Beetles and slow-worms crawled about,

And toads did squat demure;

From holes in the wainscoting mice peeped out,
Or a sly old rat with his whiskered snout;
And forty-feets, a full span long,

Danced in and out in an endless throng:
There ne'er has been seen such extravagant rout
From that time to this, I'm sure.

But the good St. Anthony kept his eyes
Fixed on the holy book ;-
From it they did not sink nor rise;
Nor sights nor laughter, shouts nor cries,
Could win away his look.

A quaint imp sat in an earthen pot,

In a big-bellied earthen pot sat he:

Through holes in the bottom his legs outshot,

And holes in the sides his arms had got,

And his head came out through the mouth, God wot!

A comical sight to see.

And he drummed on his belly so fair and round,

On his belly so round and fair;

And it gave forth a rumbling, mingled sound,
Twixt a muffled bell and a growling hound,
A comical sound to hear:

And he sat on the edge of a table-desk,

And drummed it with his heels;

And he looked as strange and as picturesque

As the figures we see in an arabesque,

Half hidden in flowers, all painted in fresque,

In Gothic vaulted ceils.

Then he whooped and hawed, and winked and grinned, And his eyes stood out with glee;

And he said these words, and he sung this song,

And his legs and his arms, with their double prong,
Keeping time with his tune as it galloped along,
Still on the pot and the table dinned

As birth to his song gave he.

Another imp came in a masquerade,

Most like to a monk's attire:

But of living bats his cowl was made,

Their wings stitched together with spider thread;
And round and about him they fluttered and played;
And his eyes shot out from their misty shade
Long parallel bars of fire.

And his loose teeth chattered like clanking bones,
When the gibbet-tree sways in the blast:
And with gurgling shakes, and stifled groans,
He mocked the good St. Anthony's tones
As he muttered his prayer full fast.

A rosary of beads was hung by his side,-
Oh, gaunt-looking beads were they!
And still, when the good Saint dropped a bead,
He dropped a tooth, and he took good heed
To rattle his string, and the bones replied,
Like a rattle-snake's tail at play.

But the good St. Anthony bent his eyes
Upon the holy book;

He heard that mock of groans and sighs,

And he knew that the thing had an evil guise,
And he did not dare to look.

Another imp came with a trumpet-snout,

That was mouth and nose in one:

It had stops like a flute, as you never may doubt,
Where his long lean fingers capered about,
As he twanged his nasal melodies out,

In quaver, and shake, and run.

And his head moved forward and backward still

On his long and snaky neck;

As he bent his energies all to fill

His nosey tube with wind and skill,

And he sneezed his octaves out, until 'Twas well-nigh ready to break.

And close to St. Anthony's ear he came,

And piped his music in :

And the shrill sound went through the good Saint's frame,

With a smart and a sting, like a shred of flame,

Or a bee in the ear,-which is much the same,

And he shivered with the din.

But the good St. Anthony bent his eyes

Upon the holy book;

He heard that snout with its gimlet cries,

And he knew that the imp had an evil guise,
And he did not dare to look.

A thing with horny eyes was there,
With horny eyes like the dead:

And its long sharp nose was all of horn,
And its bony cheeks of flesh were shorn,
And its ears were like thin cases torn
From feet of kine, and its jaws were bare;
And fish-bones grew, instead of hair,
Upon its skinless head.

Its body was of thin birdy bones,

Bound round with a parchment skin; And, when 'twas struck, the hollow tones That circled round like drum-dull groans, Bespoke a void within.

Its arm was like a peacock's leg,

And the claws were like a bird's:

But the creep that went, like a blast of plague,
To loose the live flesh from the bones,
And wake the good Saint's inward groans,
As it clawed his cheek, and pulled his hair,
And pressed on his eyes in their beating lair,
Cannot be told in words.

But the good St. Anthony kept his eyes
Still on the holy book;

He felt the clam on his brow arise,

And he knew that the thing had a horrid guise,
And he did not dare to look.

An imp came then like a skeleton form

Out of a charnel vault :

Some clingings of meat had been left by the worm,
Some tendons and strings on his legs and arm,
And his jaws with gristle were black and deform,
But his teeth were as white as salt.

And he grinned full many a lifeless grin,
And he rattled his bony tail;
His skull was decked with gill and fin,
And a spike of bone was on his chin,
And his bat-like ears were large and thin,
And his eyes were the eyes of a snail.

He took his stand at the good Saint's back,
And on tip-toe stood a space:

Forward he bent, all rotten-black,

And he sunk again on his heel, good lack!
And the good Saint uttered some ghostly groans,
For the head was caged in the gaunt rib-bones,-

A horrible embrace!

And the skull hung o'er with an elvish pry,

And cocked down its Indian-rubber eye

To gaze upon his face.

Yet the good St. Anthony sunk his eyes
Deep in the holy book:

He felt the bones, and so was wise

To know that the thing had a ghastly guise,

And he did not dare to look.

Last came an imp,-how unlike the rest!—
A beautiful female form:

And her voice was like music, that sleep-oppress'd
Sinks on some cradling zephyr's breast;

And whilst with a whisper his cheek she press'd,
Her cheek felt soft and warm.

When over his shoulder she bent the light
Of her soft eyes on to his page,

It came like a moonbeam silver bright,
And relieved him then with a mild delight,
For the yellow lamp-lustre scorched his sight,

That was weak with the mists of age.

Hey! the good St. Anthony boggled his eyes
Over the holy book:

Ho ho! at the corners they 'gan to rise,

For he knew that the thing had a lovely guise,
And he could not choose but look.

There are many devils that walk this world,—
Devils large, and devils small;

Devils so meagre, and devils so stout;
Devils with horns, and devils without;
Sly devils that go with their tails upcurled,
Bold devils that carry them quite unfurled;
Meek devils, and devils that brawl;
Serious devils, and laughing devils;
Imps for churches, and imps for revels;
Devils uncouth, and devils polite;

Devils black, and devils white;
Devils foolish, and devils wise;

But a laughing woman, with two bright eyes,

Is the worsest devil of all.

T. H.S.

THE NEW YEAR.

Lines on George Cruikshank's Illustration of January, in the Comic Almanack

for 1838.

A GREAT philosopher art thou, George Cruikshank,
In thy unmatched grotesqueness! Antic dance,
Wine, mirth, and music, welcome thy New Year,
Who makes her entry as a radiant child,
With smiling face, in holiday apparel,
Bearing a cornucopiæ, crowned and clustered
With all the elements of festal joy :

All smiles and promises. But looking closely
Upon that smiling face, 'tis but a mask;

Fitted so well, it almost seems a face;

But still a mask. What features lurk beneath,

The rolling months will show. Thy Old Year passes,-
Danced out in mockery by the festive band,-

A faded form, with thin and pallid face,
In spectral weeds; her mask upon the ground,
Her Amalthæa's horn reversed, and emptied
Of all good things,-not even hope remaining.
Such will the New Year be: that smiling mask
Will fall; to some how soon to many later :
At last to all! The same transparent shade
Of wasted means and broken promises
Will make its exit: and another Year

Will enter masked and smiling, and be welcomed
With minstrelsy and revelry, as this is.