dread of them, that, according to M. Bosc, it is almost impossible to compel a horse or a dog to advance towards them.

The number at present in the Tower exceeds a hundred, varying from four to six feet in length, and differing very considerably from each other both in colour and markings.' One of these is represented in the cut at the head of this article.

THE DEATH OF EPAMINONDAS.

HUSHED be the trumpet's tongue,
And mute the requiems of the mighty dead,
While the rock-eagle, on his dark wing swung,
Unto his feast of blood and flesh hath sped.

The shout, and rush, and blast,

Of thirsty carnage fade upon the air,

Leaving a trace, where'er their foot hath passed,
Of the unholy strife which hath been there.

And warriors, in their might,
With the good falchion in their red right hand,
And Theba's hardy freeman, young, and bright
In arms, are stiffening on th' ensanguined land.
There is no sleepy cloud
Upon yon starry heaven of blue; all fair

And soft, it smiles upon the bloody shroud
That war wraps round her children's laurelled bier.
And the wild shout of joy

Is ringing echoes through the vasty sky,
Making the caverns of the hills reply,
In answering thunder as it travels by.

Heard you that gloomy note Commingling with the victor's glorious song?-Wailing and sorrow! Stifling sounds that float To drown the high hopes of the free and young. Conquest folds up its wing

Of palmy pride; and triumph's haughty eye
Is darkened, for those notes of sadness bring
Mourning unto the heart of victory.

My sword was at my side,

-And my bared lance, that glistened with each deed
That morn had done, kept its own place of pride,
For it had served me well in hour of need.

And by my chief I stood,

With the death-cry of myriads passing on,
As the avenger of th' immortal blood
Which flowed from freedom's most beloved son.

His helm was from his brow,

And his fierce blade lay harmless on the plain,
And on his sacred shield he lay, as though
It bore him to the battle-field again.

His warriors were around,

And in their eye was sparkling the soft tear,

Dewing, with freemen's grief, the hallowed ground, Where, in its glory, stood the Theban's bier.

He had been with the first

Who fronted danger in its stern array,
For his free spirit early had been nursed
'Mid living ranks, which reck not of decay.

And with him spread the name
Of Theba's glory and of Theba's power,

From his high altar snatching the young flame Of greatness, as his country's brightest dower. Upon his battle bier,

Mantinea's hero droops his glorious brow,

And the stained blade, and the exulting spear Are powerless in the hands that grasped them now. Enough! my Thebes is free, On glory's pillow I, unconquered, die !' The warrior said, and, shouting victory, His disembodied spirit sought the sky.

And ever on the page

Of freedom's records Mantinea's son

Shall hold the proudest place, till melting age Its work of time on all earth's-born hath done.

It is not his to be

A thing that dies, and is as though 'twere not: The mountain top,-the plain,- the ocean seaWhisper such spirits never are forgot.

Full of the godhead's breath,

They live and move immeasurably great ;—
Creation's giants !-treading their own path,
Apart from all fragility of fate.

THEY'VE GONE FROM US.

D. S. L.

THEY'VE gone from us, they've gone from us,
The lov'd ones of our home,
They're hurried on the bier and shroud

To the dark-the lonely tomb.

The cold, cold clay doth cover them,
Long grass waves o'er them now,
The lank fern yields it to the blast,
Which o'er their sod doth blow.
Oh! dark, dark is their narrow bed,
May wild flowers blossom there,
Emblems of those that from us part,
That once, like them, were fair.
They've left us all, they've left us all,
The tear-drop dims the eye,
They've passed away, and nought is heard,
Save the bosom's heavy sigh.

We saw their tomb, a lonely tomb,
Willows were weeping there,
Sweet sung the birds for heed not they
Our sorrow or our care.

The dashing of the waterfall

Was singing o'er their head,

It sung a wild, sweet strain, across
Our lovely lost-our dead.

We

We saw their low, their humble bed,

Oh! we thought our hearts would burst
When we thought on them, our only friends,
Our dearest, and our first.

ASKILL.

MY UNGLE;

OR THE GOOD OLD TIMES.

"The good old times, the good old times,
The world declares are past and gone;
And charge them with a thousand crimes,
Of which they ne'er committed one;
But ne'er mind what the prosers say,
Or what each madcap childe of rhymes,---
Fill up each cup, we'll yet be gay,

And drink long life to the good old times "
Duke Humphrey.

IN judging of the rude, and, if you will, barbarian manners of those who have gone before us, we are apt to do so unfairly; we take, I mean, an ex-parte view of the question, and ground our reasoning upon false data. Nursed in the lap of refinement, and surrounded with the blessings and benefits of modern civilization, we look upon the lives of our ancestors as destitute of every thing which could make them at all endurable. And why is it we entertain so mean an opinion of them? For no other reason upon earth than because we know very well that so situated, we, who have been formed in a different school, should be the most unhappy beings imaginable-in short, misery personified! A clown suddenly introduced into the gay vortex of fashionable life, would, however, feel equally so, and would entertain precisely the same opinion of it, as we do of his state of utter ignorance. Hence we may learn the unfairness of judging of one state of society by the rules and dispositions of another. Who then shall pretend to decide upon the quantum of happiness enjoyed in times of yore, from the imperfect views at present entertained of them? Every thing connected with life has undergone a complete revolution; our very feelings and emotions are changed, and we can no more conceive those of our forefathers than we could make Pompey's Pillar change places with the Monument. And shall judgment be pronounced upon that of which no conception can be formed?

Those persons who are occasionally enabled to visit the country, and that perhaps but for a very limited

period, may possibly be capable of forming some idea of the pleasure I felt, after having been confined in doors for several days by a most provoking continuance of wet weather, upon beholding the bright rays of the morning sun playing among the lilac leaves opposite my window, announcing the approach of a fine day. I was up and dressed with a courier's alacrity, and having dispatched my breakfast, while those who should have prepared it for me were sunk in the arms of sleep, or, rather, in the elysium of a downy bed,-dreaming of sundry unimaginabilities, or forming for themselves, from the dingy figures on the tapestry, pictures rivalling the master-pieces of the Italian pencil,-I mounted my borrowed steed, determined not to let slip the oppor tunity of visiting at least once more my great uncle and his fair daughter-my cousin Judith. The roads, as indeed I had anticipated, were fetlock deep in mud;' but having screwed my courage to the sticking place,' I was not to be turned aside from my resolution by such grovelling facts: so I rode gallantly forward, despite of these and of the showers which ever and anon watered me, when, looking in other directions, I incautiously suffered Bayard to approach too near the still dripping hedges.

After riding about three hours, the increasing freshness of the breeze told me that I was drawing near to the ocean. In a short time the broad expanse of the Bristol Channel burst upon my view, presenting from the distance a most beautiful sight. Not a wave was discernible, and the whole plain looked like a carpet of silk and silverwork gently agitated by the soft breezes of summer. A few minutes more brought me to the rude and clumsy stile, which led, via the fields, to my uncle's castle. I would fain have taken my juvenile route, and strolled across the meadows, erst famous for their cowslip clusters, and the fine seaward view they commanded of the opposite coast, which, like one long cloud, rests upon the verge of the distant horizon; but as I knew not rightly what to do with my steed I trotted on, and in fifteen minutes more was at my journey's end.