* You may talk of your Youngs and your Ambroses as you please. Whoever has had the good fortune to experience the comfort, civility, and accommodation which are to be had at " Macnab's," will be apt to become a very testy and troublesome guest anywhere else.

HAROLD'S GRAVE.

"Pictaviensis and Orderic say that he was buried on the beach; most of the historians, that the body was given to his mother without ransom, and interred by her order at Waltham. A more romantic story is told by the author of the Waltham M.S. in the Cotton Library, Jul. D. 6, who wrote about a century afterwards. If we may believe him, two of the canons, Osgod Cnoppe, and Ailric, the Childe-maister, were sent to be spectators of the battle. They obtained from William, to whom they presented ten marks of gold, leave to search for the body of their benefactor. Unable to distinguish it amongst the heaps of slain, they sent for Harold's mistress, Editha, surnamed the fair,' and the 'swan's neck.' By her his features were recognized."-LINGARD'S History of England.

There, where yon stretch of yellow sand,
Sparkling beneath the glance of noon,
Bends gently inward on the land,

Like crescent of an eight-days' moon,-
So lovely is that fatal coast

Where England's liberty was lost.—
Ah! woe is me, that ever there

The best of Saxon blood was shed,

That first the Norman foot should tread

Upon a spot so calm and fair.

There-midway, where the sunny shore
Shelves, smoothly, to the wavy blue,
The fishermen, in days of yore,

Would land, while yet the day was new;
And wives and maids greet their returning,
Blythe as the fresh wreath of the morning;
Though now degraded serfs, they wait,

The sullen youth and fearful maid,
Pale as those flowers that grow in shade,
Beneath their tyrant's gloomy gate.

Oh! Freedom, thou art worth the striving-
Where Slavery once hath drawn his mesh,
The very air cannot refresh ;

The very day-beam not enliven.

Their golden skies may glow serenely,
Their scented groves may flourish greenly;
But the wreaths that would our brows emblossom,
The flowers that seem to meet our smile,
Disgust us when they most would wile-

Like gems upon a harlot's bosom.

And all is silent, desert now,

Save that there is one noteless spot,
By some kind foot 'tis ne'er forgot,
Still you may find it. Wond'rous how
The form that haunts that scene so fair,
Still leaves her simple traces there,
And still some sad device appears,
Which drooping wreaths seem to enclose,
As if that untired mourner's tears

Were ceaseless as the wave that flows.

For whether, in warm autumn's glow,
The waves seem languidly to fall,
That scarce their voice is heard at all,
The murmuring is so hush'd and low,

8

And the clear ripple curls to break, Soft as a tress on Beauty's cheek,Or whether the roused billows roll

Before the blast their foam and spray,
And seem to course into the bay,
Following, like racers to the goal ;—

There, be it sun-shine, be it storm,
When the wild waters have receded,
Unknown, unheeding, and unheeded,
Is seen to glide a slender form;
And you may trace her fragile hand,
And little foot-print on the sand;
And there she hath some viewless shrine,
And scatters many a flow'ry token,

And seems to shed, like one heart-broken, Tears, salter than the ocean-brine.

She brings each earliest bud, that hastes,
Blushing to hail the spring's return;
She brings the latest rose that wastes
Above the year's funereal urn;
And when the storm the ocean treads,
And the pale stars have hid their heads,
Trembling to hear the waters sweep,

And the hoar winter hath crawl'd forth
Slowly, from out his dreary north,
She wanders there, though but to weep.

Where most the bruising foot hath trod,
There is the slender daisy seen,
And still a ring of deeper green
Marks where the lightning shakes the sod:-
Love, shrinking as thou seem'st to be,
What others fear emboldens thee,
And thy impress is seen alone,

(As flowers, entomb'd by earthquake shock,
Will leave faint limnings in the rock,)
On hearts that fate hath chill'd to stone.

Ask, why she comes-and comes to weep,-
Her name and race if ye would seek,-
The Hind, whose pittance serves to keep
The hectic in that faded cheek,

And he shall, haply, make reply

Thus with his head shook, or his eye

He is a scared, though kindly slave,

And hath but listen'd from some screen, Some nook-those woes which she would have Unheard at least, if not unseen.

As years, with sullen flow, creep by,
E'en grief will find a soft decline,
And she will sit and muse and sigh,
Still answering less by word than sign.

But when the moon hangs, red and broad,
Above the deep, on his shadowy road,
I've heard her scream-loud as those may
Convuls'd at heart with some strange shock,
And laugh,-fantastic-as the spray

When the wild billow meets the rock

VOL. X.

They scoop'd his grave the ocean-brim,
There, on the green-flood's very verge,
That, every sun, the restless surge
Might sweep away all trace of him.

But yet, methinks, he'll better rest
Even in the changeful ocean's breast,
Than in yon field's sepulchral bed,

Where every day some armed heel,
That help'd to thrust down England's weal,
May stalk above his lowly head.

"Yes-even the hireling priests are gone
To hymn the scornful Conqueror,

And leave their loyal love-to her,
The worm-they would have trod upon.'
Though they have left me here alone,
And kneel before the Norman's throne,
I still can weep, and ask the waters

To see his tomb-and wait their leave-
There's no one to revenge these slaughters,
But there's a heart still left to grieve.

The milk-white cups, that arch to the sky,
And the drooping leaves, recal to mind
The soul so gentle, yet so high,

That could be lofty, and still be kind.

"And, as the wreath must soon decay,

And the waves sweep o'er it, where 'tis lying,
O would that, so, I might pass away,

And their hour of blow be mine of dying.
I ask no more, but calm to rest,
On the grave of him that I loved best,
To share his tomb so wild and lonely,

By foes and friends at once forgot,
Where the eye of memory glanceth not,

And the wave and moon-beam visit only."

THE MOUNT OF OLIVES.

"And when they had sung a hymn, they went out into the Mount of Olives."