A horseman once pass'd through the town, and saw that fountain play,

And stopp'd to let his thirsty steed drink of it by

the way.

Meanwhile the rider gazed around on many a structure fair;

Turret and spire of olden times that pierced the quiet air.

Such boldness soon attracted round the gaze of passers by

The mayor ran in his robes of state, so quick was rumour's cry,

That man and horse were at the well, the latter drinking down

The precious gifts of Wisdom's Well, unsanction'd by the town.

How swell'd the mayor's wrath! how loud his tones, as thus he spoke,

“What's this I see? Who's this that hath our civic mandate broke?

What wickedness mine eyes behold! what wisdom wasted so

Upon a brute! as punishment, from this you shall

not go,

But stop a prisoner until our council's mind we

hear."

The rider stared; but, wiser grown, his steed prick'd up his ear,

And, turning round, he left the town more quickly than he came,

While watch and ward were gone to guard his exit from the same.

Forgetting what the horse had drunk, they all had gone in state,

To keep their prisoner secure, by guarding the

wrong gate.

Henceforward 'twas a law declared by solemn wig and gown,

No rider with a thirsty horse should e'er pass through the town.

FROM THE GERMAN.

The Muffin-man,

A LITTLE man, who muffins sold
When I was little too,

Carried a face of giant mould,

But tall he never grew.

His arms were legs for length and size,
His coat-tail touch'd his heels;
His brows were forests o'er his eyes,
His voice like waggon-wheels.

When fallen leaves together flock,
And gusts begin to squall,
And suns go down at six o'clock,
You heard his muffin-call.

Borne in the equinoctial blast,
He came and shook his bell;
And with the equinox he pass'd,
But whither none could tell.

Some thought the monster turn'd to dew
When muffins ceased to reign,

And lay in buds the summer through,
Till muffin-time again;

Or satyr, used the woods to rove,
Or even old Caliban,

Drawn by the lure of oven-stove
To be a muffin-man.

The dwarf was not a churlish elf,
Who thought folk stared to scoff;
But used deformity itself

To set his muffins off.

He stood at doors, and talk'd with cooks,
While strangers took his span,
And grimly smiled at childhood's looks
On him, the muffin-man.

When others fled from nipping frost,
And hid from drenching skies,
And when in fogs the street was lost,
You saw his figure rise.

One night his tinkle did not sound,
IIe fail'd each 'custom'd door;
'Twas first of an eternal round,

Of nights he walk'd no more.

When, borne in arms, my infant eye
Its restless search began;
The nursery-maid was wont to cry,
"See, John the muffin-man!"

My path with things familiar spread
Death's foot had seldom cross'd,

And when they said that John was dead,
I stood in wonder lost.

New muffin-men, from lamp to lamp,

With careless gaze I scan;

For none can e'er erase thy stamp,

Oh, John, thou muffin-man!

Thou standest, snatch'd from time and storm,

A statue of the soul;

And round thy carved and goblin form

Past days-past days unroll!

We will not part,-affection dim

This song shall help to fan, And memory firmer bound to him

Shall keep her muffin-man.

Little Roland.

In her cavern of rock Dame Bertha stay'd,
And wail'd her bitter lot;

In open air young Roland play'd

Small wail made he I wot.

"O Charles! my brother true and great

Why fled I thus from thee?

For love I left renown and state,

Now frown'st thou sore on me.

"O Milon! consort dear and kind!
The flood thy life hath reft!
For love I left all wealth behind-
Now love too me hath left.

"Come hither, come hither, my little Roland,
Both love and honour now;

Come hither in haste, my little Roland,
For solace is none but thou.

"Young Roland! to the city go,
And beg a morsel of bread;
And he who shall but a crust bestow,
Crave blessings on his head."

In his golden hall, high festival

Kept Charles with his paladins bold;
Small rest was there for the serving-men,
With platter and dish of gold.

And loud harps rang, and minstrels sang,
And every heart wax'd

gay;

But the sound reach'd not the dreary spot
Where lonesome Bertha lay.

And round about the outer court
Sat crowds of beggars free,
Who held the feasting braver sport
Than rede and minstrelsy.

The king he gazed the press along

Right through an open door,

When a gallant boy, through the thickest throng Full manfully him bore.