The cock he crew, away they flew,

The fiends from the herald of day,
And undisturb'd the choristers sing,
And the fifty priests they pray.

The second night the tapers' light
Burnt dismally and blue,

And every one saw his neighbour's face
Like a dead man's face to view.

And yells and cries without arise

That the stoutest heart might shock,

And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring Over a mountain rock.

The monk and nun they told their beads,

As fast as they could tell,

And aye as louder grew the noise

The faster went the bell.

Louder and louder the choristers sung

As they trembled more and more,

And the fifty priests pray'd to Heaven for aid,—
They never had pray'd so before.

The cock he crew, away they flew
The fiends from the herald of day,
And undisturb'd the choristers sing,
And the fifty priests they pray.

The third night came, and the tapers' flame
A hideous stench did make,

And they burnt as though they had been dipt
In the burning brimstone lake.

And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean,

Grew momently more and more,

And strokes, as of a battering ram,
Did shake the strong church door.

The bellmen they for very fear
Could toll the bell no longer,
And still as louder grew the strokes
Their fear it grew the stronger.

The monk and nun forgot their beads,
They fell on the ground dismay'd,
There was not a single saint in heaven
Whom they did not call to aid.

And the choristers' song, that late was so strong,
Grew a quaver of consternation,

For the church did rock, as an earthquake shock Uplifted its foundation.

And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast
That shall one day wake the dead,

The strong church door could bear no more,
And the bolts and the bars they fled,

And the tapers' light was extinguish'd quite,
And the choristers faintly sung,

And the priests dismay'd, panted and pray'd
'Till fear froze every tongue.

And in he came with eyes of flame,

The Devil to fetch the dead,

And all the church with his presence glow'd
Like a fiery furnace red.

He laid his hand on the iron chains,
And like flax they moulder'd asunder,
And the coffin lid that was barr'd so firm

He burst with his voice of thunder.

And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise And come with her master away,

And the cold sweat stood on the cold cold corpse,
At the voice she was forced to obey.

She rose on her feet in her winding sheet,
Her dead flesh quiver'd with fear,

And a groan like that which the old woman gave
Never did mortal hear.

She follow'd the fiend to the church door,
There stood a black horse there,
His breath was red like furnace smoke,
His eyes like a meteor's glare.

The fiend he flung her on the horse,

And he leapt up before,

And away like the lightning's speed they went, And she was seen no more.

They saw her no more, but her cries and shrieks
For four miles round they could hear,

And children at rest at their mother's breast
Started and scream'd with fear.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS

SOUL.

BY ALEXANDer Pope.

VITAL spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

Hark! they whisper; angels say,
"Sister spirit, come away."
What is this absorbs me quite ?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?

O Death! where is thy sting?

ODE FOR MUSIC ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

BY ALEXANDER POPE.

DESCEND, ye Nine! descend and sing:
The breathing instruments inspire;
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre!
In a sadly-pleasing strain,
Let the warbling lute complain:
Let the loud trumpet sound
Till the roofs all around

The shrill echoes rebound:

While, in more lengthened notes and slow,
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers, soft and clear,
Gently steal upon the ear;

Now louder, and yet louder rise,

And fill with spreading sounds the skics;

Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;
Till, by degrees, remote and small,

The strains decay,

And melt away,

In a dying, dying fall.

By music, minds an equal temper know,
Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.
If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,
Music her soft, assuasive voice applies;