mightye Jesu preserue with your good lordship. From Kermerddyn, the last daye of March.

Yor lordeships to comand,
W. MENEVEN.

LUDICROUS TIMIDITY.

It is related of Aston, earl of Portland, treasurer to Charles I. that having been much importuned to procure the reversion of an office for the son of sir Julius Cæsar; the friend of the latter, in order to insure his attention to the affair, wrote on a slip of paper, "remember Cæsar." This, on being presented to the treasurer, was casually put into his pocket, and he was too much of a courtier ever to think of the matter again. A short period, however, only elapsed, before accident brought this paper again to view.

Not

remembering the circumstance that gave rise to it, he was forcibly struck with the idea of its being an indirect intimation of approaching assassination, and in order to escape Cæsar's fate after due deliberation with his tried and steady friends, he affected indisposition, ordered his gates to be closed, and allowed only the favoured few to be admitted. Guards also were placed about his house, lest a violent assault should be made upon it in the night. This affair was at length made public, and on an explanation taking place between the noble treasurer and the patron of Mr. Cæsar, a general laugh was raised at the ridiculous point of view in which the timid and irresolute conduct of the lord treasurer had placed hin.

THE DEATH-BELL.

LO! from yon hoary, time-worn fane,
Once more proceeds the last sad strain,
To parted mortals giv❜n.
Hail, solemn bell, thy accents drear
Break like soft music on my ear,

And seem to point to heav'n.
Such are the gloomy sounds I love,
As, sunk in silent grief, I rove

Those speaking stones among; And think, while oft with ling'ring tread I pace my Laura's peaceful bed,

My knell will soon be rung.

Be still, my soul: ev'n now some breast
May find perhaps a long-wish'd rest,

From torments great as thine.
Thrice happy shade, these tones of woe
Pierce not the tranquil house below:

Oh! would thy doom were mine.
The funeral comes: and see, in state
Moves onward to that friendly gate,
Whose portals ope to all;
While mark, as every passing gale
Bears from the spire the dismal tale,
The gushing anguish fall.
Weep on, ye mourners, wet the bier
With kindly drops, and scatter there

The earliest flow'rs that bloom;
So shall remembrance, when you sleep,
Bathe with soft dews the verdant heap,
And roses deck your tomb.

I cannot weep, for ah! to me
That sober, solemn luxury,

My cruel fate denies :

No more pure sympathy's clear tide

The last on Laura's grave was shed,
And there, ere long, this aching head
In Death's cold lap shall lie.
Dread tyrant! one fell shaft from thee,
For ever fix'd my destiny,

And robb'd my soul of bliss.
My fond, my dove-like maid is gone:
And thou, O parent earth! alone,
Can'st yield this bosom peace.

I mark'd her rose of life grow pale,
And endless slumber's shadowy veil
Her languid orbs o'ercast;
And while in ceaseless, fruitless pray'r,
I wearied heav'n, my saint to spare,
She kiss'd, and breath'd her last.

I caught, as faint it died away,
Her latest sigh, and sought to stay
Her spirit on its flight;

And press'd her chill damp lips to mine;
And frantic curs'd that hand divine

Which clos'd her eyes in night.

I saw her chaste unspotted clay
Enhears'd, and pass in black array,

Slow, on the church-yard road:
And went and heard the burial rite;
And gaz'd, till lost alas! to sight,
She fill'd her dark abode.

Thou too, fate's help-mate, true to trust,
I saw heap high the hallow'd dust,
And raise the narrow mound;
And heard the parting requiem toll'd,
And, deep'ning as its echoes roll'd,
O'er vaulted earth resound.

glide,

Or glitter in these eyes.

These founts are dry, which us'd to pour At pity's call the plenteous show's,

And not one tear supply:

Yet fond, in fortune's dawning hour,

The ready stroke to give! Why, on the happy, and the gay, Dost thou still urge thy fateful sway,

And leav'st the wretch to live?

But cease, my heart, this mournful tone;
Lo! from the tomb is comfort shewn,

Ev'n Death is kind at last;
He comes; and soon from mis'ry free,
Yon warning knell, unheard by me,
Shall swell the sweeping blast.
As yet, my seraph's grave is new;
Nor winter's rain, nor summer's dew,
Have cloth'd the sod with green;
Nor has the snow-drop, flow'r of spring,
Meek Nature's virgin offering,

Been on its surface seen.
Nor yet, at her unconscious head,
The humble monument is laid,

Which bears her sacred name:
It waits till mine, engraven there,
Shall ask for two the generous tear
Which sorrow's victims claim.
Then, while our blended dust decays,
Round the low ridge, with pitying gaze,
The village muse shall stray,
And pluck th' intrusive weeds that grow,
And weeping, as her numbers flow,

A pensive tribute pay.

Oft too the stranger, wand'ring.by,
O'er the plain stone shall pause and sigh,
And dwell with humid eyes;
And note the epitaph, and think
How weak life's closest, tend'rest link,
How slender earthly ties.

All this shall fail, and on that stone
Mould'ring with age, with moss o'ergrown,
The long rank grass shall wave;
Unknown whose reliques rest below,
And scarce a vestige left to show
The place once bloom'd a grave.

SONG.

AH! will those hours again return,
My joy, my bliss to prove;

Or must this heart for ever mourn
The object of its love?

Far o'er yon hills, in distant lands,

My thoughts with fondness rove; Far o'er those bills I send my sighs, To one I dearly love.

At evening's close, at parting day, 1 watch the sun-beam move, That seeks the land so far away,

I. U.

Where dwells my dearest love. W. G.

SIR EGERWENE.

Rode a knight athwart the more From Armorique, come to see Arthur, pride of chivalrie

Loud the storm and black the night,
And his horse in weary plight;
He beheld a distant gleam
Thro a castel windore beam;

Much the loftie elmies swang
As between their rowes he hight,
Wile the blaste's hollowe twang
Round the rocking towrets sang.

To the cullis-gate he rode-
Knock'd aloud-the wile he stode
Chatterde much his teeth for cold;
Frost and sleet had bleachde the wold:
Trus:ie knaves anon were scene,
They his palfrey tooke and stowde,
Leeding him by torchie's sheene
To the prow sir Egerwene..

Inne the base-court him dothe meete
The nobile hoste with friendlie greete,
As a heartie Briton wones:
"Welcome stranger for the nones,

"Lo, thie bearde doth sheene with ise, "And thie hand is numb of sleete, "Herde has beene thie wynter-ryse, "Foode and rest I shul alyse."

Then he leades the frozen wight
Where the chemnee brenneth bright,
Down the hall so high and long
His forefathers weapons hong

Yron sarkes in blacke arraye.
There I weene at dead of night
When the reddie gledes decaye
Yerne the owners ghosties straye.
Soone the slughornes calle to mele,
And the knighties tope their fele,
But at ones their glee is farre,
For a dore doth softe unbarre,

And a woman wo-for worne
Whom the blackest wedes concele,
Slowlie steppeth them beforne,
Bare her bowed head and shorne.

She was wan, but fayre to see
As the moone at full may be,

Yet did paleness gryse and glome
Ore the stonied stranger come,
From his hand the bumper fell;
For he lookte to see her gree
Soone an uglie spryte of hell
Rysing from his dysmal cell."

More and more she draweth nie,

the Metre of the original Poem

INNE the better dayes of yore

Wile twas sinne for men to whore,
And a woman might ne straye
Ene a hair breadth from the waye
Of yhallowed chastitie,

Cometh to their plenteous borde
Whyche doth onelie bredde afforde
For her much-forbidden lip,

To the vassal standing bie
Then she noddes, that he shuld trip
For she needeth drinks to sip.

Lo

Lo, he seeketh out a skulle,
Rinsed it and filled it fulle

Of the water from the spring,
And with piteous gait did bring.
Meeklie then her face she lowte;
Inne her eyne a teare upswulle,

And she shodderde, stared abowte, Drank her draught, and totterd oute. "I beswear thee, tell me, man," So the stranger-knight began,

"What this woman's sin hath beene, That thou lodest her with teene;

Of her teares the silent prayre Canst thou from thie bosom barr? She is as an aungel fayre,

Meeke and milde as children are."
"Stranger, she is fayre J knowe,
Ones did I her seeming trowe,
Hong delighted on her loke,
Thrillde for pleasaunce when she spoke,
And her honeyde wordes beleevde.
Woman's bosom who can knowe?

All her winsome lokes deceevde,
Were in falsehood's loom yweevde.
"For her love was givn and gone
To a squire that here did wone,
Whom from dole and derthe I drewe,
And upbred in gentil thewe.

After wearie warre was owre,
Homeward ones I spedde alone,

And at unawayted howro
Hastende to my wed-bed bowre.
Lo, her syghte mie eyne dismayde,
Inne the clasp of ewbrice layde,
With the squire of lowe degree;
Boiling did my anger gree.
Swyite mie righteous worde I toke,
And his pulse of life I quayde:

Her I weened to have stroke
Wile mie sowle for choler quoke.
"Botte forthwyth she did her throw
At mie feete, and to the blow
Layde her paler bosom bare.
Rathful shudders thro me fare,
And the shape of helle was come
Full of harowe to mie brow.

No, methought; I may ne dome
Her to the ycorsed home.
"And I spake: Thou shalt, beldame,
Pay the finaunce of mie shame,

Al it be thie life I spare:

Tho the fiend thy sprite shuld tare,
What have I to winne therbye?
No: with prayre, and teare, and grame,
Thou mayst earne thie peace on hye:
I rallent not til I dye.

"Then her hedde I shavde and shore,
Toke the gaudes and gems she wore,
Clad her lymbes in mourning weede,
Of her weeping had no heede;

Woes enow I make her beare.
Wilt thou knowe her painsome stoure,

From her lippes thou mayst it heare, Cheere thie spright and follow neare." MONTHLY MAG. No. 198.

Downe a narrow grese they stray,
Dank and dymme theire winding way.
"Is it to a toome we go?"
Spake the faultring stranger tho.

"What! doth feare alreadie cling To thy brest?" the knight did say:

"Harke, I heare her gittern ring; Hymnes of penaunce she doth sing." Deeper down the vault so cold, Both the knights in silence stroll'd: Suddenlie sir Egerwene

Op'd a door, and she was seene,
Bye a single lampis fleare,
Sitting in a dungeon-hold:

On her eye-lash blinks the cleare
Halie God-atoning teare.
"Bitter, bitter is her wo,"
Saith the guest as in they go.
Sternlie frown'd his British guide,
And advancing to her side

Op'd a grate with soddeyne tone,
And began therein to sho

Wher against the mildewed stone
Stood a headless skeletone.
Then he spake, "Behold the man
Who this woman's lyking wan;
Who by his advowtrous game
Brought his master's bed to shame.
Now I ween she shuld not shrink
Him from near her side to ban :

From his sighte she may not slink,
And his skull doth hold her drink."
Ere they left the dismal cell,
Did the stranger wish her well,
And a pardon for the sin
She bewailed ther within.

Then she spake with gentle moane
Thro her lippes so swole and pale:

"Yeares may not my guilt atone,
Righteouslie mye lord hath done."
Now they sought their roomes: til daye
Sleepless did the traveller laye,
The remembrance of her sight
Haunted him the livelong night;
How she by the lamp so wan
Wept and sang and preeres did saye.
Chilly sweats him overran,

Thoughts of anguish him unman,
Ere the golden howre of dawn,
On had he his armure drawn ;

Parting, to his host he sayd:
"Til thy wife in earth be layd,
Thro the sorrow undergone
Leave her not in thraldom's pawn;
I have nere a woman knone,
Half so fair and wo-begone."
And at length her gentle guise,
And her patient peaceful wise,
Won sir Egerwene to ruth
He forgave her sad untruth.
Heeded now his threat no more,

No forgiveness to alyse;

Joyed with her as of yore,
Many worthy sons she bore.

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