Is there an eye, which nothing sees
In what it views to-day,

To whisper deeper thoughts than these,
And wake a graver lay?

Oh think not thus! when Lovers part,
When weeping eye and trembling heart
Speak more than words can say ;
It ill becomes my jesting song
To run so trippingly along,
And on these trifling themes bestow
What ought to be a note of woe.

I see young

Edward's courser stand,

The bridle rests upon his hand; But beauteous Helen lingers yet, With throbbing heart and eyelid wet; And as she speaks in that sweet tone, Which makes the listener's soul its own; And as she heaves that smother'd sigh Which Lovers cannot hear and fly, In Edward's face looks up the while, And longs to weep, yet seems to smile.

"Fair forms may fleet around, my love! And lighter steps than mine,

And sweeter tones may sound, my love!
And brighter eyes may shine;

But wheresoever thou dost rove,
Thou wilt not find a heart, my love,

So truly, wholly, thine,

As that which at thy feet is aching,
As if its very string were breaking!

"I would not see thee glad, my love!
As erst, in happier years:

Yet do not seem so sad, my love!
Because of Helen's fears!

MY DEAR TIGHE,-Relying on our old acquaintance, and being in hopes that you have not forgot the time when we used to walk up town together, in generous rivalship for the admiration of the Promenade, I could not deny myself the pleasure of congratulating you on your late successful debut in the literary world. Allow me to recall a few reminiscences of the past! My ideas of an antiquarian had been always so closely identified with the characteristics of green spectacles, a long-waisted straightcut coat of the year 1, and the brilliant appendage of those twin-stars, the shoe-buckles, that my beau ideal of the personage was utterly annihilated by the intelligence that Mr. H. U. Tighe had come forward as the modern representative of Antony Wood and Jonathan Oldbuck. We well remember the quizzing-glass, spruce brummel, and the ankles cased in their silken vesture; and little should we have been inclined to credit a prediction of the

future Antiquarian. But we had forgot the literary taste which our author had imbibed from his mother's milk :--

"O matre clarâ fili clarior."

Let us now picture to ourselves the enthusiast at the goal of his pilgrimage. Was that peculiar euphony of expression, so fashionably abrupt, or so charmingly sangfroid, the tone by which we could have imagined the cross-examinations to have been carried on with the old Sexton, who has vegetated this half century at the village of Cumnor, and acts as the precious repository of the traditions of his forefathers? Did. Delcroix's essences accompany our adventurous Knight Errant into the vault which gapes with such important hiatus in the midst of the ruins!—a vault which imagination might picture to be the same abyss into which the lovely Countess is represented to have been plunged by the infernal policy of her husband's agents; but which, in matter of fact, was nothing more than the common sewer of the mansion? Can we fancy the ornament of High-street, the President of the Common-Room at Corpus, in such a situation? Quantum mutatus ab illo Hectore. The critic of Layton's ices and patées has become the umpire of the claims of the Hall, Chapel, and Picture Galleries to their respective sites in the residence of Antony Foster. But let us not be misunderstood. We hail with pleasure the signal metamorphosis, and our future expectations have an extensive prospect. The world may now hope from this promising son of Alma Mater the elucidation of questions which have puzzled the wits of successive generations. The Bodleian manuscripts and old records, which had no claim to the notice of Messrs. Elmsley and Gaisford, have now a chance of catching a glimpse of day light. Oh! why was Eton so soon deprived of such a student?. By this time we might have

VOL. II.

The

been satisfied that the Montem footpads have a more honourable charter to justify their depredation than that of custom. Burnham Abbey might have risen again to our imagination, in all its pristine solemnity of scenery, beneath the glowing pencil of such a genius. The old monks would have been placed before us, gloating over their capons, and swilling their sack, where their modern representatives may be now seen grunting over their meal and hogs-wash. But my task draws to an end. I merely wish to offer you my best thanks for the instruction and amusement I have received from your pages. study you have chosen is honourably distinguished among the branches of literature. It confers equal obligations upon History and Poetry. In the case of the latter, it throws the cold water of truth into the face of intoxicated imagination; while it acts as a jackall to the former. Gifted with the visual properties of the feline tribe, it hunts its prey in the dark, and the historian turns to profit the discoveries which are made. But let him be on his guard. He may be following a Will-o'-thewisp, where the offer of guidance is deceitful, the pursuit fruitless and vexatious. This, however, my dear Tighe, is of course entre nous, and I hasten to conclude this lengthened epistle with professions of esteem.

Yours very truly,

Eton College, April 5, 1821.

FREDERICK GOLIGHTLY.

A COUNTRY SABBATH.

"There are few places more favourable to the study of character than an English Country Church."

SKETCH-BOOK.

AMONG the most interesting and pleasing scenes of rural life there is none which holds a more conspicuous place than a Country Sabbath. The universal quiet that pervades the whole face of nature, as if the fields were slumbering after the labours of the week; the mellow sound of the bells; and the joyous troops of villagers, all arrayed in their best garments, and hurrying along the pathway;-have a charm of which no other country can so truly boast. I was a frequent visitor at the village church during my stay with the Rector, who, fortunately for the village of was a Pastor worthy to negociate between God and man. I have said fortunately, because you are frequently disgusted in country churches by seeing a perfumed fashionable in the pulpit; one of those personages who are accustomed to take orders that they may enjoy their ease, pleasures, and sports, more freely. I should as soon think of being led to pray by a bulky corpulent monk, whose jolly fat countenance, rising over the pulpit, would give the lie to every word he might utter, as by one of those lady's maids of religion, who dance up the church with a negligent air, display a white handkerchief or gold ring, and apparently think they are doing an honour to their Saviour by murdering his gospel, "the things that mount the rostrum with a skip, and then skip down again."