My attention was particulary arrested by one of these, erected in memory of a young lady, who died shortly before the day fixed for her marriage. In a niche in the wall, close to Shakspeare's monument, the busts of her lover and herself, in white marble, are placed side by side, her hand clasped in his, as if at the bridal hour, and her face turned towards him, with a sweet and sorrowful expression, which her story renders peculiarly touching. The inscription is literally as follows:

"Here lyeth the body of Judith Combe, (daughter of William Combe, of Old Stratford, in the county of Warwick, Esq.,) who was to have bin married unto Richard Combe, of Hemstead, in ye county of Hartford, Esq., had not death prevented it, by deyrivinge of her life, to ye extreme griefe and sorrow of both their friends; but more especially of ye said Richard Combe, who, in testimony of his unfained love, hath erected this monument for perpetuating her pious mem. ory. She took her last leave of this life, the 17th day of August, 1649, in 'ye armes of him, who most intirely loved and was beloved of her, even to ye very death."

One can hardly stand at the grave of Shakspeare without being strangely moved at thought of the power which that creative genius has exercised over his own mind. Lear, Macbeth, Hamlet, Othello, Desdemona. What beings have lived, more real to us than these? Whose history has so agitated us? Whose dark and stormy passions have so thrilled our souls? Whose heart-breaking sorrows have more

become by sympathy their own? Yet, there, beneath that flat stone, repose the ashes of the bard who has called all those beings into life-whose magic wand has roused up from their graves the mighty ones of the earth, and caused them to pass before us in gorgeous procession-who has opened to us a new world in which imagination delights to revel, peopling it with creations of his own, and giving "to airy nothing a local habitation and a name." Inasmuch as time has spared no monumental relic of the "blind old man from Scio's rocky isle," no well-authenticated shrine of the Mantuan bard, the grave of Shakspeare stands without a rival in its power to connect the sweet realms of fancy with the actual world; and thither shall pilgrims congregate, from all lands, in all coming time.

"Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream,

Of things more than mortal, sweet Shakspeare would

dream;

The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed,
For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head.

Flow on, silver Avon! in song ever flow,

Be the swans on thy borders still whiter than snow,
Ever full be thy stream, like his fame may it spread,
And the turf ever hallowed which pillowed his head.”

The church, which encloses the grave of Shakspeare, is an imposing edifice in the Roman Gothic style of architecture, and of most venerable antiquity,

a part of the structure being betweed four and five hundred years old. It stands on the green bank of the Avon, at a little distance from the town, in the midst of a spacious cemetery, and embosomed in majestic elms. An avenue of lime trees, whose branches intertwine so as to form a complete bower of overarching foliage, extends from the gate of the cemetery to the principal entrance to the church. In a still summer's day no sounds disturb the sacred solitude, save the low murmur of the river, which flows within a few yards of the poets grave. That it was not a matter of indifference, where his ashes should repose, is sufficiently evinced by the inscription with which he sought, not ineffectually, to protect the slumbers of the tomb from profane intrusion. When it was once in contemplation to remove his remains to Westminster Abbey, the awful lines upon the stone availed to retain them, where alone they can appropriately rest, in the midst of those scenes which, dear to him while living, are now imperishably associated with his memory where the gentle murmur of the river as it flows, and the sighing of the wind among the majestic elms that droop their branches to the stream, seem to soothe his last slumbers.

TIME'S SWIFTNESS.

BY R. W. SPENCER.

Too late I staid ;- forgive the crime,-
Unheeded flew the hours;
How noiseless falls the foot of Time

That only treads on flowers!

What eye with clear account remarks

The ebbings of the glass,

When all its sands are diamond sparks, Which dazzle as they pass?

Oh! who to sober measurement
Time's happy fleetness brings,
When Birds of Paradise have lent
Their plumage for his wings!

17*

FREEDOM.

BY ALFRED TENNYSON.

Love thou thy land, with love far-brought From out the storied Past, and used Within the Present, but transfused Thro' future time by power of thought.

True love turn'd round on fixed poles, Love, that endures not sordid ends, For English natures, freemen, friends, Thy brothers and immortal souls.

But pamper not a hasty time,

Nor feed with crude imaginings

The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings, That every sophister can lime.

Deliver not the task of might

To weakness, neither hide the ray From those, not blind, who wait for day, Though sitting girt with doubtful light.