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A PICTURE IN THE BRITISH GALLERY, BY E. D. LEAHY.

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Were solitary, for the cypress trees

Closed o'er the waters; yet at times the wind
Threw back the branches, and then a sunbeam
Flung down a golden gift upon the wave,
And shewed its treasures; for the pebbles shone
Like pearls and purple gems, fit emblems they
For the delights that hope holds up to youth,
False in their glittering, and when they lose
The sparkle of the water and the sun,
They are found valueless. It is not thus
With pleasures, when the freshness and the gloss
That young life threw o'er them has dried away!

One only flower grew in that lonely place,
The lily, covered with its shadowy leaves,
Even as some Eastern beauty with her veil;
And like the favourite urns of spring, its bells
Held odours that the zephyrs dared not steal.
And by the river was a maiden leant,

With large dark eyes, whose melancholy light

Seemed as born of deep thought, which had gone through
Full many a stage of human wretchedness,

Had known the anxious misery of love,—

The sickness of the hope which pines and dies
From many disappointments,—and the waste
Of feelings in the gay and lighted hall; -
But more, as knowledge grew more from report,
Than its own sad experience; for she loved
The shelter of the quiet mountain valley,
The shadow of the scented myrtle grove,
And, more than all, the solitary bend,
Hidden by cypresses, of her own river.-
They called the nymph-RETIRement.
Literary Souvenir.

L. E. L.

GODIVA.

A TALE.

BY AN ETONIAN.

WHOE'ER has been at Coventry, must know (Unless he's quite devoid of curiosity), That once a year it has a sort of show,

Conducted with much splendour and pomposity. I'll just describe it, if I can— -but no,

It would exhaust the humour of a Fawcett; I
Am a vile jester,-though I once was vain
Of acting Fawcett's parts at Datchet-lane.

Ah! those were pleasant days, when you and I,
Dear Fred Golightly, trod those boards of yore;
I often grieve to think that they 're past by,
As you must-on a rainy after-four:
Though now its fairly quashed, you wont deny
That that same stage was frequently a bore;
It spoiled our cricket, which we 're all so proud on,
Nor let us beat the Kingsmen-as we've now done.

Oh! sweet is praise to youthful poet's ear,
When gently warbled by the lips he loves;
"Tis sweet one's exercise read o'er to hear,
(Especially the week before Removes);
But sweeter far, when actors first appear,

The loud collision of applauding gloves,
The gleam of happy faces o'er them cast-
Moments of triumph not to be surpast!

Oh! stolen joys, far sweeter for the stealing,
Oh! doubts and fears, and hopes of Eton, all
Ye are departed! but a lingering feeling

Of your enchantments holds my heart in thrall. My eyes just now are fixed upon the ceiling

I feel my cheek flush-hear my inkstand fall;

My soul is wandering through the distant groves
Of that dear schoolboy dwelling which it loves.

But to my tale-I'm somewhat given to prating,
I can't but own it; but my theme was fine,
And all the feelings which I've been narrating
Are worth enjoying—and they 've all been mine?
But I'll no longer keep the reader waiting;

So, without wasting now another line,

My poem I'll begin, as poets use,
With a short invocation to my muse.

Spirit which art within me, if in truth

Thou dost exist in my soul's depths, and I
Have not mistaken the hot pulse of youth,
And wandering thoughts, for dreams of poesy,
Rise from thy lone recesses, rise and soothe

Each meaner thought to aspirations high,
Whelm me in musings of deep joy, and roll
Thy radiant visions on my kindling soul !

If, when at morn I view the bright blue heaven, Thoughts are around me which not all have felt; If, in the dim and fading light of even,

A poet's rapture on my soul hath dwelt;

If to my wayward nature hath been given

Dreams that absorb, and phantasies that melt, Sweet tears, and wild attachments-lend thy wings, Spirit, to bear me in my wanderings!

But these are boyish dreams,-Away, away,
Ye fond enchantments of my foolish brain ;-
And yet, methinks, I would awhile delay,

Ere
my frail vessel tempts life's dangerous main.
Still, dear delusions of my boyhood, stay!
Still let me pour my weak, but harmless strain!
In fancied draughts my thirst poetic slake,
And never, never from that dream awake!

This is a very pretty invocation,

Though scarce adapted to my present style; I wrote it in a fit of inspiration,

The finest I've enjoyed a monstrous while; For most uncertain's my imagination,

And 't is but seldom that my muse will smile. Come, reader, we'll her present humour try; Draw up the curtain-the scene's Coventry.

It is an ancient and a gallant town,

Nor all unknown to loftier lays than mine;
It has of old seen deeds of high renown-
Its situation 's not extremely fine.

Its name it wishes to be handed down,

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And still in England's annals longs to shine; And Mr. Cobbett wants to represent

This self-same Coventry in parliament.

But at the period when my tale commences,

There were no Cobbetts- -'t was a barbarous age; The "Sovereign People" scarce were in their senses, For Radical Reform was not the rage:

Though then Sir Francis* might have found pretences
Just war against the government to wage;

For king and nobles thought it no great crime
To be confounded tyrants at that time.

There was of yore an Earl of Coventry,
Famous for wine and war- -one Leofric;
A genuine Saxon-he'd a light blue eye,

His stature tall-his frame well built and thick:

His flaxen locks fell down luxuriantly

On his fine shoulders-and his glance was quick. But though he really was a handsome earl,

He was at times a most uncommon churl.

He had fought well and often-miles around,
Chieftain and vassal trembled at his name;

* Wentworth-not Burdett.

He held some thousand acres of good ground,

To which his weapon formed his strongest claim; His legal title was sometimes unsound

And he was wedded to a matchless dame, The fair and chaste Godiva-whom alone He seemed to love, of all that was his own.

Well might he love her ;-in that shape of lightness,
All woman's choicest beauties were combined;
Her long dark locks set off her bosom's whiteness,
In its calm heavings, warm, and chaste, and kind.
Her deep blue eyes shone with peculiar brightness,
When through them flashed the sunbeams of her mind,
When swiftly sparkled joys, or hopes, or fears,
Or sorrow bathed them in delicious tears.

Her's was the face we look on once and love,
Her voice was music's echo-like the strain
Of our own land, heard, when afar we rove,
With a deep sense of pleasure, mixed with pain:
And those who once had heard it, vainly strove
To lose its echoes lingering in the brain :
As for her figure—if you once had met it,
Believe me, sirs, you never could forget it.

She was the idol of her native land,

The comforter and friend of its distress;
Herself, unchastened by affliction's hand,

Felt for the woes of others not the less.
The serfs, who trembled at her lord's command,
Forbore to curse him for her loveliness.
They were a pair one often meets in life,—
A churlish husband with a charming wife.

It chanced, A. D. eight hundred and eighteen,
(I love to be correct in my chronology,
And all the tables which by chance I've seen
Concur in this date. When I was in college, I
Conducted once the famous Magazine,

The Etonian's predecessor. This apology

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