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ROMAN ANTIQUITIES.

of Pembroke, &c., for a memorial of her last parting with her pious mother, Margaret Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April, 1616; in memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 4l. to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2d day of April for ever, upon the stone table hard by. Laus Deo!"

WHILE the Poor gather round, till the end of time
May this bright flower of Charity display
Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed day;
Flower than the loveliest of the vernal prime
Lovelier-transplanted from heaven's purest clime!
'Charity never faileth:' on that creed,
More than on written testament or deed,
The pious Lady built with hope sublime.
Alms on this stone to be dealt out, for ever!
"LAUS DEO." Many a Stranger passing by
Has with that Parting mixed a filial sigh,
Blest its humane Memorial's fond endeavour:
And, fastening on those lines an eye tear-glazed,
Has ended, though no Clerk, with God be praised!'

XXV.

ROMAN ANTIQUITIES.

[FROM THE ROMAN STATION AT OLD PENRITH.]

How profitless the relics that we cull,
Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome,
Unless they chasten fancies that presume

To high, or idle agitations lull!

Of the world's flatteries if the brain be full,
To have no seat for thought were better doom,
Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull

Of him who gloried in its nodding plume.
Heaven out of view, our wishes what are they?
Our fond regrets tenacious in their grasp?

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APOLOGY.

The Sage's theory? the Poet's lay?—
Mere Fibula without a robe to clasp;

Obsolete lamps, whose light no time recals;
Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals!

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I am indebted to Dr Taylor of Penrith for the following note in reference to these "Roman Antiquities" at Old Penrith :-" DEAR SIR,-I have great pleasure in giving you what information I can, concerning the Roman Station of Old Penrith. It is called 'Petriana' by Camden, but most archæologists now allocate it in the 2nd Iter,' as the Station Voreda'-on the road between York and Carlisle. This road passes over Stanemoor, by Bowes, Brough, Kirkbythore, Brougham, and Plumpton Wall (or Voreda), to Lugovallum or Carlisle. The Roman Camps are visible at all these places, and the old Roman road is recognizable in many parts. This Old Penrith, Plumpton Wall, or Voreda, is a camp of the third class. At a time, probably about the period which Wordsworth alludes to, several Roman stones and altars were dug up at Voreda, and are now deposited in Lowther Castle. Wordsworth had relations living in Penrith, whom he used to visit occasionally, and it is probable that after a visit to Voreda, which is about six miles from here, he wrote the Sonnet alluded to. The 'Hartshorn Tree' referred to in the 'Legend of the Hunt of the Stag' stood in the park of Whinfell, in the parish of Brougham, but has disappeared for many years."—ED.

XXVI.

APOLOGY

FOR THE FOREGOING POEMS.

No more the end is sudden and abrupt,
Abrupt as without preconceived design
Was the beginning; yet the several Lays
Have moved in order, to each other bound
By a continuous and acknowledged tie
Though unapparent-like those Shapes distinct
That yet survive ensculptured on the walls
Of palaces, or temples,' 'mid the wreck

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Of Palace, or of Temple,

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Of famed Persepolis ;* each following each,
As might beseem a stately embassy,

In set array; these bearing in their hands
Ensign of civil power, weapon of war,
Or gift to be presented at the throne

Of the Great King; and others, as they go
In priestly vest, with holy offerings charged,
Or leading victims drest for sacrifice.

Nor will the Power we serve, that sacred Power,
The Spirit of humanity, disdain

A' ministration humble but sincere,

That from a threshold loved by every Muse
Its impulse took-that sorrow-stricken door,
Whence, as a current from its fountain-head,
Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings flowed,
Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength
From kindred sources; while around us sighed
(Life's three first seasons having passed away)
Leaf-scattering winds; and hoar-frost sprinklings fell
(Foretaste of winter) on the moorland heights;
And every day brought with it tidings new
Of rash change, ominous for the public weal.
Hence, if dejection has 2 too oft encroached
Upon that sweet and tender melancholy
Which may itself be cherished and caressed
More than enough; a fault so natural
(Even with the young, the hopeful, or the gay)
For prompt forgiveness will not sue in vain.

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Nor will the Muse condemn, or treat with scorn
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Compare Processions in the Vale of Chamouny, Vol. VI. p. 270.-ED.

THE HIGHLAND BROACH.

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XXVII.

THE HIGHLAND BROACH.

[On ascending a hill that leads from Loch Awe towards Inverary, I fell into conversation with a woman of the humbler class who wore one of those Highland Broaches. I talked with her about it; and upon parting with her, when I said with a kindness I truly felt-May that Broach continue in your family through many generations to come, as you have already possessed it"-she thanked me most becomingly and seemed not a little moved.]

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The exact resemblance which the old Broach (still in use, though rarely met with, among the Highlanders) bears to the Roman Fibula must strike every one, and concurs, with the plaid and kilt, to recal to mind the communication which the ancient Romans had with this remote country.

IF to Tradition faith be due,

And echoes from old verse speak true,
Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore

Glad tidings to Iona's shore,

No common light of nature blessed
The mountain region of the west;
A land where gentle manners ruled
O'er men in dauntless virtues schooled,
That raised, for centuries, a bar
Impervious to the tide of war:

Yet peaceful Arts did entrance gain
Where haughty Force had striven in vain;
And, 'mid the works of skilful hands,
By wanderers brought from foreign lands
And various climes, was not unknown
The clasp that fixed the Roman Gown;
The Fibula, whose shape, I ween,
Still in the Highland Broach is seen,
The silver Broach of massy frame,
Worn at the breast of some grave Dame

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THE HIGHLAND BROACH.

On road or path, or at the door

Of fern-thatched hut on heathy moor:
But delicate of yore its mould,
And the material finest gold;
As might beseem the fairest Fair,
Whether she graced a royal chair,
Or shed, within a vaulted hall,
No fancied lustre on the wall
Where shields of mighty heroes hung,
While Fingal heard what Ossian sung.

The heroic Age expired-it slept

Deep in its tomb :-the bramble crept
O'er Fingal's hearth; the grassy sod
Grew on the floors his soul had trod :
Malvina where art thou? Their state

The noblest-born must abdicate;

The fairest, while with fire and sword
Come Spoilers--horde impelling horde,
Must-walk the sorrowing mountains, drest

By ruder hands in homelier vest.
Yet still the female bosom lent,
And loved to borrow, ornament;

Still was its inner world a place
Reached by the dews of heavenly grace;
Still pity to this last retreat

Clove fondly; to his favourite seat
Love wound his way by soft approach,
Beneath a massier Highland Broach.

When alternations came of rage

Yet fiercer, in a darker age;

And feuds, where, clan encountering clan,

The weaker perished to a man;

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