! What a delicious fragrance springs And many a time my soul has hankered For a deep draught out of his silver tankard, When it should have been busy with other affairs, Of autumn sunsets on the Rhine, Descending and mingling with the dews; Or as if the grapes were stained with the blood Of the innocent boy, who, some years back, Was taken and crucified by the Jews, For here in the midst of the current I stand Like the stone Pfalz in the midst of the Like the trump of doom, in the closing river, Taking toll upon either hand, And much more grateful to the giver. Here, now, is a very inferior kind, And, after all, it was not a crime, If the fellow had left the other one! Fills the flagon and departs. THE SCRIPTORIUM. verse! God forgive me! if ever I Take aught from the book of that Lest my part too should be taken away This is well written, though I say it! If we should compare them line for line. There, now, is an initial letter! What treasures of art these pages hold, FRIAR PACIFICUS transcribing and illu- Into my heart, and into my brain, minating. FRIAR PACIFICUS. It is growing dark! Yet one line more, As if my talent had not lain Pure from blemish and blot must it be How sweet the air is! How fair the |