which he wrote is considered genuine, though not admitted into the canon of the church.

St. Alban, the first Christian martyr in this island, suffered in 303. He was converted to Christianity by Amphialus, a priest of Caerleon in Monmouthshire, who, flying from persecution, was hospitably entertained by St. Alban at Verulam, in Hertfordshire, now called, from him, St. Alban's. Amphialus being closely pursued, made his escape, dressed in St. Alban's clothes. This, however, being soon discovered, exposed St. Alban to the fury of the Pagans; and our saint refusing to perform the sacrifice to their gods, was first miserably tortured, and then put to death.

*18. 1815.-BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men :
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell :

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it?-No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase, the glowing hours with flying feet-
But, hark!-that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, nearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is--it is-the cannon's opening roar!
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispering, with white lips-The foe! they come! they come!
And wild, and high, the Cameron's gathering' rose!

The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes :-
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! but with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years,

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave,—alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay;

The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms, the day
Battle's magnificently-stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,

Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent!

BYRON.

20.-TRANSLATION OF EDWARD, King of the West

Saxons.

Edward being barbarously murdered by his motherin-law, was first buried at Warham, without any solemnity; but, after three years, was carried by Duke Alferus to the minster of Shrewsbury, and there interred with great pomp.

21.-LONGEST DAY.

This day is, in London, 16 h. 34 m. 5 s., allowing 9m. 16 s. for refraction.

TIME.

A Canzone from the Italian of Torquato Tasso

'Donne voi che superbe,

Dames that in the dazzling glow
Of your youth and beauty go;
Ye who, in your strength, defy
Love with all his archery;
Ye who stand unconquered still,
Conquering others as ye will-
Ye shall bend, at last, before
The iron sceptre of my power.
Mine shall be your glories then,
Mine the triumphs of your train,
Mine the trophy and the crown,
Mine the hearts which ye have won ;
And your beauty's waning ray
Shall wax feeble, and decay,
And your souls too proudly soaring,
To see the prostrate world adoring.

TIME, imperial TIME, am I,

TIME, your lord and enemy;
TIME, whose passing wing can blight,

With the shadow of its flight,

More than Love in all his pride,

With his thousands by his side.

While I speak, the moments fly,
And my spirit silently

Creeps into your sparkling eyes,
And amid your tresses lies-
Here the wreathed knots untwining,
There bedimming beauty's shining;
Blunting all the piercing darts
Which the amorous eye imparts,
And wearing loveliness away
To crumble with its kindred clay.

On I fly; I speed away,

On, for ever and for aye
But, alas! ye take no heed
To the swiftness of my speed,

Bearing, like a mighty river,
In the downward course for ever,
All your gay and glittering throng,
Honours, titles, names along-
Mortal hopes and mortal pride,
With the stilness of its tide.
*

Soon shall come that fatal hour
When, beneath my arm of power,
Lowly shall ye bend the knee.
Soon shall Love the palace flee,
Where he sits enthroned on high
In the lustre of your eye;
And your victor standard there
Age and chill reserve shall rear.

Soon, like captives, shall ye learn

Ways less wild, and laws more stern;
Gone shall be your smiling glances,
Hushed your carols and your dances;
And your golden robes of pride
All, too soon, be laid aside
For the vesture grey and sere,
Which my humbled captives wear.

And I now proclaim your fate,
That reflection ere too late,
How, when youthful years are gone,
Hoary ills come hasting on,
Ye may stoop your pride of soul,
Holding earth in strong controul,
Deeming that the world contains
None deserving of your chains.
Bend ye, then, to Reason's sway,
Go where Pity points the way;
While with wing unflagging I
Keep my course eternally.

Days and nights, and years, and ye,
My swift winged family,
Whom the All-creating Hand

Framed ere earth itself was planned,—

Up, and still untiring hold

Your triumphant course of old,
And still your rapid cars be driven

O'er the boundless path of heaven!

New Monthly Magazine.

24.-SAINT JOHN THE BAPTIST and MIDSUMMER DAY.

The nativity of St. John the Baptist is celebrated by the Christian Church on this day, because he was the Forerunner of our blessed Lord, and, by preaching the doctrine of repentance, prepared the way for the gospel. He was imprisoned by Herod for preaching against his marriage with his brother's wife, and was afterwards beheaded by the arts of that enraged

woman. ‹

The morning of Midsummer Day is still regarded, in many parts of Europe, in something like the same. light with our own Allhallows Eve, the Scottish observances and superstitions connected with which have been so beautifully treated by Burns in his Halloween. In some parts of Spain the young maidens go forth in the morning to gather flowers, singing a beautiful antient ballad, or invitation to their companions to join them in their annual ceremonies. (See T. T. for 1821, p. 172.) According to a provincial custom in Lower Saxony, every young girl plucks a sprig of St. John's wort on Midsummer night, and sticks it into the wall of her chamber. Should it, owing to the dampness of the wall, retain its freshness and verdure, she may reckon upon gaining a suitor in the course of the year; but if it droop, the popular belief is, that she also is destined to pine and wither away.

On this superstition, we subjoin the following pleasing version of some lines transcribed from a German almanack.

The ST. JOHN'S WORT.

The young maid stole thro' the cottage door,
And blushed as she sought the plant of pow'r;
'Thou silver glow-worm, O lend me thy light,
I must gather the mystic St. John's-wort to-night;
The wonderful herb, whose leaf will decide
If the coming year shall make me a bride.
Ang And the glow-worm cames tha
With its silvery flame, I

The glow-worm is denominated in German Johanniswürmchen.