| 
! 
1810.} Brig 
mightye Jesu preserue with your good 
lordship. From Kermerddyn, the last 
daye of March. 
_ Yor lordeships to comand, 
W. MEneven. 
LUDICROUS TIMIDITY. 
It is related of Aston, earl of Portland, 
treasurer to Charles I. that having been 
much importuned to procure the rever- 
sion of an office for the son of sir Julius 
Cesar; the friend of the latter, in order 
to insure his attention to the affair, wrote 
on a slip of paper, “ remember Cesar.” 
This, on being presented to the treasurer, 
was casually put into his pocket, and he 
was too much of a courtier ever to think 
of the matter again. A short period, 
however, only elapsed, before accident 
brought this paper again toview. Not 
inal Poetry. 
$355 
remembering the circumstance that gave 
rise to it, he was forcibly struck with the 
idea of its being an indirect intimation of 
approaching assassination, and in ordef 
to escape Czsar’s fate after due delibe- 
ration with his tried and steady friends, 
he affected indisposition, ordered his 
eates to be closed, and aliowed only the 
favoured: few tu’ be admitted. Guards 
also were placed about his house, lest a 
violent assault should be made upon it 
in the night. “This affair was at length 
made public, and on an explanation 
taking place between the noble trea- 
surer and the been of Mr, Cesar, a 
general laugh was raised at the ridiculous 
point of view in aks the timid and 
irresolute conduct of the lord treasurer 
had placed him. 
ORIGINAL POETRY. 
<a 2 
THE DEATH-BELL. 
| A. from yon hoary, time-worn fane, 
Once more proceeds tie last sad strain, 
To parted mortals giv’n. 
Hail, solemn bell, thy accents drear 
Break like soft music on my-ear, 
And seem to point to heay’n. 
Such are the gloomy sounds I love, 
As, sunk in silent grief, 1 rove 
Those speaking stones among; ~ 
And think, while oft with ling’ring tread 
i pace my Laura’s peaceful bed, 
My knell will soon be rung. 
Be still, my soul: ev’n now some breast 
May find perhaps a longewish’d rest, 
From torments great as thine. 
Thrice happy shade, these tones of woe 
Pierce not the tranquil house below ; 
Oh! would thy doom were mine 
The funeral comes: and see, in state 
Moves onward to that friendly gate, 
Whose portals ope to all 5 
While mark, as every passing gale 
Bears from the spire the dismal tale, 
‘The gushing anguish fall. 
Weep on, ye mourners, wet the bier 
With kindly drops, and scatter rhere 
The earliest flow’rs that bloom ; 
So shall remembrance, when you sleep, 
Bathe with soft dews the verdant heap, 
And roses desk your tomb. 
I cannot weep, for ah! to me 
That sober, solemn luxury, 
My cruel fate denies : 
No more-pure sympathy’s clear tide 
Down these. uncrimson’d cheeks 
glide, 
shall 
Or glitter in these eyes. 
hese founts are dry, which us’d to pour 
t pity’s call the plenteous show’r, 
Ad not one tear supply ; . 
~ The Jast on Laura’s grave was shed, 
And there, ere long, this aching head 
in Death’s cold lap shall lie. 
Dread tyrant! one fell shaft from thee, 
For ever fix’d my destiny, 
And robb’d my soul of bliss. 
My fond, my dove-like maid is gene; 
And thou, O parent earth! alone, . 
Can’st yield this bosom peace. 
¥ mark’d her rose of life, grow pale, 
And endless slumbet’s shadowy veil 
Her languid orbs o’ercast ; 
And while in ceaseless, fruitless pray’ry 
I wearied heav’n, my saint to spare, 
She kiss’d, and breath’d her last. 
I caught, as faint it died away, 
Her latest sigh, and sought tostay 
Her spirit on its flight ; 
And press’d her chill damp lips to mine § 
And frantic curs’d that hand divine 
Which’ clos’d her eyes in night. 
I saw her chaste unspotted clay 
Enhears’d, aid pass in black array, 
Slow, oa the church-yard road ; 
And went and heard the burial rite 5 
And gaz’d, till lost alas! to sight, 
She fili’d her darke-abode, 
Thou too, fate’s help-mate, true fo trust, 
Isaw heap high the hallow’d dust, 
And raise the narrow mound ; 
And heard the parting requiem toll’d, » 
And, déep’ning as its echoes roll’d, 
O° er vaulted: earth resound. ‘ 
Oh, oft invok’d, and envious pow’r, 
Yet fond, in fortune’s dawning hour, 
The ready stroke to give! 
Why, on the happy, and the gay, 
Dost thou still urge thy fateful sway, 
And leav’st the wretch to live? 
