Now after this fell deed was done,

A little season's space,

The burly Baron of Bluebottle
Was riding from the chase.

The sport was dull, the day was hot,
The sun was sinking down,
When wearily the baron rode
Into the dusty town.
Says he, "I'll ask a lodging
At the first house I come to,"
With that the gate of Web Spinner
Came suddenly in view.

Loud was the knock the baron gave,
Down came the churl with glee,
Says Bluebottle, "Good sir, to-night
I ask your courtesy ;

I am wearied with a long day's chase,
My friends are far behind."

"You may need them all," said Web Spinner, "It runneth in my mind."

"A baron am I," said Bluebottle,

"From a foreign land I come;"

"I thought as much," said Web Spinner, "Fools never stay at home!"

Says the baron, "Churl! what meanest thou? I defy you, villain base!"

And he wished the while in his inmost heart
He was safely from the place.

Web Spinner ran and shut the door,
And a loud laugh laughed he,
With that each on the other sprung,
And they wrestled furiously.
The baron was a man of might,
A swordsman of renown;

But the miser had the stronger arm,
And kept the baron down.

Then out he took a little cord
From a pocket at his side,
And with many a crafty, cruel knot
His hands and feet he tied;

And bound him down upon the floor
And said in savage jest,

"There is heavy work in store for you; So baron, take your rest."

Then up and down the house he went,
Arranging dish and platter,
With a dull and heavy countenance,
As if nothing were the matter.
At length he seized on Bluebottle,
That strong and burly man,

And with many and many a desperate tug
To hoist him up began.

And step by step, and step by step

He went with heavy tread,
But ere he reached the garret door,
Poor Bluebottle was dead!
Now all this while a magistrate,
Who lived in a house hard by,
Had watch'd Web Spinner's cruelty
Through a window privily.

So in he bursts through bolts and bars,
With a loud and thundering sound,
And vow'd to burn the house with fire,
And level it with the ground;
But the wicked churl, who all his life
Had looked for such a day,

Passed through a trap-door in the wall,
And took himself away.

But where he went no man could tell,
'Twas said that underground

He died a miserable death,

But his body ne'er was found.

They pull'd his house down stick and stone,
"For a caitiff vile as he,"
Said they, "within our quiet town
Shall not a dweller be."

MORAL.

Now all young men and maidens
Who read this piteous tale,
Remember poor Web Spinner's end
When cruel thoughts prevail;
Nor proudly boast your purpose
To act a gentler part,

Since every child of Adam

Has murder in his heart.

Not in the dusky evening,
But in the deepest night,
That heart lies lurking for its prey,
Because it hates the light.
Though judgment seem to linger,
Death will resolve the doubt,
And surely as that judgment comes,
"Your sins will find you out."

(Copyright-contributed.)

THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS HORSE.

HON. CAROLINE NORTON.

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by, With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, and dark and

fiery eye,

Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged

speed,

I may not mount on thee again-thou art sold, my Arab

steed;

Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind

The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind. The stranger hath thy bridle rein, thy master hath his gold;

Fleet limbed and beautiful, farewell! thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold!

Farewell! these free untired limbs full many a mile

must roam,

To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home.

Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare;

The silky mane I braided once must be another's care. The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee

Shall I gallop through the desert paths where we were wont to be.

Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain,

Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home

again.

Yes, thou must go; the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,

Thy master's home-from all of these my exiled one must fly.

Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,

And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand

to meet.

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright;

Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light; And when I raise my dreaming arm, to check and cheer thy speed,

Then must I startling wake, to feel thou'rt sold, my Arab steed.

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,

Till foam wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side,

And the rich blood that is in thee swells in thy indignant

pain;

Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.

Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be

Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so gentle, yet so free. And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,

Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee to return.

Return, alas! my Arab steed, what shall thy master do, When thou who wert his all of joy hast vanished from his view;

When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,

Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage appears,

Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot alone, Where with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft has

borne me on.

And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think,

It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink.

When last I saw thee drink? Away, the fever'd dream is o'er,

I could not live a day, and know that we should meet

no more.

They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong,

They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.

Who said that I had given thee up? who said that thou wert sold?

'Tis false-'tis false, my Arab steed, I fling them back their gold;