dreadful tidings met her ear,"He'd found a traitor's grave."
When second Edward rul'd this land,
(A wretched prince was he,)
Of favourites he'd a numerous band,
As worthless as could be.
Two noblemen amongst this set
Were hated above all;
And many were the lords who met,
To work the Spencer's fall.
Success attends these foe-men's strife,
Lord Hugh is doom'd to die;
And in his happiest hours of life,
That precious life did fly.
His manly form did never more,
Bless Isabel's fond eyes;
With him—the joys of life were o'er,
For him—the maiden dies.
Yet still the spirit fondly clings,
To what in life has been,
Thus Isabel, it nightly brings
To this beloved scene.
But when her feet have touch'd the ground,
With silent, noiseless tread;
No tender lover there is found,
He's number'd with the dead.
No more of love the tender strain,
Falls on her list'ning ear,
In life—her joy, was turn'd to pain,
Her hope—gave place to fear.
'Tis then, that dread laments they hear,
Who pass by night that way;
Which the scar'd traveller, so clear,
Hears till returning day;
When re-embarks sad Isabel,
That spectre shade so fair;
Then dashing in the water's swell,
She vanishes in air.
No trace remains in Sol's bright ray,
Of boat or awful spright;
For grief—or guilt conceived by day,
Conspicuous is at night.
Thus Isabel's unearthly woe,
Remain'd for many years;
But as our superstitions go,
So go unfounded fears
CAROLINE MAXWELL.
HARVEST HOME
Sir,—Wishing to add to your numerous accounts of our local customs, I send you a description of the manner of celebrating harvest home in Westmoreland.
The farmers of Appleby, Kirby, Thore, and many of the neighbouring and low towns thereabout, devote the last day of the harvest to mirth and festivity. The men generally endeavour to get the corn all in pretty early in the day; and at the last cart-load the horses are decked by the men with ears of corn and flowers and ribands; and then the lasses' straw- bonnets, who, in return, perform the same compliments on them. Thus they move on through the lanes and roads, till they reach the farm-yard, shouting, "Harvest Home," and singing songs in their way. When they reach the farm-yard, they set up an exulting shout, and ale is distributed to them by their master. About nine o'clock, a supper is prepared for them in their master's house. A wheat-sheaf is brought, and placed in the middle of the room, decorated with ribands and flowers, and corn is hung in various parts of the room. The supper mostly consists of some good old English dish, (of which there is plenty,) and the jolly farmer presides at the head of the table. After the cloth is cleared, liquor in abundance is brought forward, and the "president" sings, (not a Non Nobis Domine,) but a good, true, mirth-stirring song, and then the fun commences; singing and dancing alternately occupy the evening, and the bottle circulates speedily, and the festival generally breaks up about midnight.
Thus, Mr. Editor, is harvest home spent in that county, and I send you the only account I can furnish of the harvest merriments, hoping some of your correspondents will add to my little mite.
W.H.H.
STANZAS TO, AND IN ILLUSTRATION OF, A LANDSCAPE BY CLAUDE
Young land of beauty, and divine repose!
Art thou a dream? a vision from on high
Unveiling Paradise? uncurt'ning those
Supernal glories, Eden doth supply
To glad immortals? o'er thee, ev'ning glows,
Brilliant, as seraph's blush—pure as his breath—
Smiling an antidote to tears and death!
Young land of beauty! (fancy could not dwell
In lovelier, albeit her rainbow wings
Fold, but in fairy-spheres) a living well
Of sylvan joy art thou, whose thousand springs
Gush, sinless, gladness, peace ineffable,
And that luxuriousness of being, which
Mocks eloquence: warm, holy, ruby, rich.
Young land of beauty! 'neath thy sun-ting'd shades,
Beside thy lake, crystal in roseate light,
Enam'ring music breathes: there, raptur'd maids
In dances, with adoring youths unite;
There, magic voices sigh in song; and glades
With birds and blossoms, all but vital, seem
Entranc'd, like hermit in divinest dream!
Young land of beauty! art thou but a ray
Of intellect, emerg'd from one? and shrin'd,
That thine immortal light may dim the day,
Faint struggling thro' some lowlier, cloudier, mind:
Dream of the painter-poet! oh! we'll say,
Lur'd to ethereal musings by thy thrall,
Tho' dream in part, no dream art thou in all!
M.L.B
MARCH OF "IMPROVEMENT."
An old Subscriber has sent us the following questions on the improvement of the metropolis, which we insert as a castle-building jeu d'esprit rather than as a serious matter. They will, however, serve for the committee of taste to crack after dinner, and give a zest for their magna bona.
Ought not the new palace to have been built in the richest Gothic style, so as to have deviated in appearance from every other edifice in the metropolis; and to have been erected on the north bank of the Serpentine?—And, if the dome of the present erection is not to be removed, cannot it be ornamented?—Or could not the pediment, fronting the park, be raised another story, so as to hide it (the dome) from that side?—Indeed, would not the palace be much improved by such an alteration? I think if it be left as it is, when the wings are raised to the height of the body of the palace, (though they are a wonderful improvement upon those first erected) the whole will have a very flat appearance.—Are not the statues of Neptune, &c., much too small, and the other ornaments, consisting of representations of warlike implements, &c., much too heavy to look well?
Is not the Borough a
