Scarce had he many paces fled, When from some brushwood popp'd a head

Most fiercely warlike, as 'tis By universal (stage) consent The custom still to represent

The "army" of Bombastes.

Up came some half-a-dozen more Bearing their leader, wounded sore, Who, while his musket cocking, Had, ere Giannone turn'd to run, Been brought down by as sure a gun As that of Leatherstocking.

They laid him on the grass hard by,
To take his chance, and live or die

Alone, for duty tore them
Away, to give the robber chase,
Whose flying form they still could trace
Some hundred yards before them.

But the gendarmes had met their match, Thinking the brigand chief to catch

They nearly caught a Tartar; They ran, but he had got the start, And though their pace was pretty smart,

Yet Stefano's was smarter.

And he could run and fire too,
A feat they tried in vain to do,

Dame Fortune seem'd t' assist him; His shots all told, but strange to say, Though in their turn they blazed away, Yet every bullet miss'd him.

Straining each nerve to keep the lead,
And putting on new steam and speed,
A bright idea cross'd him-

A scheme, to gain both breath and time:
He darted on, they saw him climb

A hill, and there they lost him.

They follow'd close upon their prey,
The lake Agnano 'neath them lay,

Their path was rough and stony; But down they scrambled, one by one, And by the lake they found a gun,

But nowhere Giannone.

They stopp'd and stared in mute surprise, Open'd their mouths and rubb'd their eyes,

In meditation moody: No wonder if they did look glum, "Twas hard to lose so rich a sum, Five hundred Roman scudi. Uncertain whither next to go, They wander'd slowly to and fro, With little hope to cheer them, When all at once a dismal howl, Something between a bark and growl, Resounded very near them.

Another, and another too

Nil desperandum, for their guide,
They traced the sound, until they spied,
Scarce ten yards off, a grotto.

Not built of shells, nor clothed in green,
As in our gardens oft are seen,

Which ladies take a pride in :
No work of art, but rude and bare,
Not lined with ore and pebbles rare,
But just the place to hide in.

And there poor Stefano was found,
Holding his dog's head to the ground,
With many a vain endeavour
To silence him, for still he growl'd,
And kick'd and plunged, and bark'd and
howl'd,

More savagely than ever.

The soldiers rush'd upon their prey,
And then began a fierce affray

Ere they could seize and bind him :
Full many a blow he dealt around,
Until they bore him to the ground,

And tied his hands behind him.

But while they held him, stooping low, Exulting o'er their prostrate foe,

Whose coolness still provoked them, From the damp earth an odour rose Of sulphur, filling eyes and nose,

That very nearly choked them.

They cough'd, and sneezed, and groped about,

Sprang on their feet, and hurried out
With senses far from steady,
Like men benighted in a fog,
Gendarmes and brigand, but no dog,
For he was dead already.

To Naples, with triumphant air,
They bore the robber chief, and there

To" durance vile" convey'd him;
While in that cavern drear and dark
Lay the poor dog, whose luckless bark
Unconsciously betray'd him.

From ear to ear the tidings flew,
And people came the spot to view

Whose wondrous hist'ry thrill'd them; And brought their dogs to ease all doubt, Taking good care to pull them out

Before the sulphur kill'd them.

Ere long, a shrewd and cunning knave Hard by the entrance of the cave

Took up his daily station, And volunteer'd, (a fee to win,) Presto, to let his dog go in

For a "consideration."

And still, as every trav'ller knows, Each tourist to la grotta goes,

With Starke for cicerone;

They see a dog half-choked, but few

Then, taking Teucer's motto,

Of Stefano Giannone.

The quarrel between lill Sommers and Patch in the great kitchen of the Castle.