So vast and fearful, that transfix'd and pale
They stood, with wild amaze o'ertaken :--
The vessel trembles, and the shivering sail
Flaps as if with terror shaken.
Entranced they gazed-and silent till

Phlias, the son of Bacchus, seized his bow, And would have aim'd it at the feather'd foe, But Mopsus, gifted with an augur's skill,

Gently held back his arm, and bade him wait This dread portent-pronounce no word, Nor dare to challenge Jove's own bird, The minister of unrelenting fate. Extending now his oar-like wings, Twice round the ship the monster swings, As if prepared to pounce upon his prey; His eyes from forth their sable shroud Shot fire, like lightning from a cloud;

But with a sudden dart he rush'd away, And clove the northward distance, where The heights of Caucasus their barrier throw, Where crag on crag, chaotic giants bare Their granite foreheads to the sky, and sit

In desolate state beneath their crowns of snow. Within these topmost peaks, there is a pit,— A dizzy, gaunt, precipitous ravine, Upon whose rocky floor environ'd round

With walls of ice-by every eye unseen,

With adamantine chains Prometheus lies bound.

Thither the ravenous wonder wing'd his flight.-
They saw him clear the intervening height,
And sink behind it :-every eye

Is fix'd upon the spot, and every heart
Throbs with expectant agony,-
But nought is seen-no sounds impart
The secret of that dread abyss :-
Still do they gaze, half-willing to dismiss

Their fears and hopes, for over plain, and hill,
And smiling ocean-all is hush'd and still.

Gracious God, what a shriek !
The monster with his beak

Is tearing out his victim's heart!
Lo! as that desolating cry
Echoes from the mountains nigh,
And throws its fear afar, a start

Of horror seems to darken Nature's face.-
Athwart the quaking deep,

Revolting shudders creep,

Earth trembles to her very base

Air seems to swoon-the sky to frown

The sun with ghastly glare shrinks faster down.

Hark! what a furious clash of chains!

Victim thou never can'st unlock

The brazen bolts that root thee to the rock;
Vain are thy struggles and convulsive strains.
Ah me! what dreadful groans are those,

Wrung from the very depths of agonies;— Now weaker moanings rise, till, worn with woes, The fainting wretch exhausted lies,

And all again is grim repose.

But still with thrilling breasts and steadfast eyes
The heroes gazed upon the mountain's peak,
Till gorged with gore they saw the monster rise
With blood-stain'd claws, and breast, and beak;
And as above them he resumed his flight,
Th' arrested vessel shakes,

The flapping main-sail quakes,

And all seem'd turn'd to statues at the sight.

All but the son of Bacchus, who

With flashing eyes and visage red, Again uprear'd his bow, and drew

His longest arrow to the head,—

When from the eagle's beak a drop of gore

(The heart's blood of Prometheus) fell
Warm on his hand! upon the vessel's floor

Down falls his bow-with shuddering yell,
And haggard eyes still staring on the drop,
He staggers back, clasping the mast to prop
His fainting limbs. Upon the pilot's forehead
The dews of terror stood,

And all in awe-struck mood

Ponder'd in silence on that omen horrid.

The sun went down, and far into the gloom
The monster shot away,-but none

Of the bewilder'd Argonauts resume

The vessel's guidance as her way she won.-
None spake none moved-all sate in blank dismay,
Revolving in their minds this dread portent;
And thus, abandon'd to the sway

Of the blind wind and watery element,

Through the whole silent night the Argo bore
Those throbbing hearts along the Pontic shore.

THE BAPTISM OF THE BELLS.

"I began to smoke that they were a parcel of mummers." ADDISON.

"WHO has e'er been at Paris must needs know the Grêve," says the old song; and according to the same authority we may conclude, that who has e'er been at Versailles must needs know the Cathedral of St. Louis, though it may not be of the same universal notoriety to English visitants, that, during the period of revolu

tionary madness, its spacious and handsome interior was not only converted into a public corn-market, but four of its bells being suspected of having royal epigraphs engraven upon their surface, and absolutely convicted of being worth a considerable sum of money, were dismounted from the belfry, to the great dismay of all good Catholics and sincere admirers of "triple bob majors." The two that were left, albeit sadly disheartened by the loss of the companions with whom they had so often rung the merry chimes of gladness, continued, under the pious reign of Napoleon, to invite the good folks of the Quartier de St. Louis to come to church or go to be buried, until the happy period of the Restoration, when it became distinctly audible to all those who had Whittingtonian ears, that they called aloud with their iron tongues for the completion of the restoration in the belfry, by procuring substitutes for their four dethroned sisters. To this affecting appeal the faithful were not slow in reply, especially, as the vicar-general, the grand vicar, the canons, choristers, and vergers, were all supremely scandalized (" tantæne cœlestibus iræ ?") that they should have only two bells in active service, while the neighbouring church of Notre Dame possessed its full complement. Could the want have been supplied from their own funds, I verily believe there would have been no hesitation in appropriating them to so pathetic a claim; but as they were only rich in good works, fine garments, and sounding titles, it was resolved that a subscription should be opened for the purpose, that the Curé should address a circular letter

to his parishioners announcing the fact, and that the Sœurs de Charité, worthy nuns so called, and who are always foremost in every work of pious charity, should go round pour faire la Quête. In his printed missive, the Curé began by noticing, in a bantering strain, the obvious tone of lamentation and ululation lately assumed by the two sisterless bells; proceeded to inculcate, with more solemnity, the imperative duty of restoring the deficient appurtenances of the church; but couched his whole letter in that character of familiar good-humour, and even gaiety, which accompanies all their religious exercises, and forms so striking a contrast to the austerity, gloom, and mortification of English observances. In their black flannel dresses with white stomachers, white cloth caps with long lappets, and belts round their waists supporting rosaries, crucifixes, bunches of keys, relics, lucky halfpence with holes in them, and other trumpery, the Sisters of Charity went their rounds, collecting with such unexampled success, that, according to the accounts of the French, (who, however, are somewhat given to exaggeration,) they have more than once extracted ten francs from a single house, which did not perhaps contain more than a dozen respectable families. Of course the mass of the offerings assumed the less ambitious form of copper, of which humble material a sufficient quantity was collected, after a long and tedious delay, to authorise the casting of the bells. This happy consummation was announced to the subscribers by a little pamphlet from the Curé, informing them that the bells were to be consecrated on the 6th