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wliose stream runs at the base of the hill on which 
Verulam once stood; a city renowned in our early 
history as the scene of many a tierce struggle between 
Roman and Briton, at which remote period it was of 
great, if not primary, importance, in the country. But 
long since hâve its palaces and temples been destroyed, 
and its walls overthrown. The plough passes over its 
streets, and scarce a fragment remains to mark where it 
stood. 
I was that city which the garland wore 
Of Britain’s pride, delivered unto me 
By Roman victors, which it won of yore ; 
Though nought at ail but ruines now I be, 
* And lie in mine own ashes as ye see : 
Verlame I was. 
Spenseb. 
Verulam then will soon be forgotten ! But no ! 
we gaze on the fragile monitor we are twining in our 
wfeath and exclaim, It cannot be, for she has a claim 
on our remembrance which must ever be recognised ; 
St. Alban was her citizen ! Much of her history has 
been lost in the lapse of âges, and what remains is but 
obscurely seen in the darkness of the period in which 
her lot was cast ; but there is one bright page which, 
as we turn the clouded leaves, flashes upon us with 
