liberty; but their efforts were partial, and often unpremeditated, and therefore ineffectual. In all these risings Alured, the son of Ecgfrid, rendered himself conspicuous; and with a good fortune, as singular as his bravery, generally escaped from their perils unhurt. Aware that he had no chance from the mercy of the Normans, he set them at defiance; and when his companions surrendered, Alured betook himself to the woods, or cruized upon the coast of Sussex with a few outlaws, whose bravery and whose fortunes were as desperate as his own. His father's name was well known and respected, and he himself possessed those heroic qualities which captivate mankind. The Saxons considered him a martyr in their country's cause, and few were the doors that would not willingly open to receive the outlawed son of Ecgfrid, especially in the neighbourhood of Hastings, where his name and his fortunes were the theme of every body's discourse. There was, indeed, one of his oldest acquaintances-one from whom he expected most who now deserted him. Leofgar had long been the most intimate friend of Ecgfrid; himself a thane, and possessed of property in the neighbourhood of Hastings, their vicinity had given rise to friendship, and shortly before the landing of William, a marriage had been contemplated between Leofgar's daughter, Ina, and the son of his friend Ecgfrid: but the invasion of the Normans separated them. Upon that event Leofgar remained aloof, a quiet spectator of his country's troubles, until the battle of Hastings placed William upon the throne, when this thane was the first nobleman who conciliated the Conqueror by submission. He was thus secured in the possession of his estate, and, in order that no suspicion might attach to his subsequent conduct, he strictly forbade all future intercourse with the son of his ancient friend. But Leofgar little calculated upon the strength and generosity of a woman's affections. He had himself encouraged the intimacy between Alured and Ina, until it ripened into the most assured love; he had helped to tie a knot which his ingenuity could not unravel, his power could not cut. The freedom of manners, which the simplicity of society then encouraged, permitted Ina to have many opportunities of seeing her betrothed, and, whenever he was in the neighbourhood of Hastings, which was always the case in the intervals between the rebellious outbreakings, he was at little loss to secure a daily interview with her. Their places of meeting were the wildest and most sequestered-the unfrequented glen, the unknown cave by the sea shore, the bed of the dried-up mountain stream-any place in which observation was the most likely to be eluded, suited the concealment which was so obviously necessary for both of them. These circumstances will explain why Ina so willingly promised to meet the adventurous Saxon, although the place was the stone seat on the cliff, and the time the late hour of the moon rising.

The weather had long been dry and sultry, but that evening the sun sank into a bed of clouds so black as to portend an immediate change. The sea birds flew close to the water's edge, or sought refuge from the coming storm in holes in the rocks. The sea itself

rolled heavily, as if gathering its strength, aware that the low wind, which then sighed mournfully, would shortly increase, until its violence dashed liquid mountains upon the shore. The fisherman drew up his bark, the herdsman enclosed his flocks, every thing seemed waiting, awe-struck, until the ripening tempest should dash its waters upon the parched earth. It was at this moment that Ina left her home. Her way lay, for some time, by the sea shore, and with heavy heart she watched the rising water, and wished she had not made an appointment which Alured might encounter danger in keeping. Departing from the shore, she traversed along a valley, in which the trees seemed to sigh and moan as they moved to the wind, and the rumble of distant thunder proclaimed the approach of the storm. When she quitted the wooded glen, and began to ascend the hill on the other side, the terrors of the night became more apparent -one half of the hemisphere was shrouded by a heap of sable clouds, which seemed advancing quickly towards the east, where the light of the rising moon began to be apparent. She quickened her steps in order to reach the stone seat, if possible, before the tempest burst; but ere she could attain the top of the hill, the heavens opened, and the yellow lightning flashed. The thunder followed, and seemed to shake the very earth: the rain also began to fall as if in sheets. She drew her hood close over her head, and wrapping her cloak around her, proceeded undismayed. Again the lightnings flashed, again the thunder rolled over her head in majestic peals, and ere she reached the seat, the dark clouds had covered the whole sky.

"The stone seat on the cliff," was in a small recess, nearly at the top of a lofty eminence projecting over the ocean. The usual mode of approach to it was by a steep descent from the high land above it; none but skilful climbers could reach it from the sea, the rock being almost perpendicular. Over the seat was a huge stone, a part of the cliff which had slipped out of its original position, and was stopped in its fall by some projections of the rock on which it rested, and thus formed a sort of covering to the seat under it. This over-hanging roof gave a fearful and insecure appearance, which deterred many from frequenting the place; but that was, perhaps, an additional reason why it should be chosen for a place of meeting by Alured and Ina.

Upon reaching her destination, she was, in some degree, protected from the storm which still beat dismally around her. Beneath her was the sea, but it was only when the lightning played over it that she could at all perceive it. The wind had now risen, and the waves were dashed furiously on the shore. "Holy Mary, grant that he may not come!" exclaimed Ina, crossing herself, and kissing a small crucifix which she carried in her bosom: "he cannot land whilst the sea runs thus." At this moment, a flash of lightning revealed to her the sight of a boat at a little distance, the rowers plying towards the shore: again all was darkness; another flash, and she saw them tossed upon the waters, but still approaching land; another, they are nearer still; a fourth, and they are hid from her

sight by the projecting rock. A pause of dreadful expectation ensued her heart beat heavily, she would have given worlds to have been on the shore; a full minute elapsed, he had not reached her; another minute, she approached to the very verge of the rock, but all was darkness, and the loud wind prevented her from hearing. "Sure," she exclaimed, in an agony that could be contained no longer, "sure the boat is lost!" The words were scarcely off her lips when Alured clasped her in his arms. Yes, it was, indeed, Alured himself, fatigued and wet; for, rather than endanger the safety of the boat, he had jumped into the sea, and himself stemmed the breakers ; but still it was her own Alured, and fervently she hung round his neck. The happiness of such a meeting sets description entirely at defiance. There is a happiness in the sigh, in the look, in the very silence of those whom affection binds in one, and what pen can pourtray feelings so subtle and refined? all have felt, and can imagine them.

But, alas! the happiness of Alured and Ina was short. The first greeting was scarcely over, when their attention was arrested by the tumult which nature raised around them. The storm had increased; forked lightnings flew in all directions; the thunders rattled around them; the whole heaven was illuminated by the continual flashing.

"Is it not awful?" exclaimed Ina, pressing closely to the side of Alured. "I wish old times were back again, that thou mightest betake thee to the hall on such a night-see, see, the lightning."

At that moment a forked flash passed by them, and striking the loose overhanging stone, which formed a covering over their seat, the huge mass fell, and precipitated the lovers at once from the rock into the sea. One loud shriek was heard-then the noise of something falling in the water-a thunder clap followed, and then all was silent. It is in memory of this tragic tale, that the seat on the cliff has ever since been termed the "Lover's Seat."

GREECE.

UNHAPPY Greece! Ob, art thou fallen so low,
That not the Turk alone oppresses thee,

But e'en thy friends---thy self-styl'd Christian friends,
Aid the unholy cause? The Crescent now
Shines in thy cities, where the Cross once stood;
And thy fair land--the land by Poet's theme
And History's glorious deeds immortaliz'd---
The seat of Science, and the throne of Art---
The land whose ancient faith our memory holds
Still sacred, still rever'd---whose ancient Gods,
Those bright creations of sublimest thought,
Still more than human seem, though not divine---
Oh! it hath fall'n from its proud eminence,
As falls a Star from Heaven's highest verge
Down to th' Horizon. Greece, alas! hath died.
Prostrate she lies before the infidel:

But is there not arising from the grave?
Her spirit is not dead---it cannot die---
It is itself eternal, and bestows
Eternity on those who worship it.

Throughout the world it wanders, and in climes
To ancient Greece unknown we trace its steps.
Yes! Liberty, which from all nations once
Liv'd separate in Greece, from Greece expell'd,
Died not, but sought in other realms a home:
And she will yet return---the time will come
When Greece, deserted---desolate---oppress'd---
Amongst the proud again shall rear her head.
Greece must be free--already o'er her shores
Her ancient spirit reigns, and not the force
Which Mahomet can wield---no---nor the arts
Which men who would be mis-called Patriots,
But in whose sordid minds there reigns alone
The mean ambition to be counted rich---
Not all the arts such men can use

Shall stay her in her course tow'rds Liberty.

B.

CUPID.

VENUS! redress a wrong that's done
By that young sprightful boy, thy son;

--

He wounds, and then laughs at the sore,--
Hatred itself can do no more.

If I pursue, he's small and light,
Both seen at once and out of sight;

If I do fly, he's winged, and then

At the third step I'm caught again :

Lest one day thou thyself may'st suffer so,
Oh! clip the wanton's wings, or break his bow.

W. CARTWRIGHT.

"CHERRY RIPE" AND ITS AUTHOR.

It is not, we believe, generally known, that the song of Cherry Ripe, which the singing of Madame Vestris has rendered familiar to the play-going part of the community, and the ballad-singers, whistlers, and organ grinders in our streets have taught to every one, is at the present day about one hundred and seventy-eight years old, having been brought into the world in the very year in which exalted Charles I. was beheaded. Its merit is not, perhaps, of a very character, but it is well to give every one his due, and why should Robert Herrick be deprived of the small share of credit which belongs to him, as the author of Cherry Ripe? The works of Herrick are very little known, and, it is probable, never will be more so than they are at present. There is an indelicacy about some of them, which renders them unsuited to the taste of our times, but several of his detached pieces possess very great merit; a lively fancy-a jolly hilarity-a truly joyous and Anacreontic spirit, distinguish them, and point out the author to have been such as he describes himself in the following lines:

"Howsoever, cares adieu !

I'll have nought to say to you:

But I'll spend my coming hours
Drinking wine, and crown'd with flowers."

advanced

age;

Herrick was born in the year 1591, and lived to an but in what year he died, is uncertain. He appears to have been upon familiar terms with Ben Jonson: and the wits of the day; and in one of his invocations refers to their convivial' meetings thus:

"Ah, Ben!

Say how or when
Shall we, thy guests,
Meet at those lyrick feasts,

Made at the Sun,

The Dog, the triple Tun;
Where we such clusters had,
As made us nobly wild, not mad?
And yet each verse of thine

Outdid the meat, outdid the frolick wine.

"My Ben! Or come again,

Or send to us

Thy wit's great overplus;

But teach us yet

Wisely to husband it;

Lest we that talent spend;

And having once brought to an end

That precious stock, the store

Of such a wit, the world'should have no more."

There is a great deal of the true, hearty, Anacreontic spirit in the following, also addressed to Ben Jonson: