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No one.


My husband's father told it me, Poor old Leoni !-Angels rest his soul ! He was a woodman, and could fell and saw With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel ; Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree, He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home And reared him at the then Lord Velez' cost. A pretty boy, but most unteachable And so the babe grew up a pretty boy, And never learnt a prayer nor told a bead But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes, And whistled, as he were a bird himself : And all the Autumn 'twas his only play To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them, With earth and water, on the stumps of trees. A friar, who sought for simples in the wood, A grey-haired man-he loved this little boy, The boy loved him—and, when the friar taught him He soon could write with the pen : and from that time Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle. So he became a very learned youth. But, Oh! poor wretch-he read, and read, and read, Till his brain turned-and ere his twentieth year He had unlawful thoughts of many things: And though he prayed, he never loved to pray With holy men, nor in a holy place But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, The late Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with him.


And ne'er was heard of more : but 'tis supposed
He lived and died among the savage men,




Away, those cloudy looks, that lab'ring sigh,

The peevish offspring of a sickly hour !

Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's pow'r, When the blind gamester throws a luckless die. Yon setting sun flashes a mournful gleam

Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train ;

To-morrow shall the many colour'd main
In brightness roll beneath his orient beam !
Wild as th’ Autumnal gust, the hand of Time

Flies o'er his mystic lyre : in shadowy dance

Th’ alternate groups of joy and grief advance Responsive to his varying strains sublime ! Bears on its wing each hour a load of fate.

The swain, wholull’d by Seine's mild murinurs, led

His weary oxen to their nightly shed,
To-day may rule a tempest-troubled state.
Nor shall not Fortune, with a vengeful smile,

Survey the sanguinary despot's might,

And haply hurl the pageant from his height, Unwept, to wander in some savage isle. There shiv'ring sad, beneath the tempest's frown,

Round his tir'd limbs to wrap the purple vest;

And mix'd with nails and beads, an equal jest ! Barter for food, the jewels of his crown.

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