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a well-tried blade, and Guido, seeing | poor peasants hard by, and I find me make such preparations for a des- that almost all of my companions perate assault, and thinking it fit to have paid the forfeit of the law. This defend himself, drew a huge broad- morning I was attracted by this sesword. I advanced, and was making questered place of concealment, with a thrust, when, lifting up his weapon what degree of success you well on high, he made it descend on mine know." with such terrible force, that it broke in two, and I fell. The stern villain waved his steel thrice o'er my head, and told me to arise, and interrupt him no more. He then strode off, having first spread a cloak over his giant limbs, to conceal a dark lantern | and a lighted match tied to his belt.

"I arose, and looked after the fellow with some sensations of dread, for his almost supernatural strength half inclined one to believe him a demon. I was now bound to him by the same ties of gratitude as I was to Monteagle, for he had spared my life when he had it in his power, and I knew not whose interest ought to predominate. I was still perplexed, and almost wishing that he had plunged his steel in my bosom, when I perceived some men carrying lights, who went towards the vaults where Guido had descended. They were headed by a man whom I had often seen, and consequently recognized Sir Thomas Knevett.

I confess that this narrative exceedingly disappointed me. From the title, and what Sir Robert Bradgate had always told me of it, I expected to find it an interesting and animated narrative, conveying both information and amusement. But, alas! the egotism and cunning of the Jesuit seems to have prevailed in his story, and I find myself compelled to make a few remarks rather unfavourable to him.

First, on his egotism, which is excessive. We have in the commencement of his account of the plot a long narrative of what HE thought, and did, and felt; but when others come upon the scene, how brief and short his story is! He slurs over what would be interesting passages, in the most inexcusable manner, particularly the characters of Catesby, Piercy, &c.; and, I think, only mentions Guido Fawkes (or Guy Fawkes, as he is more commonly called,) because he was too prominent a figure to be omitted.

"The thought that the plot was discovered, and the king and his no- Next, his cunning. Oswold Desbles saved, chained me to the spot, mond well knew that, although Sir and I awaited the return of the men Edmund had promised to assist his as immoveably as a statue. It was escape, even if he confessed himself not long before the detection of our to be one of the worst of the conspischemes was evident; brawling voices rators, (which I rather think he was,) were heard below, and not three mi- he would be much more favourably nutes after, I saw Guido brought out inclined, if he represented himself as in the knight's custody. As he pass- averse to the plot. Accordingly he ed, he cast a stern look on me, and passes over what he did, &c. from made motions to counsel my flight. I January till October, which is so did not delay following his advice. I glaring an omission, that I wonder first ran to his house, and informed the knight did not notice it, and dethe conspirators of these circum-mand it should be filled up. He restances, then sought my own, and giving Dame Beatrice some coin for her long and faithful services, placed the rest in my pockets, and bade her farewell for ever.

"I have since wandered about the country, like Cain, seeking refuge in woods, caves, and hollow trees. I shun a town or a village, and if I repose in a human habitation, it is but in the lone cottage that stands alienated from all others on the desert moor. Every day I learn the tidings, by venturing into the society of the

presents himself as the author of the
letter to Monteagle, but directs the
baronet to report, for its contents; and
upon referring to the History of Eng-
land, I find that the writer ascribes
his interest in the fate of Monteagle
to friendship for his relations, and not
for himself. He talks about his re-
morse, yet his thoughts on that occa-
sion, on November 4th, are old, and
without passion. As to his combat
with Guy, although I cannot of course
deny the fact, yet when we consider
his interest to appear a
"white

sheep," and that he speaks with all the impetuosity of a hot-brained youth, when in fact he was old, (according to the narrative of Sir Robert prefixed to the "Historie of the Plotte," which was, I believe, collected from authentic sources,) the circumstance appears highly improbable. Altogether, the chief interest of the story is to observe the cunning and egotism of Oswold; and the only interesting part which can be deemed true, is the commencement; where, however, he speaks with a levity utterly incompatible with the remorse which he asserts preyed on his mind. "Et sic lector vale."

Nov. 25, 1824.

ARTHUR HOWARD.

(To be continued.)

POETRY.

THE DEATH OF MOSES.

(Continued from col. 175.)

THUS they in heaven; but other thoughts engage

The powers of darkness, who assembled sat
In grand divan and consultation foul.
The scouts of Belial, always on the alert,
When roaming round to seek for human prey,
Had in their prowlings chanced that way to
pass,

Where lay the body of the patriarch.

This when they saw, with hellish joy, the fiends
Shot like a meteor o'er the dark profound,
For night had drawn her curtains o'er the sky,
Which seem'd more dismal as no star appear'd,
Nor shining moonbeam, to dispel the gloom
That hung on all around: the hallow'd fire
That rose sublimely on the sacred tent,
In which was laid the mystic mercy-seat,
With cherubim, whose wings o'ershadow'd all,
Tower'd like a pillar; but from such a sight
They howling fled, and dare not stop to gaze,
But sped along, and darted through the air
Like vivid lightnings, or the rushing winds
Of some dread hurricane, that sweeps along
Swift as a comet flying through the air,
Nor stopt a moment till they reach'd the place
Where the arch-fiend, surrounded by his hosts,
On thrones of sulphur sat in awful state.

There might be seen the soul of Abiram
With that of Dathan, and the rest who fell
With Korah, heads of the conspiracy
Rais'd 'gainst th' anointed of the Holy One.
In dreadful anguish too was Pharaoh's ghost
Doom'd to sustain the vengeance of the hand
Which he despis'd, when awful plagues were
sent

By nature's Ruler to convince the king
There is a God all mighty to fulfil
His holy pleasure, and his righteous will.
In madd'ning fury rav'd the imps of hell,
Increasing torments constantly to feel,
Writhing in agonies which ne'er must end,
As ap the gulf the flames to heav'n ascend.

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And shew'd the vengeance of Jehovah's ire
Casting a deadly hue on all around,
Which only serv'd to terrify the mind
Dwells there in midnight with his hellish crew.
As it beheld the arch-apostate, who
There Lucifer, amidst his fallen pride
Rose forest-crested like a mighty oak
Struck by the lightning, or some lofty tower
Which feels the incessant blast of struggling
winds,

That bowl amidst its ruins; his stern brow
Seem'd to bespeak revenge in all its forms,
That rag'd relentless in his ruthless breast.
Full of dread malice and of vengeful spite,
Near him sat one, well skill'd in all the arts
Of wily stratagem and cunning thought,
Planning destruction to the multitudes
Encamp'd round Nebo, on the plains of Moab.
On right and left, obedient to their lord,
Stood there in waiting, ready for despatch,
Like menial servants, imps of haggard look,
Who knew full well the methods to deceive
The weak credulity of ignorant men.
There spirits foul of wizards stood and gaz'd
With ears wide open to receive his words,
Who rose in majesty, and thus began:-

"Hear me, companions in my misery, Ye who have shar'd my fortunes, curst exiles From yon blest regions of unsullied light, To which there's no return; no hope is left Our seats of glory to regain, for we Have forfeited our title to that heav'n Where reigns the eternal God, our only foe, Whose power we feel, but cannot love Him

DOW.

Hear then, ye assembled legions, as we've lost

Yon thrones of happiness, once call'd our own,
As we are doom'd alike these fires to feel,
Which glow intensely with the wrath of
beav'n,

Up and be doing; let's no more delay,
But seek to find the best and readiest way
To wreak our vengeance on the sons of God.
Led on by Moses through you desert land,
It is decreed that Jacob's seed shall fall
Heirs to yon Canaan where our altars are.
And if the people are dispers'd and slain,
Which, as I understand, will be the case,
Then bid adieu to blood of infants burn'd
Within the shrine of Moloch; farewell all
Those reeking victims, in whose piercing cries
We hear such melody, a sacrifice
Grateful to all the hosts that throng these
realms."

He ended, and a burst of loud applause Shook the dread regions of this Tartarus; When from the midst uprose Adramelech, A fiend whose prowess often had been tried In war and council, whose infernal power Had gain'd accessions to his conquering arm,

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"Hail, listening spirits, hail, ye demons all, And gloomy imps of darkness, hail, all hail! Here we are met, my friends and sufferers, To plan and scheme, devise, and think upon, The surest way to overthrow yon hosts Which dwell in safety under yon bright cloud,

Shielded by power omnipotent, which hurl'd
You, my companions, to this noisome place,
As our grand master bath before observ'd.
If Israel's armies gain the promis'd land,
And overcome the Canaanitish men
Who pay us homage with their infants' blood,
Then farewell rites omnifie of our power
On blinded mortals; Philistines will fall,
And Dagon's temple have no worshippers.
No skulls will crack amidst the fires that
blaze

In Moloch's statue; no more teraphims
Will be consulted; earth our force defies,
Our shrines forsaken, and our names forgot.
Hear then my counsel; thrones and powers,
attend;

Give ear, ye wizards, witches, and ye sprites
Of fire, earth, air, and water, all who feel
Strong indignation rising in your breasts
Against you highly-favour'd multitudes,
That were brought from slavery by the hand
Of yon vile murderer; who in Goshen's field
Smote an Egyptian, of which wounds he died.
Burn not your hearts with fury when ye think
Of your insulted strength, when sights were

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"Now, as the Deity abhors the sight Of heathen idols, and the gods of gold, Fashion'd by human fingers, cat and carv'd With diligent attention and nice art; As he no rival in his sight can bear, We'll tempt the multitudes a calf to make, Same as before, when Moses from the mount Descended with the tables of the law, Which on its fated head with rage he broke. Should this succeed, and Israel still provoke The God that wrought such wonders in their sight,

Kindled afresh, his rage will know no bounds, But sweep from off the earth this traitorous

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Rides o'er the heaps of frantic devotees, Crush'd in the general wreck of bones and blood;

Prince of the air, as through the earth we roam'd

In search of something to reward our toil,
As o'er you wilderness we bent our flight,
We chanc'd on Nebo's mountain to alight,
Where wand'ring round in lonesome place we
spied

A human body stretch'd along the ground.
Asleep it seem'd, but when we stoop'd to see
If life was in it, dead it was and cold,
Like to its mother earth. But, oh! give ear.
Would ye believe it, when we found it was
The tabernacle in which Moses dwelt,
His earthly house; 'tis levell'd in the dust,
And death one more has added to his train
Of disembodied spirits: haste and steal
From off the mountain this vile piece of clay,
Nor honour it with burial; bring it here,
And we will wreak our vengeance on the dead,
In spite of all that earth or heav'n can do."

No sooner finish'd, than the dungeon roar'd,
Like Etna's thunders pent within the earth,
Howling to gain their freedom in the air.
But soon 'twas quell'd, as midst the flames
they saw

The Prince of darkness rising up to speak. He wav'd his paw, and order spread around, So that no breath was heard, for all was still As ruin'd abbey or the silent grave.

"This happy hour, if happy I can call Ought that transpires within this horrid gulf, Has brought th' intelligence of Moses' death. Now, trusty friends, the welcome time is come, When our fall'n honour will again be rais'd, When war shall rage, and discord stalk along With strides terrific midst the Hebrew tents. I'll go this moment, singly and alone,

With all the terrors I can summon here,
And bring the body off with swiftest thought:
Nought shall impede my progress; mortals all
Shall fly my presence, when my power they

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Loud yell'd the fiends, and thrice the cavern shook

With tenfold thunders; grim despair forsook For once their bosoms, quickly to resume Her wonted seat, and bring a thicker gloom.

Now on the chariot-wheels of flashing fire The arch-apostate spread a loathsome cloud Of noxious vapours; lightnings were the steeds,

And hissing serpents twin'd around, were seen. A pitchy mantle o'er his back he flung, Hemm'd round with scorpions; caught by Avernus,

Fed on the cinders of this burning lake.
His throat belch'd sulphur, with an awful
stench,

That bade defiance to the veriest dregs
Of filth to imitate. He, with a bound
Sprung in his vehicle, and off he roll'd
Swift as his steeds could carry him along.
A moment pass'd, and o'er Mont Blanc he
drove

With hurrying fury; violence was seen

In all his movements; soon the seas were cross'd;

The equinoctial scarce had time to gaze,
Till out of sight the fiend had fled away.
At his approach all nature seem'd to wear
A garb more dismal; nought but midnight
reign'd,

As o'er the vales he drove the car along.
The pyramids were measur'd in a trice,
And all the wilderness by the Red Sea.
Satan grinn'd horribly, as by the tents
He whirling fled; then to the mountain-top
He swept along, and quickly gain'd the ground.

As the fell tiger couchant stoops and springs
With ravening fury on his feeble prey,
So Beelzebub, when his keen eye beheld
The stiffening body stretch'd along the ground,
Gnashing his teeth, he mutter'd to himself,
Now I am sure to carry off the prize.
When, lo! a cohort of angelic minds
In company with Michael straight appear'd,
Sailing along in glorious splendour, deck'd
With blooming laurels; flames of light they
seem'd,

Dispersing darkness from the mountain-top,
And spread a beauteous halo all around,
Of light proceeding from the throne of God.
These caught his eye, and starting back with
fear,

The frantic Lucifer forbore his prey;
For he well knew their mission; Michael then
In peaceful language thus address'd the foe :-

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"Satan, I know thy cunning, well thou canst Throw out thy threatenings, but I fear them not.

The living Lord is still my shield and strength,
In him I'll trust, nor fear the united force
Of thy battalions, though their numbers were
Ten thousand myriads, and ten thousand more.
Thy power is circumscrib'd, thy might is
nought

Compar'd with that which built the starry heav'ns.

The eternal God's my hope and anchor still, To him alone is praise and honour due." (To be concluded in our next.)

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held!

Astonish'd saw the pow'rs of darkness quell'd.
Now hail him victor, and aloud proclaim
The mighty wonders of Jehovah's name.
Shall man be backward? man, for whom he
bled,

Was counted vile, and number'd with the dead;
For whom he burst the barriers of the grave,
Shall man persist his wretched soul t' enslave?
No! rather let him forward boldly press,
Invade the skies, and join their host to bless
Emmanuel's love-acknowledge him their
King,

And mighty Captain, who alone could bring
Salvation down-and bear our souls on high,
To feed on joys thro' vast eternity.
Woolwich, Kent.

ELIZA.

FROM AN EPITHALAMIUM OF
CATULLUS.

As safe from flocks, by ploughs uninjur❜d, blows,

In charming solitude, a fragrant rose, Call'd forth by dews, by suns made fair and strong,

By gales refresh'd, the pride of summer's throng!

The blooming maids are lavish in its praise,
The youthful shepherds with fond wishes gaze.
But if the flower be ravish'd from its bed,
By a proud spoiler, and in ruins spread,
No blooming maids are lavish in its praise,
Nor youthful shepherds with fond wishes gaze;

So while the fair one innocent remains,
The love of all around her she retains ;
But when the flower of chastity is lost,
(Honour turn'd artful, sounds a guilty boast,)
She is not charming in her suitor's eyes,
Nor with esteem can faultless damsels prize.

J. J.

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And deep the meridian sky overspread,

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tire,

I wander'd, and wonder'd, and puzzled my head;

At length I espied what so rais'd my desire: The very same house-but no longer 'twas Red!

Its shape stood exactly the same to my eye,

But youthful no longer, no longer 'twas gay; Alas! I'd forgotten how time marching by Had stol'n the bright Red, and infix'd his deep gray!

But soon as recover'd from stupid surmise,

Dismiss'd each wild whim that had tortur'd I said to myself with a pleasant surprise, my brains,

"What funds for reflection this subject contains!"

The views that so charm'd us in childhood and youth,

When a few silent years have insidiously fled,

Though sought by the eye of affection and truth,

Recede from the sight-they no longer are

Red!

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That "grow with its growth," and by which it is fed,

Succeeded by cares, or bewilder'd with noise, Tho' yet they exist, they no longer are Red!

The hurry of bus'ness, its bustle and glare,

The showers of gold 'tis expected to shed; Or drop'd in the coffers, or melted in air, Review'd from a death-scene, no longer are Red!

So honours, and riches, and pleasures, and fame,

(The phantoms so gay, by which thousands are led,)

Each prospect was cover'd with mist and Though sparkling with lustre and burning with

with gloom;

When yet 'twas my hap to be trav'lling again

The long-estrang'd paths, o'er the fernwilder'd waste;

I said "The Red House does undoubted remain,

Although my bright prospects and sunshine are past!

"Its walls I will seek, and beside them beguile

In view retrospective, the pangs I endure; The landscape shall meet me, the sunshine, the smile,

I'll riot in bliss, though I claim it no more! 75.-VOL. VII.

flame,

A few years escap'd, they no longer are Red!

The sinner profane, to all goodness averse,

To vile dazzling pleasures most heartily wed; When" sin finds him out" at the end of his

course

Proves (glitter all over) no more are they Red!

The miser that bathes in a gold-bedded stream, Till nigh turn'd to metal, his sympathies dead;

"When drown'd in perdition," will certainly deem

The suare that decoy'd him no longer is Red!

S

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