The head, now bleach'd, his proud foot strikes

With such indignant speed,

The bone its fierce aggressor spikes;

It is his turn to bleed.

The trivial wound the wrathful knight

Disdains to search with care,

But soon he finds, the wound tho' slight,
Death lurks in ambush there.

Now to his bed of sorrow bound,
By penitential pain,

He seems, by this heart-reaching wound,
A purer mind to gain.

Near to his couch he bids, with care,
The widow to be brought,

And speaks to her, with soften'd air,
His self-correcting thought.

"True Prophetess! I feel thee now;
"So God my crimes forgive,
"As I with thee true concord vow;
"In comfort may'st thou live.

"Behold upon this charter'd scroll,
"A pictur'd cottage stand,
"I give it thee with all my soul,
"And its adjacent land.

"The only rent I will assume,
"Be this: At close of day,
"Sit thou, with pity, on my tomb,
"And for my spirit pray!

"That tomb be rais'd by sculpture's aid;

"To warn men from my guilt;

"My horse's head beside me laid, "Whose blood I basely spilt!"

He spoke, he died, the tomb was made, His statue look'd to heaven!

And daily then the widow pray'd,

His crimes might be forgiven!

The Baker's Horse and the Trumpeter.

SOME few years ago a baker purchased an old horse in Smithfield market, and wishing to make the animal useful, regularly placed a pair of panniers on his back, and filled the same with bread, and afterwards mounted himself. One day he happened to be passing the gate of Hyde Park at the moment the trumpet was sounding for the regiment of Life Guards to fall in. No sooner had the sound assailed the animal's ear, than instantly, in despite of all his master's resistance, he dashed like lightning through the park with the baker on his back, into the midst the squadron. The poor baker was greatly disconcerted at this unexpected adventure, and feeling very uneasy at