But Barnard a quiet conscience had, Though the wintry blast And he slept while the winds did blow! But his grandson, he could never sleep Whenever he clos'd his eyes! And whenever he feasted the rich and gay The Devil still had his joke; For however rare The sumptuous fare, When the sparkling glass Was seen to pass He was fearful the draught would choke! And whenever, in fine and costly geer, The owl would cry, And the raven fly Across his road, While the sluggish toad Would crawl by his palfry's side. And he could not command the sunny day, For the rain would wet him through ; And the wind would blow Where his nag did go, And the thunder roar, And the torrents pour, And he felt the chill evening dew. And the cramp would wring his youthful bones, And would make him groan aloud; And the doctor's art Could not cure the heart, And he dream'd of the pick-axe and shroud. And why could old Barnard sweetly sleep, At the close of day, To the weak or strong, And so, Heaven look kind on me!' One night the grandson hied him forth, 'O! father!' said he, 'I am come to thee, And would fain begin To repent me, before I die!' 'I must pray for your soul,' the monk replied, < But will see you to-morrow, ere noon:' Then the monk flew straight To old Barnard's gate, And he bade him haste O'er the dewy waste, By the light of the waning Moon. In the monkish cell did old Barnard wait, Ere the dawn of day, With a cowl and cross, He knelt by the light of the Moon. 'O! shrive me, father!' the grandson cried, 'For the Devil is waiting for me! I have robb'd the poor, I have shut my door, And kept out the good When they wanted food And I come for my pardon to thee.' 'Get home, young sinner,' old Barnard said, 'And your grandsire quickly see; Give him half your store, For he's old and poor, And cheat the Devil By making him rich as thee.' The 'squire obey'd; and old Barnard now For he fears no wrong, From the weak or strong, And the 'squire can snore, When the loud winds roar, For he dreams no more of the Devil. Mrs. Robinson. BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. In ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, Our wand'ring saints, in woeful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through all the village pass'd, "Twas still replenish'd to the top, Aloft rose ev'ry beam and rafter; The heavy wall climb'd slowly after. The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, The kettle to the top was hoist, A wooden jack, which had almost |