Choak'd and impeded: to the lower ground
Slowly it creeps; there traces still are found
Of hollow squares, embank'd with beaten clay,
Where brightly glitter'd in the eye of day
The peopled waters of Saint Monica.

The chapel pavement, where the name and date,
Or monkish rhyme, had mark'd the graven plate,
With docks and nettles now is overgrown ;

And brambles trail above the dead unknown-
Impatient of the heat, the straggling ewe
Tinkles her drowsy bell, as nibbling slow
She picks the grass among the thistles gray,
Whose feather'd seed the light air bears away,
O'er the pale relicks of Saint Monica.

Re-echo'd by the walls, the owl obscene
Hoots to the night; as thro' the ivy green
Whose matted tods the arch and buttress bind,
Sobs in low gusts the melancholy wind:
The Conium there, her stalks bedropp'd with red,
Rears, with Circea, neighbour of the dead;
Atropa too, that, as the beldams say,
Shews her black fruit to tempt and to betray,
Nods by the mouldering shrine of Monica.

Old tales and legends are not quite forgot.
Still Superstition hovers o'er the spot,

And tells how here, the wan and restless sprite, By some way-wilder'd peasant seen at night, Gibbers and shrieks, among the ruins drear; And how the friar's lanthorn will appear Gleaming among the woods, with fearful ray, And from the churchyard take its wavering way, To the dim arches of Saint Monica.

The antiquary comes not to explore,

As once, the unrafter'd roof and pathless floor;
For now, no more beneath the vaulted ground
Is crosier, cross, or sculptur'd chalice found,
Nor record telling of the wassail ale,
What time the welcome summons to regale,
Given by the matin peal on holyday,
The villagers rejoicing to obey,
Feasted in honour of Saint Monica.

Yet often still, at eve or early morn,
Among these ruins shagg'd with fern and thorn,
A pensive stranger from his lonely seat
Observes the rapid martin, threading fleet.
The broken arch or follows with his eye,
The wall-creeper that hunts the burnish'd fly;
Sees the newt basking in the sunny ray,
Or snail that sinuous winds his shining way
O'er the time-fretted walls of Monica.

He comes not here, from the sepulchral stone
To tear the oblivious pall that Time has thrown,
But meditating, marks the power proceed
From the mapped lichen, to the plumed weed,
From thready mosses to the veined flower,
The silent, slow, but ever active power
Of Vegetative Life, that o'er Decay

Weaves her green mantle, when returning May
Dresses the ruins of Saint Monica.

O Nature! ever lovely, ever new,

He who his earliest vows has paid to you
Still finds that life has something to bestow;
And while to dark Forgetfulness they go,
Man, and the works of man-immortal Youth,
Unfading Beauty, and eternal Truth,
Your Heaven-indited volume will display,
While Art's elaborate monuments decay,

Even as these shatter'd aisles, deserted Monica!

ELIZABETH TREFUSIS,

Born died......

Sister of the late Lord Clinton, published in 1808 "Poems and Tales," in two volumes.

This very romantic lady figures in The Sexagenarian under the name of Ella: the account of her in that work, I have good authority for stating, is extremely incorrect.

Felix to Stella, on seeing her weep, on the Anniversary of their First Meeting.

(From my Pastoral Romance.)

1.

AH! why, my Stella, should a tear
Profane this blest auspicious day?
Have I not lov'd thee many a year?
And can such passion feel decay?

Thou sayst that " man was born to range!

By nature and by custom taught,

"This strong impulsive wish to change

"Fills every avenue of thought!"

2.

In vain may yon fair flower disclose
Its opening beauties to the morn,
If mortals fear to pluck the rose,

Lest they should suffer from its thorn! Why wilt thou, trembling for the morrow, Scorn what the present can provide? By searching for the thorns of sorrow, The flowers of bliss are scatter'd wide!

The Boy and Butterfly.

PROUD of its little day, enjoying

The lavish sweets kind nature yields, In harmless sports each hour employing, Ranging the gardens, woods, and fields, A lonely Butterfly extending

Its grateful wing to Sol's warm beams, No dreaded danger saw impending,

But bask'd secure, in peaceful dreams. A wandering urchin view'd this treasure Of gaudy colours fine and gay; Thoughtless, consulting but his pleasure, He chas'd it through the live-long day.