"Saints from the mansion of bliss lowly bending,
Virgin, that hear'st the poor suppliant's cry,
Grant my petition, in anguish ascending.
My Frederick restore, or let Eleanor die."
Distant and faint were the sounds of the battle,
With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail,
Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's dread rattle,
And the chase's wild clamour came loading the gale.
Breathless she gaz'd through the woodland so dreary,
Slowly approaching, a warrior was seen;
Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footstep so weary,
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his mien.
"Save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying;
Save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is low;
Cold on yon heath thy bold Frederick is lying,
Fast through the woodland approaches the foe."
Two of the best stories are The Bride, by Theodore Hook, and the
Shooting Star, an Irish tale, by Lord Nugent; and a Dialogue for the
year 2310, by the author of Granby, has considerable smartness. The
scene is in London, where one of the speakers has just arrived "from out
of Scotland; breakfasted this morning at Edinburgh, and have not been in
town above a couple of hours. The roads are dreadfully heavy now:
conceive my having been seven hours and a half coming from Edinburgh to
London. Killing between four and five thousand head of game in one day
is shooting ill; and one of the party has a gun which would give
twenty-seven discharges in a minute, and mine would give only
twenty-five.
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