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Entrapped by man, still foams with useless rage,
Longs for the woods, and spurns his narrow cage;
In fierce defiance spends his captive breath,
And on his brow still glares the frown of death.
The Norman tyrant first, with jealous hand,
The ever-during fabric proudly planned;
He who by war's oppression could controul
The hand of man, but not the struggling soul;
And echoing with a trampled nation's woes
In frowning strength the massive pile arose.
Dungeon accurst, where liberty's last sigh
Unheeded oft has flown, then sought to die,
In thee we trace thy founder's various mind,
Alike to revelry and blood inclined;
Here the bright torch the festal scene illumes,
There deep below the sullen dungeon glooms,
Here crowns of gold and sceptres deck the hall,
There the sharp axe gleams grimly on the wall,
From which e'en justice vainly strives to save
The innocent, the beautiful, the brave.

Ill-fated queen! although no kindred tear Laves thy cold cheek, or glistens on thy bier, Although no spacious marble yawns for thee, Nor echoing vault shrouds thy mortality, A nation's tears thy humble grave bedew, And on the hallowed earth all votive strew Sad types, spring's earliest sweets, that withered ere

they blew.

Nor less for you, sweet guiltless pair, shall flow Compassion's tear, when each convulsive throe A kindred hand repressed, and ruthless gave Thy forms, too fair for earth, untimely to the grave.

Within thy walls the fated council sate

With recreant Gloucester in the mock debate;
When he to whom all guilt and blood were dear
Unbared his withered arm, and shouted here,
'Behold the work of sorcery!' then gave
The guilty signal, and the hireling slave

Rushed in, the dagger gleaming in his hand. The fierce assassin and his ruffian band The honest idol* of the people tore From his high seat, and soon his guiltless gore Stained thy polluted walls more deeply than before.


'Tis past, now commerce spreads her golden sails, Dares the rude blasts, and wooes the gentle gales. Force once held sway, now England's might depends On her own virtue; and her noblest ends, For which she dared the world, have been to free The hand and mind of man from slavery. Useless and vain th' embattled wall ascends, And its arched roof the gloomy dungeon bends. Not o'er the hand, but o'er the heart now reign Our genuine kings, and long shall they remain Wr thy of such a race, and monarchs of the main.



'I'LL weave me a garland,' I said, in my youth,

The choicest of flowers will I bind to my brow ;'

But no garland I found in the garden of truth,
And my brow has no garland-no garland e'en now.

'Oh! where are the garlands,' I afterwards said, That I dreamt of aforetime, so flowery and gay?' All the garlands are lost, not the flowers reared their



For in spring's frosty mornings they withered away. But a Garland I've found, that is sweeter than roses; A Garland from which my soul never shall part; This Garland has charms more than Flora's best posies, This fairest of Garlands I'll bind to my heart! U. C. K. L'E.

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THE father of Elvira possessed a small paternal estate in one of the northern counties, and married, in early life, a lady, whose birth was much superior to her fortune, and who, unhappily, possessed all the pride of the first, although it corresponded ill with the The consecomparative smallness of the latter. quences were such as might be expected without the aid of divination. Her husband was involved in an expensive style of life, which, in a few years, obliged him to sell his estate, for the liquidation of his debts. But he did not live to feel the consequent distresses of such a situation; and, after his death, his widow went to reside in a country town, where the pittance that remained after the sale of her husband's effects enabled her to educate her only child, a daughter, on the sober plan which necessity compelled her to adopt.

The town in which she resided was inhabited by several families, who had retired, like her, from a more public and expensive mode of life, and who still retained something of that polish which had been acquired from their former intercourse with the fashionable world. Elvira, therefore, (for that was the name of her daughter) was not destitute of accomplishments. She was now seventeen; and although unacquainted with high life, (with which, indeed, she did not wish to be acquainted,) she possessed a degree of goodbreeding and refinement, rather superior to what the circumstances of her mother might be supposed to


Elvira, like other young women, was not unconscious of her charms; but what was innocent vanity in her, was culpable pride in her mother, who considered the beauty of her daughter as a gift from heaven, by which the fortunes of both were to be made. She endeavoured often to impress the youthful mind of Elvira with a high opinion of its importance and effects; and to kindle her ambition by dwelling on the rank and affluence which other young ladies had obtained by

alliances to which their beauty alone had entitled them. These instances Elvira heard with more indifference than was agreeable to her mother; for she had too much good sense to imagine, that all felicity was centered in that wealth and rank, to which the hopes of her inconsiderate parent were entirely and constantly


These hopes, however, accident put it in her power to realize. At the house of one of the most fashionable of their acquaintances, (who had two daughters about Elvira's age,) they met with Arlington, a gentleman whom the lady of the house recommended particularly to them, as a man of very great fortune and extraordinary merit. Arlington was past the meridian of life. He had the look and air of a man who had seen the world, and conversed on most subjects with a degree of acute and sarcastic observation, which met with much applause from the older part of the company, but was not at all calculated to please the younger. The enthusiasm of attachment, of feeling, and of virtue, which their reading would sometimes lead them to mention, he ridiculed, as existing only in the reveries of poetry, or the fictitious heroines of romance. In a word, Elvira and her companions hated and feared him; and neither their aversion nor their fear was at all diminished by the praises, with which their mothers were lavish, of his good sense and agreeable manners.

These praises were at last addressed, with particular emphasis, to Elvira, whose mother, a day or two after, formally proposed her favourite as a husband. Arlington himself, although he paid his court chiefly to the mother, was now assiduous in his attentions to Elvira, and lavished many compliments to her charms, and protestations of his passion. These Elvira heard without much emotion; but her mother and her friend (whose guests they were) represented them as the expressions of the most fervent attachment. Elvira had formed such ideas of love as girls of her age generally do; and although she had no particular partiality to

any other person, she did not hesitate to refuse Arlington, whose behaviour, hitherto, had excited only disgust. Her refusal rendered her lover more ardent in his suit. He talked to her, in the usual commonplace language, of the anguish of his soul: to her mother he spoke in the language of the world, and increased his offers of settlement to an exorbitant degree. Her influence in his behalf was, of course, more strenuously exerted. By turns she persuaded, entreated, and threatened. She described, in animated terms, the felicities of that state, which her dear Elvira, she said, could now command. She represented the folly, as well as the cruelty, of depriving herself and her of such a comfortable establishment; and she expatiated on the good qualities and generosity of Arlington; ridiculing, at the same time, such ideas as Elvira ventured to urge as reasons for her refusal. At her time of life, accustomed to be guided by her mother, and somewhat dazzled, perhaps, by the prospect of that splendid situation which the proposed marriage afforded, it is no wonder that the resolution of Elvira was overcome. She became the wife of Arlington.

For some time Elvira seemed to find that happiness which had been described to her in such animated terms. Her husband was warm and tender in his attachment: her wishes were not only indulged, but even anticipated; and his kindness to her mother and her friends was unbounded. This behaviour excited all the gratitude of Elvira. Her husband she now regarded. She esteemed--and she wished to love him. On the birth of a son, which happened a year afterward, his tender assiduities were redoubled. Elvira was now happier, and, if possible, more grateful. She looked with ecstasy on her boy, while the fond father was caressing him; and felt for both the tenderest affection.

But she had not the good fortune to enjoy this happiness long. Some schemes of ambition, in which Arlington had engaged, diverted him from the scenes of domestic felicity, to the tumultuous attractions of

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