Smash that blood-red window-pane :
Black Rome's loss is Fleming's gain.

Now the end of all begins,
Heaven helps their many sins.

Down the beams crash through the dark!
What a splash of smoke and spark!

Three monks cower beside the bell,
Nearly red-hot; faster swell,
Stifling smoke-cloud, so it smother
One by one each praying brother.

Hoo! the old pile 's gone at last!
One had thought it would stand fast.
Hurrah! for the Pope's nest burnt !
Is n't our day's pay well earnt?

Walter Thornbury.

ANTWERP.

WHEN pilgrim thoughts retrace their way

Where the lone warder, Memory, waits,

Again as in a bygone day,

I stand by Antwerp's ancient gates.

The selfsame scene my vision greets,
The ivied towers, the blackened walls;
And o'er the long and winding streets
The sunset's golden glory falls.

I pause where Rubeus silent stands,
Amid the city's busy mart,
With soul-lit brow, and folded hands,
Of Antwerp's noblest fame a part.

I meet again each Flemish face,

Which well might be the painter's theme; Nor softer eyes nor purer grace

Could haunt the poet's raptured dream.

I seek the haunts old painters sought,
Where Teniers wooed divinest art;
The spot where Quintin Matsys wrought
For Love and Fame with giant heart.

The summer's brightest sunbeams gleam
O'er hoary towers from smiling skies,
And o'er the Scheldt's delicious stream
A golden path of ripples lies.

Then as those gleams of beauty fade
And soften into twilight time,
Slow stealing through the gathering shade,
I hear the bells of vesper chime.

Down from the old cathedral tower
Their notes of dream-like music fall,

The holiest voices of the hour,

And welcomed like an angel's call.

I mingle with the crowd once more,
As in that vesper hour gone by;
And following through the arched door,
I pause amid them silently.

Through fretted arches high and dim,
I hear the organ's mighty swells,
The chorus of the chanted hymu,
And over all, the chiming bells.

The white-robed priests, the murmured prayer,
The wreathing incense o'er the crowd,
The shadowy forms of sculpture rare,
The groups in silent worship bowed.

The pictures shining through the shades,
Touched by the sunset's fading glow,
The misty light through long arcades,
The checkered marble just below.

These touch me with a dreamy spell,
As 'neath a seraph's wing I bow;
These lips of mine can never tell

The silent awe that thrills me now.

The vision fades, the ancient towers
In evening shadows fade away,
Again as in the bygone hours,
I turn upon my pilgrim' way.

O Antwerp! for that hour's dear sake
I keep thy golden memories yet;
This heart of mine must chill or break,
Ere I thy loveliness forget.

Elizabeth G. Barber.

Bruges.

THE FROLICKSOME DUKE, OR THE TINKER'S GOOD
FORTUNE.

THE following ballad is upon the same subject as the Induction to Shakespeare's "Taming of the Shrew"; whether it may be thought to have suggested the hint to the dramatic poet, or is not rather of later date, the reader must determine. The story is told of Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy.

Now

OW as fame does report, a young duke keeps a
court,

One that pleases his fancy with frolick some sport:
But amongst all the rest, here is one I protest,
Which will make you to smile when you hear the true

jest:

A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground, As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound.

The duke said to his men, William, Richard, and Ben, Take him home to my palace, we 'll sport with him then : O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd:

Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes, and hose,

And they put him to bed for to take his repose.

Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt,
They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt;
On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown,

They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown.
In the morning when day, then admiring he lay,
For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay.

Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state,
Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait;
And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare,
He desired to know what apparel he'd ware;
The poor tinker amaz'd, on the gentleman gaz'd,
And admired how he to this honour was rais'd.

Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit, Which he straitways put on without longer dispute; With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd, And it seem'd for to swell him, no little with pride; For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet wife? Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.

From a convenient place, the right duke his good grace Did observe his behaviour in every case.

To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait, Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great:

Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view, With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew.

A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests, He was plac'd at a table above all the rest,