XVII.

to the Saint Sophia.

"And is it thus, O falsest His prayer 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 counténance 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 batteringram 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

Did to her statue turn, and thus his

woes outpour.

Hyacinth,

THINK NOT, O READER, Finis, or the
THAT WE'RE LAUGH-
ING AT YOU;

GO TO KIOFF NOW, AND
SEE THE STATUE!

My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
I have no money, I lie in pawn,
A stranger in the town of Lille.

feel,)

But where I went, and what I saw, What matters? Here I am at Lille.