His prayer to the

Saint Sophia.

XVII.

"And is it thus, O falsest of the saints, Thou hearest our complaints?

Tell me, did ever my attachment falter

To serve thy altar?

Was not thy name, ere ever I did sleep,
The last upon my lip?

Was not thy name the very first that broke
From me when I awoke?

Have I not tried with fasting, flogging, penance,
And mortified countenance

For to find favor, Sophy, in thy sight?
And lo! this night,

Forgetful of my prayers, and thine own promise,

Thou turnest from us;

Lettest the heathen enter in our city,

And, without pity,

Murder our burghers, seize upon their spouses,
Burn down their houses!

Is such a breach of faith to be endured?

See what a lurid

Light from the insolent invader's torches

Shines on your porches !

E'en now, with thundering battering-ram and hammer
And hideous clamor ;

With axemen, swordsmen, pikemen, billmen, bowmen, The conquering foemen,

O Sophy! beat your gate about your ears,

Alas! and here's

A humble company of pious men,

Like muttons in a pen,

Whose souls shall quickly from their bodies be thrusted, Because in you they trusted.

Do you not know the Calmuc chief's desires

And

KILL ALL THE FRIARS!

you of all the saints most false and fickle,
Leave us in this abominable pickle."

"RASH HYACINTHUS!"

The statue suddenlie speaks;

(Here, to the astonishment of all her backers, Saint Sophy, opening wide her wooden jaws,

Like to a pair of German walnut-crackers, Began) "I did not think that you had been thus, O monk of little faith! Is it because

A rascal scum of filthy Cossack heathen

Besiege our town, that you distrust in me, then?
Think'st thou that I, who in a former day
Did walk across the Sea of Marmora
(Not mentioning, for shortness, other seas),-
That I, who skimmed the broad Borysthenes,
Without so much as wetting of my toes,

Am frightened at a set of men like those?
I have a mind to leave you to your fate:
Such cowardice as this my scorn inspires.”

But is interrupted

by the breaking in

of the Cossacks.

Saint Sophy was here

Cut short in her words,

For at this very moment in tumbled the gate,

And with a wild cheer,

And a clashing of swords,

Swift through the church porches,

With a waving of torches,

And a shriek, and a yell,

Like the devils of hell,

With pike and with axe

In rushed the Cossacks,

In rushed the Cossacks, crying, "MURDER
THE FRIARS !

Of Hyacinth, his

outrageous address, Ah! what a thrill felt Hyacinth,

When he heard that villanous shout Calmuc!

Now, thought he, my trial beginneth;
"Saints, O give me courage and pluck!
Courage, boys, 'tis useless to funk!

Thus unto the friars he began,
Never let it be said that a monk

Is not likewise a gentleman.

Though the patron saint of the church,

Spite of all that we've done and we've prayed,
Leaves us wickedly here in the lurch,

Hang it, gentlemen, who's afraid?"

As thus the gallant Hyacinthus spoke,

He with an air as easy and as free as
If the quick-coming murder were a joke,
Folded his robes around his sides, and took
Place under sainted Sophy's legs of oak,

Like Cæsar at the statue of Pompeius.
The monks no leisure had about to look
(Each being absorbed in his particular case),
Else had they seen with what celestial grace,

And prepara

tion for dying.

A wooden smile stole o'er the saint's mahogany face.

um

"Well done, well done, Hyacinthus, my

66

son !

Thus spoke the sainted statue.

Though you doubted me in the hour of need,

And spoke of me very rude indeed,

You deserve good luck for showing such pluck,
And I won't be angry at you."

The monks by-standing, one and all,

Of this wondrous scene beholders,

Saint Sophia,

her speech.

She gets on the prior's shoulders straddleback,

And bids him run.

To this kind promise listened content,
And couldn't contain their astonishment,
When Saint Sophia moved and went
Down from her wooden pedestal,

And twisted her legs, sure as eggs is eggs,
Round Hyacinthus's shoulders!

"Ho! forwards," cries Sophy," there's no time for waiting,

The Cossacks are breaking the very last gate in:

See the glare of their torches shines red through the grating;

We've still the back door, and two minutes or more. Now, boys, now or never, we must make for the river, For we only are safe on the opposite shore.

Run swiftly to-day, lads, if ever you ran,

Put out your best leg, Hyacinthus, my man:

And I'll lay five to two that you carry us through,
Only scamper as fast as you can."

Away went the priest through the little back door,
And light on his shoulders the image he bore:

The honest old priest was not punished the least, Though the image was eight feet, and he measured four.