And thus, to Betty's question, he

Made answer, like a Traveller bold, (His very words I give to you,)

"The Cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, And the Sun did shine so cold."

-Thus answered Johnny in his glory,

And that was all his travel's story.

ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE.

(SEE THE CHRONICLE of Geoffrey of MonmoUTH, AND MILTON'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND.)

WHERE be the Temples which, in Britain's Isle,
For his paternal Gods, the Trojan raised?
Gone like a morning dream, or like a pile
Of clouds - that in cerulean ether blazed!
Ere Julius landed on her white-cliff'd shore,
They sank, delivered o'er

To fatal dissolution; and, I ween,

No vestige then was left that such had ever been.

Nathless, a British record (long concealed
In old Armorica, whose secret springs.
No Gothic conqueror ever drank) revealed
The wonderous current of forgotten things;

How Brutus came, by oracles impelled,
And Albion's giants quelled,-

A brood whom no civility could melt,

"Who never tasted grace, and goodness ne'er had felt."

By brave Corineus aided, he subdued,
And rooted out the intolerable kind;
And this too-long-polluted land imbued
With goodly arts and usages refined;

Whence golden harvests, cities, warlike towers,
And Pleasure's sumptuous bowers;

Whence all the fixed delights of house and home,
Friendships that will not break, and love that cannot

roam.

O, happy Britain! region all too fair
For self-delighting fancy to endure
That silence only should inhabit there,
Wild beasts, or uncouth savages impure!

But, intermingled with the generous seed,

Grew many a poisonous weed;

Thus fares it still with all that takes its birth

From human care, or grows upon the breast of earth.

Hence, and how soon! that war of vengeance waged By Guendolen against her faithless lord;

Till she, in jealous fury unassuaged,

Had slain his Paramour with ruthless sword:

Then, into Severn hideously defiled,

She flung her blameless child,

Sabrina, vowing that the stream should bear

That name through every age, her hatred to declare.

So speaks the Chronicle, and tells of Lear
By his ungrateful daughters turned adrift.

Ye lightnings, hear his voice! — they cannot hear

Nor can the winds restore his simple gift.

But one there is, a child of nature meek,

Who comes her sire to seek;

And he, recovering sense, upon her breast
Leans smilingly, and sinks into a perfect rest.

There too we read of Spenser's fairy themes,
And those that Milton loved in youthful years;
The sage enchanter Merlin's subtle schemes;
The feats of Arthur and his knightly peers;

Of Arthur,

who, to upper light restored

With that terrific sword

Which yet he wields in subterranean war,

Shall lift his country's fame above the polar star!

What wonder, then, if in such ample field
Of old tradition, one particular flower
Doth seemingly in vain its fragrance yield,
And bloom unnoticed even to this late hour?
Now, gentle Muses, your assistance grant,
While I this flower transplant

Into a garden stored with Poesy;

Where flowers and herbs unite, and haply some weeds be,

That, wanting not wild grace, are from all mischief free!