[2] The name of Antwerp, says an ingenious correspondent, at p. 287,
        vol. xiv. of The Mirror, is derived from Hand-werpen, or
        Hand-thrown:  so called from a legend, which informs us that on
        the site of the present city once stood the castle of a giant,
        who was accustomed to amuse himself by cutting off and casting
        into the river the right hands of the unfortunate wights that
        fell into his power; but that being at last conquered himself,
        his own immense hand was disposed off, with poetical justice, in
        the same way.  We quote this passage in a note, as it is only
        worthy of place beneath facts of sober history.

    [3] See Antwerp described from a Tour in South Holland in the
        Family Library, at p. 109. vol. xviii of The Mirror.

    [4] See Antwerp Cathedral, Mirror, vol. xiv, p. 286.

* * * * *

A MALTESE LEGEND.

  Hark, in the bower of yonder tower,
    What maiden so sweetly sings,
  As the eagle flies through the sunny skies
    He stayeth his golden wings;
  And swiftly descends, and his proud neck bends,
    And his eyes they stream with glare,
  And gaze with delight, on her looks so bright,
    As he motionless treads the air. 
  But his powerful wings, as she sweetly sings,
    They droop to the briny wave,
  And slowly he falls near the castle walls,
    And sinks to his ocean grave. 
  Was it arrow unseen with glancing sheen,
    The twang of the string unheard,
  Sped from hunter’s bow, that has laid him low,
    And has pierced that kingly bird? 
  That has brought his flight, from the realms of light,
    Where his hues in ether glow,
  To float for awhile in the sun’s last smile,
    Then dim to the depths below? 
  No! the pow’rful spell, that had wrought too well,
    Was sung by a maiden true,
  And it breath’d and flow’d, to her love who row’d,
    His path through the seas of blue. 
  As she saw his sail, by the gentle gale,
    Slow borne to her lofty bower,
  Her heart it beat, in her high retreat,
    She sang by a spell-bound power: 

      “Zephyr winds, with gentlest motion
      Urge his bark the blue waves o’er;
      Cease your wild and deep commotion
      Waft him safely to the shore.

      “Lovely art thou crested billow,
      On thy whiteness rests his eye,
      Thou art to his bark a pillow,
      Thou dost hear his ev’ry sigh.

      “Would I were yon dolphin dancing
      Round his fragile vessel’s stern;
      Ev’ry gaze my soul entrancing,
      I would woo him though he spurn.”