Twirling his ears about, and seemed to wait, Just as he found him waiting in the wood; And told the Prior that, to alleviate

The daily labors of the brotherhood, The owner, being a man of means and thrift, 'Bestowed him on the convent as a gift.

And thereupon the Prior for many days
Revolved this serious matter in his mind,
And turned it over many different ways,

Hoping that some safe issue he might find; But stood in fear of what the world would say, If he accepted presents of this kind, Employing beasts of burden for the packs That lazy monks should carry on their backs.

Then, to avoid all scandal of the sort,

And stop the mouth of cavil, he decreed That he would cut the tedious matter short, And sell the ass with all convenient speed, Thus saving the expense of his support,

And hoarding something for a time of need. So he despatched him to the neighboring Fair, And freed himself from cumber and from care.

It happened now by chance, as some might say,
Others perhaps would call it destiny,
Gilbert was at the Fair; and heard a bray,

And nearer came, and saw that it was he,
And whispered in his ear, "Ah, lackaday!
Good father, the rebellious flesh, I see,
Has changed you back into an ass again,
And all my admonitions were in vain.”

The ass, who felt this breathing in his ear,

Did not turn round to look, but shook his head, As if he were not pleased these words to hear,

And contradicted all that had been said. And this made Gilbert cry in voice more clear,

"I know you well; your hair is russet-red; Do not deny it; for you are the same Franciscan friar, and Timothy by name."

The ass, though now the secret had come out,
Was obstinate, and shook his head again;
Until a crowd was gathered round about
To hear this dialogue between the twain;
And raised their voices in a noisy shout

When Gilbert tried to make the matter plain, And flouted him and mocked him all day long With laughter and with jibes and scraps of song.

"If this be Brother Timothy," they cried,

66

Buy him, and feed him on the tenderest grass; Thou canst not do too much for one so tried

As to be twice transformed into an ass." So simple Gilbert bought him, and untied His halter, and o'er mountain and morass He led him homeward, talking as he went Of good behavior and a mind content.

The children saw them coming, and advanced, Shouting with joy, and hung about his neck, — Not Gilbert's, but the ass's, round him danced, And wove green garlands wherewithal to deck His sacred person; for again it chanced

Their childish feelings, without rein or check,

Could not discriminate in any way

A donkey from a friar of Orders Gray.

"O Brother Timothy," the children said,

"You have come back to us just as before;
We were afraid, and thought that you were dead,
And we should never see you any more.'
And then they kissed the white star on his head,
That like a birth-mark or a badge he wore,

And patted him upon the neck and face,
And said a thousand things with childish grace.

Thenceforward and forever he was known
As Brother Timothy, and led alway
A life of luxury, till he had grown
Ungrateful, being stuffed with corn and hay,
And very vicious. Then in angry tone,
Rousing himself, poor Gilbert said one day,
"When simple kindness is misunderstood
A little flagellation may do good."

His many vices need not here be told;
Among them was a habit that he had
Of flinging up his heels at young and old,
Breaking his halter, running off like mad
O'er pasture-lands and meadow, wood and wold,
And other misdemeanors quite as bad;
But worst of all was breaking from his shed
At night, and ravaging the cabbage-bed.

So Brother Timothy went back once more
To his old life of labor and distress;
Was beaten worse than he had been before;
And now, instead of comfort and caress,

Came labors manifold and trials sore;

And as his toils increased his food grew less, Until at last the great consoler, Death, Ended his many sufferings with his breath.

Great was the lamentation when he died;
And mainly that he died impenitent;
Dame Cicely bewailed, the children cried,

The old man still remembered the event
In the French war, and Gilbert magnified
His
many virtues, as he came and went,
And said: "Heaven pardon Brother Timothy,
And keep us from the sin of gluttony."

INTERLUDE.

"SIGNOR LUIGI," said the Jew,
When the Sicilian's tale was told,
"The were-wolf is a legend old,
But the were-ass is something new,
And yet for one I think it true.
The days of wonder have not ceased;
If there are beasts in forms of men,
As sure it happens now and then,
Why may not man become a beast,
In way of punishment at least?

"But this I will not now discuss;

I leave the theme, that we may thus
Remain within the realm of song.
The story that I told before,
Though not acceptable to all,
At least you did not find too long.
I beg you, let me try again,

With something in a different vein,
Before you bid the curtain fall.
Meanwhile keep watch upon the door,
Nor let the Landlord leave his chair,
Lest he should vanish into air,
And so elude our search once more."

Thus saying, from his lips he blew
A little cloud of perfumed breath,
And then, as if it were a clew
To lead his footsteps safely through,
Began his tale as followeth.

THE SPANISH JEW'S SECOND TALE.

SCANDERBEG.

Written February 4, 1873.

THE battle is fought and won
By King Ladislaus, the Hun,
In fire of hell and death's frost,
On the day of Pentecost.
And in rout before his path
From the field of battle red
Flee all that are not dead
Of the army of Amurath.

In the darkness of the night
Iskander, the pride and boast
Of that mighty Othman host,
With his routed Turks, takes flight
From the battle fought and lost
On the day of Pentecost;