King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride,
And ’mong them sat the Count de Lorge with one for whom he sighed: 
And truly ’twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour, and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramp’d and roar’d the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind
went with their paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another,
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air;
Said Francis then, “Faith, gentlemen, we’re better here than there.”

De Lorge’s love o’erheard the King,—­a beauteous lively dame
With smiling lips and sharp, bright eyes, which always seem’d the same: 
She thought, “The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be;
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me;
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I’ll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.”

She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then look’d
at him and smiled;
He bowed, and in a moment leapt among the lions wild: 
His leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain’d his place,
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady’s face. 
“Well done!” cried Francis, “bravely done!” and he rose
from where he sat: 
“No love,” quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a task like that.”

LEIGH HUNT.

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.

I found the Well of St. Keyne in Cornwall, England—­not the poem, but
the real well.  The poem is of the great body of world-lore.  Southey
(1774-1843).

    A well there is in the west country,
      And a clearer one never was seen;
    There is not a wife in the west-country
      But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

    An oak and an elm tree stand beside,
      And behind does an ash tree grow,
    And a willow from the bank above
      Droops to the water below.

    A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne: 
      Pleasant it was to his eye,
    For from cock-crow he had been travelling
      And there was not a cloud in the sky.

    He drank of the water so cool and clear,
      For thirsty and hot was he,
    And he sat down upon the bank,
      Under the willow tree.

    There came a man from the neighbouring town
      At the well to fill his pail;
    On the well-side he rested it,
      And bade the stranger hail.

   “Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?” quoth he,
     “For an if thou hast a wife,
    The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day
      That ever thou didst in thy life.