portunity to escape to a body of chasseurs, who treated him with more respect. The sun of Austerlitz found him with his chasseurs. In the heat of the action he perceived the ensign who bore the colours of his regiment surrounded by a detachment of the enemy. He flew to his rescue barked like ten furies-did every thing he could to encourage the young officer-but all in vain. The gentleman sunk, covered with wounds; but not before, feeling himself about to fall, he had wrapt his body in the folds of the standard. At that moment the cry of victory reached his ear; he echoed it with his last breath, and his generous soul took its flight to the abode of heroes. Three Austrians had already bit the dust under the sword of the ensign, but five or six still remained about him, resolved not to quit it until they had obtained possession of the colours he had so nobly defended. Moustache, meanwhile, had thrown himself on his dead comrade, and was on the point of being pierced with half-a-dozen bayonets, when the fortune of war came to his relief. A discharge of grape-shot swept the Austrians into oblivion. Moustache missed a paw, but of that he thought nothing. The moment he perceived that he was delivered from his assailants, he took the staff of the French banner in his teeth, and endeavoured all he could to disengage it. But the poor ensign had griped it so fast in the moment of death, that it was impossible for him to get it out of his hands. The end of it was, that Moustache tore the silk from the cane, and returned to the camp limping, bleeding, and laden with this glorious trophy. Such an action merited honours; nor were they denied. The old collar was taken from him, and General Lannes ordered a red ribbon to replace it, with a little copper-medal, on which were inscribed these words: "Il perdit une jambe a la battaille d' Austerlitz, et sauva le drapeau de son regiment." On the reverse:-"Moustache, chien Francais: qu'il soit partout respecte et cheri comme un brave." -Meantime it was found necessary to amputate the shattered limb. He bore the operation without a murmur, and limped with the air of a hero.

As it was very easy to know him by his collar and medal, orders were given, that at whatever mess he should happen to present himself, he should be welcomed en camarade; and thus he continued to follow the army. Having but three paws and one ear, he could lay small claims to the name of a beauty;

nevertheless, he had his little affairs of the heart. Faithful in every thing to the character of a French soldier, Monstache was volatile, and found as many new mistresses as quarters. At the battle of Essling, he perceived a vidette of his own species; it was a poodle. Moustache rushed to the combat; but, O tender surprise! the poodle was a More happy than Tancred, who had not wit enough to recognise his Clorinda, Moustache in a single instant found his martial ardour subside into transports of another description. In a word, he seduced the fair enemy, who deserted with him to the French camp, where she was received with every consideration. This attachment lasted the best part of a year. Moustache appeared before his comrades in the new capacity of a father; and the Moll Flagons of the regiment took great care of his offspring. Moustache seemed to be happy. His temper was acquiring a softer character. But one day a chasseur, mistaking his dog no doubt, hit him a chance blow with the flat side of his sabre. Moustache, piqued to the heart, deserted, abandoning at once his regiment and his family. He attached himself to some dragoons, and followed them into Spain.

He continued to be infinitely useful in these new campaigns. He was always first up and first dressed. He gave notice the moment any thing struck him as suspicions; he barked at the least noise, except during night-marches when he received a hint that secrecy was desirable. At the affair of the Sierra-Morena, Moustache gave a signal proof of his zeal and skill, by bringing home in safety to the camp the horse of a dragoon who had had the misfortune to be killed. How he had managed it no one could tell exactly; but he limped after him into the camp; and the moment he saw him in the hands of a soldier, turned and flew back to the field.

Moustache was killed by a cannonball, on the 11th of March, 1811, at the taking of Badajoz. He was buried on the scene of his last glories, collar, medal, and all. A plain stone served him for a monument; and the inscription was simply,

"CY GIT LE BRAVE MOUSTACHE."

The French historian of Moustache adds, but, we hope, without sufficient authority, that the Spaniards afterwards broke the stone, and that the bones of the hero were burnt by order of the Inquisition,

THE SUN-DIAL.

BY HORACE GUILFORD.

For the Olio.

Old idol of the garden,
With mystic brass emboss',
Of every bad the warden,
Of every beam the host.
To Flora and Pomona

An oracle more true,
Than ever dark Dodona

From monarch oak-trees drew. Companion of Apollo, Interpreter of day, Whose faithful shadows follow

The flight of every ray. Where now thy pomp of station ? Where thy consulters now? Where all the veneration

That seal'd thy storied brow ?

Alas! not all thy beauty,

Thy language to the heart,
Not all the moral duty

Thy blazoned scrolls impart,
Could save from profanation
The altar-stone of time;
Yet, e'en in desolation,

To me thou'rt still sublime.
Yes! whether bright at morning,
Or cold in night's dull arms,
To me thy legend's warning,
Gray monitor! hath charms.
Thy very name is cheering,
Sun Dial!-all of bright,
And gay, and sweet appearing,

Blent in those lines of light.

What carest thou if unheeding, Improvement pass thee by ? There's not a moment speeding But courts thee heedfully.

What though the hours are measured
By clumsy clocks' dull chime,
By time thou art still treasured,
And still art true to time.

And now I see thee standing

Amidst the garden's pride, Bright shrubs around thee banding, Green moss on thy gray side. Sunflower and leopard-lily Flame gorgeous by thy place, And Mignionette full slily

Glides clust'ring to thy base. From gold to scarlet turning, Ripe apples near thee bow; Upon the broad wall burning

The crimson nect'rines glow. The melon-frame before thee

Its amber gourds perfume; The vines full fruitage o'er thee Sheds dewy purple bloom. Fresh with its silver fountain, Green spreads thy daisied grass; On honied pinions mounted,

Bees greet thee as they pass.
Vassals of thy dominions,

The painted butterfly,
And tiger-moth's grand pinions,
Float in rich pageantry.
The lavender's blue blossom,
The orange marigold,
And thyme with golden bosom,
Their treasures there unfold.

High in his burnished litter

Thy regulator rides,
And seems most glad to glitter
Around thy sculptured sides.

Each mark'd by fresh flowers springing,
Thy minutes shine and fade,
Fresh birds with new notes singing,
Thine every change of shade.
But flowers are frail and fleeting,
And fruits must gathered be,
And suns turn pale on meeting
Winter's severity.

Bare must be yonder branches,
Yon plumy minstrels fly,
When frost the despot launches

His icebolts through the sky.
Yet thou the cold sun's moving
Thro' chill December's day
Shalt follow, faithful proving
As when they smiled in May.
But if thou art neglected
By the capricious beams,
Cold, shadowless, dejected,
Thy wat'ry tablet gleams.
Oh to the swarms that flutter
Down life's all-checquer'd stream,
What lessons might'st thou utter,
Sage bridegroom of the beam.

Thy talisman that glistens
With evening's od'rous dew,
Might bid the heart that listens
Repose in quiet too.

Bid man make thee his measure,
And finish with the sun,
The labour or the leisure

That with its beams begun.
Long be it thine to flourish
Inviolable here;

These scenes and thou must nourish What thinking minds revere.

Of life's uncertain treasures

Wise hieroglyphics they;

Their flowers to paint its pleasures, Their Dial-its decay!

ARRIVAL OF THE KING OF FRANCE
AT LULWORTH CASTLE
For the Olio.

THE Scenery around the noble chateau or palace of Lulworth, in Dorsetshire, is highly beautiful and romantic. It is embowered in the most luxuriant groves and woods, through the openings of which, ancient British hill-cities, lifting their everlasting bulwarks and ramparts to the clouds, with the deep blue ocean, specked with distant sails, outstretched in all its undulating sublimity, hanging groves and richly waving corn-fields, form many a charming point d'appui, on which the eye rests with satisfaction and pleasure. The delightful scenery of this place was yesterday highly animated and interesting. Carriages and vehicles of all descriptions were continually dashing and rattling through the streets of the little retired village of Lulworth, and gay groups of all degrees, with cavalcades

of well-mounted horsemen, were sprinkled over the fine lawns which surround the castle, and moving to and fro between the towering groves, all waiting in anxious expectation to witness the arrival of the exiled monarch, and forming a picture which could not but recall recollections of by-gone days, extremely exciting to the reflecting mind.

This castle has been often visited by royalty, and before we describe the arrival of his ex-majesty of France, we shall copy from the " Tale of a Modern Genius," a few passages descriptive of former periods:

"In this castle, constituted a palace by the residence of kings, fifteen years after its erection, dwelt James I. when he came to hunt in the adjacent royal chase or forest of Purbeck; and here Charles II., after his restoration, with the Duke of York, afterwards James II., and the Duke of Monmouth, paid visitation to an ancestor of the present fa mily in 1665. The rooms in which these monarchs and princes slept still bear their names, and they were looked upon by me as far the most interesting apartments which the palace contains.

"How often have those woods of ancient oak and beech echoed to the joy inspiring horn, as it sounded from the court-yard of the castle at early dawn, and roused the royal Scot from his slumbers to pursue the fleet stag on the lofty hills and wild heaths of the neighbouring island. How have these leafy bowers reverberated the shrill neighings of eager coursers, the scream of falcons, the whoop and shout and laugh of jocund hunters, as the king, with a train of nobles and courtiers, descended those steps to mount their fiery steeds, and scour across the heathy plains of the forest! In the happy days of the gay Charles, how rung those halls to the voice of sportive jollity and gladness. The banquet, minstrelsy, and dance and song, enlivened the rosywinged hours beneath these lofty roofs, and spoke the noble liberality of the generous and honoured host of the palace. What loud huzzas burst from the delighted populace that filled the court, and thronged around the gates from distant parts of the country, ascending in thunder above the highest battlements of Lulworth, as the smiling monarch mounted these flower-strewed steps, and entered the halls of feasting and hospitality. The cottages of the neighbouring peasants were hung with garlands, and on yonder village green the may

pole was dressed in nodding sheaves of fragrant blossoms; here vigour, youth, and beauty mingled in the joyous dance to the sprightly sound of the viol and the pipe; shouts of Long live the King!' broke from every tongue; the pealing bells in yonder venerable tower ushered in the twilight with their music; the hearts of the glad peasantry were cheered with flaggons of ale; sports and manly exerci es were exhibited by the rustic youths on the lawns ; the voices of happy groups rang in the moonlight groves; and all was gaiety, laughter, and joy. Nearly the same rejoicings as in the days of Charles, the same splendid entertainments, though of much shorter duration, took place when our beloved and venerable sovereign, George III., visited this pleasant seat, and more than once partook of its owner's magnificent hospitality."

The scene of yesterday forcibly brought

to our recollection these somewhat similar occurrences of the past; but how different were the English feelings of those who surrounded the towers of that castle yesterday, and the enthusiasm of those who once witnessed and hailed with heart-lifted shouts the arrival of our native princes. The fulness of excitement and interest to behold the exiled lineage of Hugh Capet, were no doubt as strongly brought into action as on former arrivals of royalty, for the late noble revolution in France has cast around those, who were some of the chief actors in that tremendous and glorious struggle which has been made for liberty, an irresistible charm of attraction.

At length, about six o'clock, the cortege, which, with the royal family, had been landed at Poole, arrived in front of the grand terrace. The royal arms had been defaced from the carriages, and the whole had evidently the appearance of a hasty flight from a field of battle.

The King was seated in an open carriage with the Dauphin and the young Duc de Bordeaux, a fine interesting boy. On the King's alighting from the carriage, he was met by Mr. Wild, the owner of the castle, and then ascended those steps, followed by the Dauphin and the young prince, which other kings had mounted before him, amid repeated shouts of welcome, deep and loud as those which echoed in thunder around. the magnificent pillars of the Capitol, when Claudius Cæsar ascended on his knees its hundred steps, after his victorious return from the conquest of Bri