The cemetery at Pentilly, in the parish of Fillaton, Cornwall, is situated on a very considerable eminence, named Mount Ararat, overlooking the river Tamar, (which divides Cornwall from Devon,) and affording a prospect of great part of the border of the latter county. This building was erected agreeably to the will of Sir James Tilley, of Pentilly Castle, who died in the year 1712, and directed that his body should be deposited here, placed in a chair, in a sitting posture, which many people of the neighbourhood affirm they have seen from the window; although Mr. Lysons, in his "Magna Brittannia," says, that the direction in his will was not punctually complied with; for, on opening a vault beneath the pavement, not long ago, he observes, his remains were found deposited in a coffin, in the usual way.

I have frequently heard my father say, (and he was likely to know, as he held a farm near the spot) that he had seen the coffin in the chair; and I am inclined to believe that the body has lately been deposited in a vault beneath, as the window shutters were formerly left open to the view of every visitor; but within these few years have been closed up.

L. 37. 2.

R. BROWN.

In the "Beauties of England and Wales," by Messrs. Britton and Brayley, it is observed relative to the cemetery, that "in general the witty atheist is satisfied with entertaining his contemporaries, but Mr. Tilley wished to have his sprightliness known to posterity. With this view, in ridicule of the resurrection, he obliged his executors to place his dead body in his usual garb, and in his elbow chair, upon the top of a hill, and to arrange on a table before him, bottles, glasses, pipes, and tobacco. In this situation, he ordered himself to be immured in a tower of such dimensions as he prescribed, where he proposed, he said, patiently to wait the event. All this was done, and the tower, still enclosing its tenant, remains as a monument of his impiety and profaneness."

"The fear-struck hind with superstitious gaze,
Trembling and pale th' unhallow'd tomb surveys;
And half expects, while horror chills his breast,
To see the spectre of its impious guest."

MORN: A SONNET.

BY G. F. RICHARDSON, AUTHOR OF " POETIC HOURS,'

Sweet is the morn to all, but sweetest far,
To him the pining slave of discontent,
Who, deep within some populous city pent,
With care and toil doth wage a life-long war!
Though he himself, perchance, would gladly bar
The dubious prospect of his future gains;
So he were rid of those life-wearying pains
That poison life, and fair enjoyment mar.
For when he marks the loveliness of morn,
Views the bright splendour of its gorgeous dreams,
Or hears the lays that hail its rising beams,
He half forgets awhile his fate forlorn ;

Feels joys unwonted o'er his heart-strings play,
Or mantle to his cheek to fade and die away.

ETC.

THE BAYADERE.

AN INDIAN TALE, BY L. E. L.

There were seventy pillars around the hall,
Of wreathed gold was each capital;

And the roof was fretted with amber and gems,
Such as light kingly diadems;

The floor was marble, white as the snow
Ere its pureness is stained by its fall below;

In the midst played a fountain, whose starry showers
Fell like beams on the radiant flowers,
Whose colours were gleaming, as every one
Burnt with the kisses just caught from the sun;
And vases sent forth their silvery clouds,

Like those which the face of the young moon shrouds,
But sweet as the breath of the twilight hour

When the dew awakens the rose's power.
At the end of the hall was a sunbright throne,
Rich with every glorious stone;

And the purple canopy overhead

Was like the shade o'er the dayfall shed;

And the couch beneath was of buds half blown,
Hued with the blooms of the rainbow's zone:
And round, like festoons, a vine was rolled,

Whose leaf was of emerald, whose fruit was of gold.
But, though graced as for a festival,

There was something sad in that stately hall:
There floated the breath of the harp and flute,-
But the sweetest of every music is mute;

There are flowers of light and spiced perfume,-

But there wants the sweetest of breath and of bloom:
And the hall is lone, and the hall is drear,
For the smiling of woman shineth not here.
With urns of odour o'er him weeping,
Upon the couch a youth is sleeping:
'His radiant hair is bound with stars,

Such as shine on the brow of night,
Filling the dome with diamond rays,
Only than his own curls less bright.
And such a brow, and such an eye
As fit a young divinity;