In the fair vale of Avelon:
There, with chanted orison,

And the long blaze of tapers clear,
The stoled fathers met the bier:
Through the dim ailes, in order dread
Of martial woe, the chief they led,
And deep entombed in holy ground,
Before the Altar's solemn bound.
Around no dusky banners wave,
No mouldering trophies mark the grave:
Away the ruthless Dane has torn

Each trace that Time's slow touch had worn;
And long o'er the neglected stone,

Oblivion's vale its shade has thrown:

The faded tomb, with honour due,

"T is thine, O Henry! to renew.

Thither, when conquest has restored

Yon recreant Isle, and sheathed the sword,—
When peace with palm has crowned thy brows,—
Haste thee to pay thy pilgrim vows.

There, observant of my lore,

The pavement's hallowed depth explore;
And thrice a fathom underneath

Dive into the vaults of death.

of Malmsbury, who wrote about 1140, describes it minutely,- mentioning pipes of brass, "æneas fistulas," and also, that Dunstan's gift was commemorated by a Latin distich, engraved on the organ-pipes. While on this head, it may not be inappropriate to relate the origin of one of the most noble of human inventions. There were Organs, so styled, two thousand years ago; but these were instruments of very different and humble properties, being portable, and probably not exceeding the classical number of seven pipes, with a small bellows attached, which was worked by one hand, whilst the other struck the notes; thus they seem to have resembled one species of bagpipe. But that magnificent edifice of music, which we now call the ORGAN, was invented in Arabia, in the Eighth century; and the first introduced into Europe, was sent as a present from Constantine V., sirnamed Copronymus, a Grecian Emperor, to King Pepin of France, A. D. 756. It was placed in the church of St. Corneille, at Compeigne, near one of the royal palaces.-ED.

There shall thine eye, with wild amaze,
On his gigantic stature gaze;

There shalt thou find the monarch laid,
All in warrior-weeds arrayed;
Wearing in death his helmet crown,
And weapons, huge, of old renown.
Martial prince! 't is thine to save
From dark oblivion, Arthur's grave.
So may thy ships securely stem
The Western Frith: thy diadem
Shine victorious in the van,

Nor heed the slings of Ulster's clan:
Thy Norman pikemen win their way
Up the dun rocks of Harald's bay; *
And from the steeps of rough Kildare,
Thy prancing hoof the falcon scare:
So may thy bow's unerring yew

Its shafts in Roderick's heart imbrue." ↑

Amid the pealing symphony,

The spiced goblets mantled high;

* Dublin. Harald, Harsager, the "Fair-haired," King of Norway, is said, in the Life of Gryffudh ap Conan, Prince of North Wales, to have conquered Ireland, and to have founded Dublin.-W.

+ Henry is supposed to have succeeded in this enterprise, chiefly by the use of the long bow, with which the Irish were entirely unacquainted. A nearly similar degree of superiority contributed materially to the triumphs of the English over the Scots.

‡ Our ancestors, whose ideas of luxury were principally confined to the solid and the costly, were wont to imbibe divers and sundry mixed and compound potations, of which the principal were pigment (a word of very odd sound!) and hipocras, or ypocras; the latter said to have been originally invented by the great physician Hippocrates, and also to have received its name from the Greek, vπo and kepavνʊμ, to mix ; was introduced into England about the end of the fourteenth century. It consisted of wine, highly medicated, and enriched with various spices and sugar (speciebus et sugur). This expensive delicacy was sold as high as 18d. a quart, an enormous price, at a time when the best German and French wines were sold at 3d.-ED.

With passions new the song impressed
The listening King's impatient breast.
Flash the keen lightnings from his eyes,
He scorns awhile his bold emprise;
E'en now he seems, with eager pace,
The consecrated Floor to trace,
And ope from its tremendous gloom,
The treasure of the wondrous Tomb:
E'en now he burns in thought to rear,
From its dark bed, the ponderous spear,
Rough with the gore of Pictish Kings:
E'en now fond hope his fancy wings,
To poise the monarch's massy blade,
Of magic-tempered metal made;
And drag to day the dinted shield,
That felt the storm of Camlan's field!
O'er the sepulchre profound,

E'en now with arching sculpture crowned,
He plans the chantry's choral shrine,
The daily dirge and rites divine.

ATHELGIVA.

"THERE remains a tradition," observes Mr. Watkins, the writer of the following legendary tale," that the Abbey of Whitby, on the North coast of Yorkshire, was despoiled during the depredations of the Danes, under the command of Ingua and Hubba, who brought with them the standard on which was embroidered a golden Raven (the work of their sisters), and which was preserved as the Palladium of their security. Edelsteda, who is mentioned in the first stanza, is represented to have been the daughter of Oswin, King of Northumberland, and resided in the Abbey of Whitby. This sanctuary was founded by St. Hilda, sister of King Edwin, who died in 680."-BEDE, and SAX. CHRON.

"HERE may'st thou rest, my sister dear!

Securely here abide :

Where royal Edelsteda lived,

Where pious Hilda died.

"Here peace and quiet ever dwell!
Here dread no dire alarms:

Nor here is heard the trumpet's sound,
Nor here the din of arms!".

With voice composed and look serene,
Whilst soft her hand he pressed,
The maid, who trembled on his arm,
Young Edwy thus addressed.

Blue gleamed the steel in Edwy's hand,

The warrior's vest he bore;

For now the Danes, by Hubba led,
Had ravaged half the shore.

His summons, at the abbey-gate,
The ready porter hears:
And soon, in veil and holy garb,
The abbess kind appears.

“O, take this virgin to thy care;
Good angels be your guard!
And may the saints in Heaven above,
The pious care reward!—

"Know then, by fierce barbarian bands,

We, driven from our home,

Through three long days and nights forlorn, The dreary waste did roam.

"But, I go these towers to save!
Beneath the evening shade,

I haste to seek Earl Osrick's power,
And call Lord Redwald's aid."

He said and turned his ready foot:
The abbess nought replies;
But with a look that spoke her grief,
To heaven upcast her eyes.

Now, turning to the stranger dame,
"O, welcome to this place!

For never Whitby's holy fane
Did fairer maiden grace."

And true she said-for, on her cheek
Was seen young beauty's bloom;
Though grief, with slow and wasting stealth,
Did then her prime consume.