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This tale is the versification of an old tradition in Russell's Tour through Germany. I have ventured on one or two alterations: the original makes Nero the father; and somewhat similar to the discovery of Bedreddin by his cream-tarts, in the Arabian Nights, the emperor recognizes his daughter by the flavour of a dish she alone knew how to prepare.

Is there a knight who, for love of me, Into the court below will spring, And bear from the lion the glove I fling.

This is an anecdote told of De Lorge, a knight of Francis the First's, in whose presence it took place.

And soon I deem'd the time would be, For many a chief stood leagued with me.

I know not whether it may be necessary to remark, that the period I suppose in this poem is that of the later time of chivalychivalry [sic] in Provence, when the spirit of religious enquiry was springing, Phoenix-like, from the ashes of the Albigenses.

Had been but as the lightning's shock, Shedding rich ore upon the rock.

It is a belief among some savage nations,—the North