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The tale of my imprisoned life
Within these lothsome walls,
Each moment as it lingers by,
My hoary hair recalls;

For when this castle first I saw

My beard was scarcely grown,
And now, to purge my youthful sins,
Its folds hang whitening down.
Then where art thou, my careless son?
And why so dull and cold?

Doth not my blood within thee run?
Speaks it not loud and bold?

Alas! it may be so, but still

Thy mother's blood is thine;

And what is kindred to the King

Will plead no cause of mine:

-

And thus all three against me stand;-
For, the whole men to quell,

'Tis not enough to have our foes,

Our heart's blood must rebel.

Meanwhile, the guards that watch me here,

Of thy proud conquests boast;

But if for me thou lead'st it not,

For whom then fights thy host?

And since thou leav'st me prisoned here,

In cruel chains to groan,

Or I must be a guilty sire,

Or thou a guilty son!

Yet pardon me, if I offend

By uttering words so free,

For, while oppressed with age I moan,

No words come back from thee.

Some of these old songs are sufficiently shrewd and humorous ; witness the following, "in which an elder sister is represented lecturing a younger one on first noticing in her the symptoms of love :"

Her sister Miguela,

Once chid little Jane,

And the words that she spake
Gave a great deal of pain.

"You went yesterday playing,
A child like the rest,
And now you come out,

More than other girls drest.

"You take pleasure in sighs,
In sad music delight;

With the dawning you rise,

Yet sit up half the night.

"When you take up your work,
You look vacant, and stare;
And gaze on your sampler,
Yet miss the stitch there.

"You're in love, people say,

And your actions all show it;

New ways we shall have,

When our mother shall know it.

"She'll nail up the windows,
And lock up the door;
Leave to frolic and dance
She will give us no more.

"Our old aunt will be sent for, To take us to mass;

And to stop all our talk

With the girls as we pass.

"And when we walk out,

She will bid that old shrew Keep a faithful account

Of whate'er our eyes do;

"And mark who goes by,
If I peep through the blind;
And be sure to detect us
In looking behind.

"Thus, for your idle follies, Must I suffer too;

And though nothing I've done,

Must be punished like you."

"Oh! sister Miguela,

Your chiding pray spare! That I've troubles you guess, But know not what they are.

Young Pedro it is,

Old Don Ivor's fair youth;

But he's gone to the wars,

And, oh! where is his truth?

"I loved him sincerely,

Loved all that he said;

But I fear he is fickle,
I fear he has filed.

"He is gone of free choice,
Without summons or call;
And 'tis foolish to love him,
Or like him at all."

Nay, pray morn and night
To the Virgin above,

Lest this Pedro return,

And again you should love,"

(Said Miguela in jest,

As she answered poor Jane ;)
"For, when love has been bought
At the cost of such pain,

"What hope is there, sister,
Unless the soul part,
That the passion so cherished
Should leave your fond heart?

"As your years still increase,

So increase will your pains;

And this you may learn

From the proverb's old strains :

"That if, when but a child,

Love's dominion you own,

None can tell what you'll do

When you older are grown."

This dialogue is three hundred years old at the very least. 1 do not think it would be quite impossible to match it now, with a little change of names and of costume. Perhaps I may have myself altered some of the lines, since I quote from memory, and have not the book to refer to.

It is not the least gratifying tribute to Mr. Ticknor's valuable work, that it was recommended for perusal by Mr. Macaulay to the Queen of England.

XVII.

FEMALE POETS.

MISS BLAMIRE.-MRS. JAMES GRAY.

THE name of Blamire has always a certain interest for me, in consequence of a circumstance, which, as it took place somewhere about five-and-forty years ago, and has reference to a flirtation of twenty years previous, there can not now be much harm in relating.

Being with my father and mother on a visit about six miles from Southampton, we were invited by a gentleman of the neighborhood to meet the wife and daughters of a certain Dr. Blamire "An old friend of yours and mine," quoth our inviter to my father "Don't you remember how you used to flirt with the fair lady when you and Babington were at Haslar? Faith, if Blamire had not taken pity on her, it would have gone hard with the poor damsel ! However, he made up to the disconsolate maiden, and she got over it. Nothing like a new love for chasing away an old one. You must dine with us to-morrow. shall like to see the meeting."

Men never do.

I

My father did not attempt to deny the matter. He laughed, as all that wicked sex do laugh at such sins twenty years after, and professed that he should be very glad to shake hands with his old acquaintance. So the next day we met.

I was a little curious to see how my own dear mother, my mamma that was, and the stranger lady, my mamma that might have been, would bear themselves on the occasion. At first, my dear mother, an exceedingly ladylike, quiet person, had considerably the advantage, being prepared for the rencontre and perfectly calm and composed; while Mrs. Blamire, taken, I suspect, by surprise, was a good deal startled and flustered. This state of things, however, did not last. Mrs. Blamire having got over

the first shock, comported herself like what she evidently was, a practiced woman of the world,—would talk to no one but ourselves,—and seemed resolved not only to make friends with her successful rival, but to strike up an intimacy. This, by no means, entered into my mother's calculations. As the one advanced the other receded, and, keeping always within the limits of civility, I never heard so much easy chat put aside with sc many cool and stately monosyllables in my life.

The most diverting part of this scene, very amusing to a stander-by, was, that my father, the only real culprit, was the only person who throughout maintained the appearance and demeanor of the most unconscious innocence. He complimented Mrs. Blamire on her daughters (two very fine girls),—inquired after his old friend, the Doctor, who was attending his patients in a distant town,-and laughed and talked over bygone stories. with the one lady, just as if he had not jilted her, and played the kind and attentive husband to the other, just as if he had never made love to any body except his own dear wife.

It was one of the strange domestic comedies which are happening around us every day, if we were but aware of them, and might probably have ended in a renewal of acquaintance between the two families but for a dispute that occurred toward the end of the evening between Mrs. Blamire and the friend in whose house we were staying, which made the lady resolve against accepting his hospitable invitations, and I half suspect hurried her off a day or two before her time.

This host of ours was a very celebrated person,— -no other than William Cobbett. Sporting, not politics, had brought about our present visit and subsequent intimacy. We had become acquainted with Mr. Cobbett two or three years before, at this very house, where we were now dining to meet Mrs. Blamire. Then my father, a great sportsman, had met him while on a coursing expedition near Alton,—had given him a greyhound that he had fallen in love with,-had invited him to attend another coursing meeting near our own house in Berkshire,—and finally, we were now, in the early autumn, with all manner of pointers, and setters, and greyhounds, and spaniels, shooting ponies, and gun-cases, paying the return visit to him.

He had at that time a large house at Botley, with a lawn and gardens sweeping down to the Bursledon River, which divided

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