118 ON RE-VISITING A FAVOURITE SCENE IN WINTER. 



another in expectancy ; the fawn was a favourite, but dead, it was venison, 

 and might meet the fate of venison ; Crepu was an old officer, a bluff 

 fellow, an exquisite painter, and a jovial disciple of Bacchus. Well — 

 well — there was no making head against this; his Serene Highness 

 mollified ; Crepu's friends, with whom he had dined prior to the rash 

 deed, were sprigs of nobility; they hastened down to the palace, 

 quaffed bumpers of Burgundy with the governor, ' soothed him with 

 their sallies of wit, and finally whispered the midnight mistake as de- 

 tailed to them under the painter's own sign manual from the cellar in 

 which he lay perdu solacing him with the juice of the grape. The 

 Governor fell back in his chair with laughter, and the tragedy ended 

 most unexpectedly in broad farce and salt venison pasty, of which Crepu 

 partook largely, washing it down so liberally with potations of sack, 

 that he grew desperate in his courage, and set the table in uproars with 

 the comic narrative of his rencontre. 



And here we might pause, if we were not bound to relate that the 

 clever part taken by Hans in the disposition of the deceased, so won the 

 whimsical fancy of the rich old diamond-merchant whose daughter he 

 had long privately wooed, that the fairest and wealthiest bride in all 

 Brussels was that day twelvemonth the bride of Hans Van Glocken- 

 thorn. * « ♦ 



ON RE-VISITING A FAVOURITE SCENE IN WINTER. 



The woodlands weep their glory past; 

 Yon bower bends leafless to the blast ; 

 And wintry ruin deepens fast 



O'er the fair scene in memory cherished. 

 Oh yet to me, these woods are dear, 

 Though cold to common eyes and drear ; 

 And yet that little bower can charm, 

 Though stripped by winter's ruthless arm : 

 For fond remembrance clothes each scene 

 In foliage ever fresh and green, 



Though all its summer bloom have perished. 



When dim thine eye, O lady, grows ; 



When droops the lily, — fades the rose 



On thy dear cheek ; and with the snows 

 Of age, thy honoured head is hoary : 



Memory shall give thy faded face 



A softer and more touching grace. 



Oh then, shall thine age-stricken form 



Wake homage tender and as warm,— 



Of holy love as ardent zeal,— 



As he who loves thee, now may fee\y 

 Though thou art in youth's spring-tide glory. 



F. F. 



