THE ENCHANTED NET. FRANCIS EDWard Smedley. ["Frank Smedley," one of our most popular magazine writers and comic novelists, was born about the year 1830, and was the son of the late High Bailiff of Westminster. He is the author of "Lewis Arundel, or the Railway of Life" (1852), “Harry Coverdale's Courtship" (1855), "The Colville Family" (1856), and, jointly with Mr. Edmund Yates, of "Mirth and Metre," a volume of pleasant rhymes in the style of the late Rev. Harris Barham (Ingoldsby). He was the editor of "George Cruikshank's Magazine," and of "Seven Tales of Seven Authors," 1860. He died, after a brief but active literary career, in 1863.] COULD we only give credit to half we are told, Which from merely a footstep presumes the whole man) By our Savans disturbing those very large bones, Which have turned (for the rhyme's sake, perhaps) into stones, And have chosen to wait a Long while hid in strata, While old Time has been dining on empires and thrones. Old bones and dry bones, Leg-bones and thigh-bones, Bone of the vertebræ, bones of the tail, Very like, only more so, the bones of a whale; Perchance because mastodons, burly and big, Skulls have they found in strange places imbedded, headed; And other queer things,-which 'tis not my intention, Lest I weary your patience, at present to mention,— As I think I can prove, without further apology, Sir Eppo of Epstein was young, brave, and fair; Dark the moustache that o'ershadowed his lip, His seat was as firm as the wave-beaten rock; He could not read nor write, Towards being a clerk, Sir Eppo, his (†) mark, He had felt no vexation Quite a different way. The Asses' Bridge, that Bridge of Sighs, In a very few words he expressed his intention When persuaded to add, by the good Father Herman, And no doubt he was right in Those days was supposed to like nothing but fighting; Education being then never pushed to the verge ye 'Twas a southerly wind and a cloudy sky, So, pronouncing his benison He floored the best half, drank a gallon of beer, Sir Eppo he rode through the good greenwood, He knocked over a hare, and he passed the lair And he struck his steed with his armèd heel, As though horse-flesh were tougher than iron or steel, Or anything else that's unable to feel. What is the sound that meets his ear? As it sighs through the boughs of the dark pine trees? It comes more plain "Tis a woman's voice in grief or pain. Like an arrow from the string, Like a stone that leaves the sling, Like a railroad-train with a queen inside, In less time than by name you Jack Robinson can call, Here was a terrible state of things! The words that he uttered were short and few, As sternly he asked, with lowering brow, "Who's been and done it, and where is he now?" 'Twere long to tell Each word that fell From the coral lips of that demoiselle ; Having gazed on her charms with a covetous eye, Walked with the family jewels and plate, To all this confusion, Tied her up like a dog To induce her (the brute !) to become Mrs. Gog; (Which far better than taking an "Old Parr's lifepill" is), Had been dipped in the Styx, or some equally old stream, And might now face unharmed a battalion of Cold stream. But she thought of a scheme Very likely to pay-no mere vision or dream:- Or do just what one pleased, but that nothing could wake him, While each horse and each man in the emperor's pay Without magical aid, from the spot where he lay. Of poor papa's castle, was kept an heir-loom, An enchanted net, made of iron links, Which was brought from Palestine, she thinks, Approves of the plan; Says he'll do all she wishes as quick as he can; |