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Young Roger de Tracy, and Ralph Bornaville,
Robert Wivel was there, and young Amourduille.
All gay-blooded Normans, in tourney or court,
Could none match the youths of fair Rix-à-la-Port.

The moon she shone mildly, the stars twinkled bright, And flooded the chapel with silvery light;

The spires and grave-stones look'd gay; and the trees Seem'd tipped with fair splendour, and waved in the


And out rush'd the band of the villagers gay,
As the last anthem-peal was dying away.


"Ho! ho!" cried young Roger, "a night such as this,
Is sacred to lovers, and kisses, and bliss
What say'st, sweet Sibylla? what, comrades? what, ho!
Shall we creep to our couches, demurely and slow?
Let us hail you, fair goddess,-ay, now, ere we rest,
Let us hail her with revel, with dance, and with jest."

Then loud laugh'd his comrades, and shouted assent, "Let us to the green;" but now, as they went, The holy monk Francis besought them to stay; "Oh! sin not," he cried, "oh! think on the dayOh! think that God hallowed this day out of sevenOh! think that to pleasure six days hath he given !"

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Away with thy priestcraft," cried Roger, with scorn, "We will dance, we will jest, we will revel till morn! Nay, to punish thy pride, and throw shame on thy face, Instead of the green, we will dance in this place! Over the grave-stones, and over the dead!" "Ay, ay," all his revelling company said.

All but one; and he was the young Amourduille; The rest of the band could not hear-could not feel. "Dear Matilda," cried he, "oh ! quit, love, this place!' But she jeer'd at his fears, and laugh'd in his face, "Go, coward," she said, "go, pray if you will, 'Give me dance, and high revel, the sun-beams until."

And now each brave youth has a fair partner led,
To dance o'er the grave-stones, and over the dead;
And loud shouted Roger, and Sibyl laugh'd high,
As over the tombs, and the flesh-grass they fly.
And holy St. Francis went mutt'ring away,
"Ay,-dance on for ever, for ever, for aye!”

Then revell'd they on, and the moon she shone bright,
And still they dance on, as departed the night;
And, then, fathers and mothers, and elders so grey,
Pray'd in vain that they'd stop, in vain that they'd stay.
They laugh'd at their fathers, they jeer'd at the grey,
And all went with jokes, or profaneness away.

Still they danc'd,--still they danc'd, but now nothing


As they rush'd over the grave-stones, and over the dead.
No laughter's now heard, no revel, no jeer,

They seem'd not to see, or to feel, or to hear!
The maidens look'd pale, and no cheek there was red,
As they flew o'er the grave-stones, and over the dead.

The morning-blush now, had just dappled the sky,
Still, o'er the church-yard,-ah! fastly they fly!
The villagers gaz'd on the horrible band,
And speechless, and motionless,--spiritless stand.

pray, some lament, some weep, and some kneel, When rush'd from the village the young Amourduille.

"Matilda! Matilda, oh! stop thee," he cried;
Oh! quit soon this horrible motion, my bride;
She stopp'd not a moment, and nothing she said,
But flew o'er the grave-stones, and over the dead;
And on rush'd the band, with the swiftness of light,
And whirl'd round and round in the villagers' sight.

In young Amourduille rush'd--the band soon came round,

He flew to Matilda, and caught her fast round.
She was icy,--his blood thrill'd--but still he held fast,
And on rush'd the horrible company past,
And on swept Matilda--with fright and alarm,
He found he clasp'd still but a skeleton arm!

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Then vanish'd the band, though that night every year
Their dance you may see, their shrieks you may hear;
There, lash'd by fierce spirits, they sweep on till morn,
Who treated God's day, and his servants with scorn.
There the skeleton dance may be seen, it is said,
Dance over the tomb-stones, and over the dead.


New Monthly Magazine. ·


THE entire merit of the following jeu d'esprit, consists in the original thought which suggested it. Throughout the whole, there is no variation in the thought, but the contrast of the name and character is so happily imagined, that it deserves a place in this selection. The versification is smooth, and the manner possesses the curiosa felicitas of genius.-ED.

Men once were surnamed from their shape or estate, (You all may from history worm it,)

There was Lewis the Bulky, and Henry the Great,
John Lackland, and Peter the Hermit.

But now, when the door-plates of misters and dames
Are read, each so constantly varies

From the owner's trade, figure, and calling, surnames, Seem given by the rule of contraries.

Mr. Box, though provoked, never doubles his fist,
Mr. Burns in his grate has no fuel,

Mr. Playfair won't catch me at hazard or whist,
Mr. Coward was winged in a duel.
Mr. Wise is a dunce, Mr. King is a whig,
Mr. Coffin's uncommonly sprightly,
And huge Mr. Little broke down in a gig,
While driving fat Mrs. Golightly.

Mrs. Drinkwater's apt to indulge in a dram,
Mrs. Angel's an absolute fury,
And meek Mr. Lion let fierce Mr. Lamb
Tweak his nose in the lobby of Drury.

At Bath, where the feeble go more than the stout,
(A conduct well worthy of Nero,)

Over poor Mr. Lightfoot, confined with the gout,
Mr. Heaviside danced a Bolero.

Miss Joy, wretched maid, when she chose Mr. Love,
Found nothing but sorrow await her:

She now holds in wedlock, as true as a dove,
That fondest of mates Mr. Hayter.
Mr. Oldcastle dwells in a modern-built hut,
Miss Sage is of madcaps the archest;
Of all the queer bachelors Cupid e'er cut,
Old Mr. Younghusband's the starchest.

Mr. Child, in a passion, knock'd down Mr. Rock,
Mr. Stone like an aspen-leaf shivers,

Miss Poole used to dance, but she stands like a stock,
Ever since she became Mrs. Rivers.

Mr. Swift hobbles onward, no mortal knows how,
He moves as though cords had entwin'd him;
Mr. Metcalfe ran off, upon meeting a cow,
With pale Mr. Turnbull behind him.

Mr. Barker's as mute as a fish in the sea,
Mr. Miles never moves on a journey,
Mr. Gotobed sits up till half-after-three,

Mr. Makepeace was bred an attorney.
Mr. Gardner can't tell a flower from a root,
Mr. Wild with timidity draws back,
Mr. Ryder performs all his journeys on foot,
Mr. Foot all his journeys on horseback.
Mr. Penny, whose father was rolling in wealth,
Kick'd down all the fortune his dad won;
Large Mr. Le Fever's the picture of health,
Mr. Goodenough is but a bad one.

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