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Of parted friends and lovers; and, when

join'd,

She breathes upon them, and they love no

more.

J. C.

BREMHILL.

The pretty little village of Bremhill, in North Wilts, boasts of a Parochial History which will engage the attention of any reader who may happen to take it up, how indifferent soever he be to its location, or whether scholar or antiquary, poet or divine, or all combined, or none of all these. Perhaps, in the next edition, the following lines may be inserted, to afford one instance more that the benevolent Vicar disdains not to employ his muse, gifted as she is, in recording the short and simple annals of the poor.

SUSANNA TUST

WAS BORNE TO HER LAST REST

26TH OF SEPTEMBER, 1835: aged 66.

DEPARTING IN FAITH AND HOPE FROM THE

TROUBLES AND TRIALS OF THE WORLD.

THIS STONE WAS PLACED TO HER MEMORY BY

AN AFFECTIONATE DAUGHTER.

Oh, my poor mother! now that thou art gone,
And she who loved thee most is left alone
In this sad world, how wretched she will be,
Through lonely days and nights, rememb’ring
thee!

But thou didst meekly walk with God; and
God

Will dry the tear that falls on this thy sod.

W. L. B.-lapidem debit et inscripsit.

ON THE

DEATH OF A LITTLE GIRL

OF MORE THAN ORDINARY PROMISE.

Morte fura

Prima i migliori, e lascia star i rei.

PETRARCA.

Heaven has ta'en back the blessing that it

gave;

Young, pure, and beautiful, she sank into the

grave:

The brightest flame burns fast and disappears;
Less ardent souls may flicker on for years.

The violet sheds her fragrance for a day;
The lily droops beneath Spring's doubtful ray:
While Frost, that nips the sweetest, tenderest

form,

Leaves the coarse weed to weather out the

storm.

W. H. H.

Rome, December, 1825.

MUTABILITY.

FYTTE FIRST.

Knights of King Arthur's court, your wondrous course is run;

Your deeds are all forbye; your fields are fought and won;

No longer, e'en as phantoms, do ye glide
In vapoury lustre down time's rolling tide.
Your fame, compressed, lies in one doubtful

story,

And shrunk to glow-worm light your beacon blaze of glory;

There stands no remnant now of Carduel's

towers,

Nor one fair chamber of Garde Joyeuse'

bowers;

Tristram and Isonde wake no int'rest now,

Her broken fealty, and his useless vow!

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