He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state;
When, lo! a Hercules in Fox appear'd,
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd:
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied,
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far-extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue,
To give the palm where Justice points it due;"
Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail,

Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.
Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep;
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes alike his talents own;
Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine,
Nor e'en to PITT the patriot's palm resign,
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dared to ask.(1)

THE TEAR.

"O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater

Felix in imo qui scatentem

Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.”— Gray.
WHEN Friendship or Love our sympathies move,
When Truth in a glance should appear,
The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection's a Tear.

Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile,

To mask detestation or fear;

Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear.

Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer,

As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be his grave,
The green sparkles bright with a Tear.

The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath
In Glory's romantic career;

But he raises the foe when in battle laid low,
Aud bathes every wound with a Tear.

If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride,
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear,

All his toils are repaid when, embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.

Sweet scene of my youth! (2) seat of Friendship and Truth,

Where love chased each fast-fleeting year,
Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look I turn'd,
But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.
Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more,
My Mary, to Love once so dear,

In the shade of her bower I remember the hour
She rewarded those vows with 2 Tear.

By another possest, may she live ever blest!
Her name still my heart must revere:

Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near:
If again we shall meet in this rural retreat,
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.
When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night,
And my corse shall recline on its bier,

As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.

May no marble bestow the splendour of woe
Which the children of vanity rear;

No fiction of fame shall blazon my name,
All I ask-all I wish-is a Tear.

REPLY

October 26th, 1906.

TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE
CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS.

WHY, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain,
Why thus in despair do you fret?

For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh
Will never obtain a coquette.

Would you teach her to love? for a time seem to rove;
At first she may frown in a pet;

But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile,
And then you may kiss your coquette.

For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs,
They think all our homage a debt:
Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect,
And humbles the proudest coquette.
Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain,
And seem her hauteur to regret;

If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny
That yours is the rosy coquette.

If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride,
This whimsical virgin forget;

Some other admire, who will melt with your fire,
And laugh at the little coquette.

For me, I adore some twenty or more,

And love them most dearly; but yet,
Though my heart they enthral, I'd abandon them all,
Did they act like your blooming coquette.

No longer repine, adopt this design,
And break through her slight-woven net;
Away with despair, no longer forbear

To fly from the captious coquette.
Then quit her, my friend! your bosom defend,
Ere quite with her snares you're beset:
Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by the
smart,

Should lead you to curse the coquette.

October 27th, 1806.

TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. YOUR pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend, Your pardon, a thousand times o'er; From friendship I strove your pangs to remove, But I swear I will do so no more.

(1) The "illiberal impromptu" appeared in the Morning Post, and Lord Byron's "reply" in the Morning Chronicle. (2) Harrow.

Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid,
No more I your folly regret;

She's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine
Of this quickly-reform'd coquette.

Yet still, I must own, I should never have known
From your verses, what else she deserved;
Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate,
As your fair was so devilish reserved.

Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical miss
Can such wonderful transports produce;
Since the world you forget, when your lips once
have met,"

My counsel will get but abuse.

You say, when I rove, I know nothing of love;"
'Tis true, I am given to range:

If I rightly remember, I've loved a good number,
Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change.

I will not advance, by the rules of romance,
To humour a whimsical fair;

Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't affright,
Or drive me to dreadful despair.

While my blood is thus warm I ne'er shall reform,
To mix in the Platonist's school;

Of this I am sure, was my passion so pure,
Thy mistress would think me a fool.

And if I should shun every woman for one,
Whose image must fill my whole breast-
Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her-
What an insult 't would be to the rest!

Now, Strephon, good bye; I cannot deny
Your passion appears most absurd;
Such love as you plead is pure love indeed,
For it only consists in the word.

TO ELIZA. (1)

ELIZA, what fools are the Mussulman sect,
Who to woman deny the soul's future existence!
Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect,
And this doctrine would meet with a general re-
sistance.

Had their Prophet possess'd half an atom of sense,
He ne'er would have women from paradise driven;
Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence!

With women alone he had peopled his heaven.'

(1) Miss Elizabeth Pigot, of Southwell, to whom several of Lord Byron's earliest letters were addressed.-L. E.

(2) Lachin y Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch-na-Garr, towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near lavereauld. One of our modern tourists mentions it as the highest mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain. Be this as it may, it is certainly one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our "Caledonian Alps." Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near Lachin y Gair I spent some of the early part of my life, the recollection of which has given birth to these stanzas.

[“As a picturesque object, few mountains in the Grampian range are more interesting than Lachin y Gair. Though its summit stretches horizontally to a great extent, it is far from presenting a heavy or inelegant contour, for even where its broad front is displayed to the spectator, the brow of it is diversified by gentle inflections or pointed asperities. The most sublime feature of Lachin y Gair consists in those immense perpendicular cliffs of granite which give such impressive grandeur to its north-eastern aspect. This stu

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd; My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; (3) On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd, As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade: I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. "Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale. Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car:

Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.

"Ill starr'd, (4) though brave, did no visions foreboding Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?" Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, (5)

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause: Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber,

You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar; (6) The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number, Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.

pendous precipice extends upwards of a mile and a half in length, and its height is from 950 to 1300 feet." Robson's Scenery of the Grampians.-P. E.}

(3) This word is erroneously pronounced plad: the proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the orthography.

(4) I allude here to my maternal ancestors, "the Gordons," many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the Stuarts. George, the second Earl of Huntly, married the Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James the First of Scotland. By her he left four sons; the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the honour to claim as one of my progenitors.

(5) Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden, I am not certain; but, as many fell in the insurrection, 1 have used the name of the principal action, “pars pro toto."

(6) A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a Castle of Braemar.

Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved on the mountains afar:
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr!(1)

TO ROMANCE.

PARENT of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious queen of childish joys,
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,

Thy votive train of girls and boys;
At length, in spells no longer bound,
I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,

But leave thy realms for those of Truth.
And yet 't is hard to quit the dreams

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems,
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,
And all assume a varied hue;
When virgins seem no longer vain,

And even woman's smiles are true.
And must we own thee but a name,
And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a sylph in every dame,

A Pylades (2) in every friend?
But leave at once thy realms of air
To mingling bands of fairy elves;
Confess that woman 's false as fair,

And friends have feeling for-themselves?
With shame I own I've felt thy sway;
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er:
No more thy precepts I obey,

No more on fancied pinions soar.
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,

And think that eye to truth was dear;
To trust a passing wanton's sigh,

And melt beneath a wanton's tear!
Romance! disgusted with deceit,
Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
And sickly Sensibility:

(I) In The Island, a poem written a year or two before Lord Byron's death, we have these lines:

"He who first met the Highland's swelling blue Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue, Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face, And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. Long have roam'd through lands which are not mine, Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine, Revered Pernassus, and beheld the steep Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep: But it was not all long ages' lore, nor all Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall; The inant rapture still survived he boy, And Loch na Garr with Ida look'd o'er Troy, Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount, And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount." "When very young," (he adds in a note) "about eight years of age, after an attack of the scarlet fever at Aberdeen, I was removed, by medical advice, into the Highlands, and from this period I date my love of mountainous countries. I can never forget the effect, a few years afterwards, in England, of the only thing I had long seen, even in miniaature, of a mountain, in the Malvern Hills. After I returned to Cheltenham, I used to watch them every afternoon, at sunset, with a sensation which I cannot describe."-L. E.

Whose silly tears can never flow

For any pangs excepting thine; Who turns aside from real woe,

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. Now join with sable Sympathy,

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; And call thy sylvan female choir,

To mourn a swain for ever gone,
Who once could glow with equal fire,

But bends not now before thy throne.
Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears
On all occasions swiftly flow;
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
With fancied flames and frenzy glow;
Say, will you mourn my absent name,
Apostate from your gentle train?
An infant bard at least may claim
From you a sympathetic strain.
Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!

The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
E'en now the gulf appears in view,
Where unlamented you must lie:
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather; Where you, and eke your gentle queen, Alas! must perish altogether.

ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN.

"But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician,
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If good Madam Squintem my work should abuse,
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?"
New Bath Guide.

CANDOUR Compels me, BECHER! (3) to commend
The verse which blends the censor with the friend;
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause.
For this wild error which pervades my strain,

I sue for pardon,-must I sue in vain?
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart,
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart?

In "The Adieu" (published among his occasional pieces), Lord Byron again mentions Lachin y Gair, or Loch-na-Garr, in a manner that marks the impressions made upon his feelings by the scenes of his boyhood:

"Adieu, ye mountains of the clime,
Where grew my youthful years;
Where Loch-na-Garr, in snows sublime,

His giant summit rears."—P. E.

(2) It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which, with those of Achilles and Patroclus, Nigus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, have been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of attachments which, in all probability, never existed beyond the imagination of the poet, or the page of an historian, or modern aovenst.

(3) The Rev. John Becher, prebendary of Southwell, the well-known author of several philanthropic plans for the amelioration of the condition of the poor. In this gentleman the youthful poet found not only an honest and judicious critic, but a sincere friend. To his care the superintendence of the second edition of Ilours of Idleness, during its progress through a country press, was intrusted, and at his suggestion several corrections and omissions were made.

Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control,
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind,
Limping Decorum lingers far behind:
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase.
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love,
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove:
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power
Their censures on the hapless victim shower.
Oh! how I hate the nerveless frigid song,
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng,
Whose labour'd lines in chilling numbers flow,
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know!
The artless Helicon I boast is youth;-
My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simple truth.
Far be't from me the "virgin's mind" to "taint:"
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint.
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile,
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile,
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer,
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe--
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine
Will ne'er be "tainted" by a strain of mine.
But for the nymph whose premature desires
Torment her bosom with unholy fires,
No net to snare her willing heart is spread;
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read.
For me, I fain would please the chose few,
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true,
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy
The light effusions of a heedless boy.
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd;
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud:
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize,
Their sneers or censures I alike despise.

November 26, 1806.

ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY. (1) "It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me with all their deeds."-Ossian.

NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome!

Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY'S (2) pride! Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb, Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide:

Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall

Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state;

"I must return you," says Lord Byron, in a letter written in February, 1808, "my best acknowledgments for the interest you have taken in me and my poetical bantlings, and I shall ever be proud to show how much I esteem the advice and the adviser."-L. E.

To Mr. Becher, as we learn from Moore's Life, was presented the first copy of Lord Byron's early poetical effusions, p inted for private circulation amongst his friends. The Reverend gentleman, in looking over its pages, among many things to commend and admire, as well as some almost too boyish to criticise, found one poem in which, as it appeared to him, the imagination of the young hard had indulged itself in a luxuriousness of colouring beyond what even youth could excuse. Immediately, as the most gentle mode of conveying his opinion, he sat down and addressed to Lord Byron some expostulatory verses on the subject, to which the poetical "answer" now before the reader was as promptly returned by the noble poet, with, at the same time, a note in plain prose, to say that he felt fully the jus tice of his friend's censure, and that, rather than allow the poem in question to be circulated, he would instantly recall all the copies that had been sent out, and cancel the whole

Proudly najestic frowns thy vaulted hall,
Scowl ng defiance on the blasts of fate.

No mail-clad serfs (3), obedient to their lord,
In grim array the crimson cross (4) demand;
Or gay assemble round the festive board

Their chief's retainers, an immortal band:
Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye
Retrace their progress through the lapse of time,
Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die
A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime.

But not from thee, dark pile! departs the chief;
His feudal realm in other regions lay:

In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,,
Retiring from the garish blaze of day.

Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound
The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view;
Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found,
Or innocence from stern oppression flew.

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise,
Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl;
And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes,

Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl.
Where now the grass exhales a murky dew,
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay,
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew,

Nor raised their pious voices but to pray.

Where now the bats their wavering wings extend,
Soon as the gloaming (5) spreads her waning shade,
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Mary (6) paid.

Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield;

Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed: Religion's charter their protecting shield Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.

One holy HENRY rear'd the gothic walls,

And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another HENRY (7) the kind gift recalls,

And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease.
Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer;
He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
To roam a dreary world in deep despair-

No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God.

impression. On the very same evening, this prompt sacrifice was carried into effect. Mr. Becher saw every copy of the edition burned, with the exception of that which he retained in his own possession, and another which had been de spatched to Edinburgh, and could not be recalled.-P. E.

(1) As one poem on this subject is already printed, the author had, originally, no intention of inserting the following. It is now added, at the particular request of some friends.

(2) Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas à Becket. [See ante, p. 3. c. 1. note 2.—P. E.] (3) This word is used by Walter Scott, in his pocin, “The Wild Huntsman," as synonymous with vassal.

(4) The red cross was the badge of the crusaders. (5) As gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, is fur more poetical, and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly by Dr. Moore in his Letters to Burns, I have ventured to use it on account of its harmony. (6) The priory was dedicated to the Virgin. (7) At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. (See ante, p. 3. c. 1. note 2.—P. E ]

Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain,
Shakes with the martial music's novel din!
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,

High-crested banners wave thy walls within.
Of changing sentinels the distant hum,

The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms, The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum, Unite in concert with increased alarms.

An abbey once, a regal fortress (1) now,

Encircled by insulting rebel powers,

War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening brow,
And dart destruction in sulphureous showers.
Ah vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege,

Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave;
His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege,
Rebellion's recking standards o'er him wave.
Not unavenged the raging baron yields;

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain;
Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields,
And days of glory yet for him remain.
Still in that hour the warrior wished to strew
Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave;
But Charles' protecting genius hither flew,

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. Trembling, she snatched him (2) from the unequal In other fields the torrent to repel;

[strife,

For nobler combats, here, reserved his life,
To lead the band where godlike FALKLAND (3) fell.

From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given,

While dying groans their painful requiem sound,
Far different incense now ascends to heaven,
Such victims wallow on the gory ground.

There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse,
Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod;
O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse,
Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod.

Here Desolation holds her dreary court:
What satellites declare her dismal reign!
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omened birds resort,
To fit their vigils in the hoary fane.
Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel
The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies;
The fierce usurper seeks his native hell,

And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies.
With storms she welcomes his expiring groans;

Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath; Earth shudders as her caves receive his bones, Loathing (4) the offering of so dark a death.

The legal ruler (5) now resumes the helm,

He guides through gentle seas the prow of state;
Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm,
And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hate.
The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells,
Howling, resign their violated nest;
Again the master on his tenure dwells,
Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest.
Vassals, within thy hospitable pale,

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return;
Culture again adorns the gladdening vale,
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.
A thousand songs on tuneful echo float,

Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees;
And hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note,

The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake:

What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase! The dying stag seeks refuge in the Lake; (6) Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race.

Ab happy days! too happy to endure!

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew: No splendid vices glitter'd to allure;

Their joys were many, as their cares were few.

Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould:

From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead,
Raked from repose in search for buried gold.

Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre,
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death;
No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire,
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath.

At length the sated murderers, gorged with pray,
Retire; the clamour of the fight is o'er;
Silence again resumes her awful sway,

And sable Horror guards the massy door.

(1) Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between Charles I. and his parliament.

(2) Lord Byron, and his brother Sir William, held high commands in the royal army. The former was general in chief in Ireland, lieutenant of the Tower, and governor to James, Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James II.; the latter had a principal share in many actions.

(3) Lucius Carey, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished man of his age, was killed at the battle of Newbury, charging in the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry.

(4) This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred immediately subsequent to the death or interment of Cromwell, which occasioned many disputes between his partisans and the Cavaliers: both interpreted the circumstance into

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart; Another chief impels the foaming steed,

Another crowd pursue the panting hart.

Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine!
Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay;
The last and youngest of a noble line

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway.
Deserted now, he scans thy grey worn towers;
Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep;
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers;

These, these he views, and views them but to weep.

divine interposition; but whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave to the ensuists of that age to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject of my poem.

(5) Charles II.

(6) During the lifetime of the fifth Lord Byron, there was found in this Lake-where it is supposed to have been thrown for concealment by the Monks a large brass eagle, in the body of which, on its being sent to be cleaned, was discovered a secret aperture, concealing within it a number of ancient documents connected with the rights and privileges of the foundation. At the sale of the old Lord's effects, in 1776, this eagle was purchased by a watchmaker of Nottingham; and it now forms, through the liberality of Sir Richard Kaye, an appropriate ornament of the fine old church of Southwell.-L. E.