No mare, no more, o'er the dark blue sea, Will the gallant vessel bound, Fearless and proud as the warrior's plume At the trumpet's startling sound; No more will her banner assert its claim To empire on the foam, And the sailors cheer as the thunder rolls From the guns of their wave-girt home! Her white sails gleam'd like the sunny dawn On the brow of the sapphire sky, And her thunder echoed along the cliffs, Awaking the seamew's cry; Oh! it was glorious to see her glide Triumphantly over the sea, With her blue flag fluttering in the wind, The symbol of victory. But she lies forlorn in the breakers now, Her stately masts are gone, And cold are the hearts of the dauntless crew That yielded their swords to none; The gun is hush'd in her lofty sides, And the flute on her silent deck; Alas! that a queenly form like hers Should ever have been a wreck! Thus Hope's illusions droop away From the heart which their beauty won, And leave it forlorn as the gallant ship, Ere its summer of life is begun. It is peopled with lovely images, As o'er the sea it glides, But wreck'd is its deep idolatry On the dark and stormy tides.

Deal.

G.R.C.

THE ARBALEST OF ROBIN HOOD

(To the Editor.)

In No. 538, of The Mirror, is described an elegant Cross-bow, and a desire expressed for information where such things are now to be seen. I have lived many years in Yorkshire, and have seen several kinds of these bows at Kirklees Hall, the seat of Sir George Armitage, a few miles from Huddersfield. Amongst those bows I saw one, at least six feet long; but some of them were not more than two or three feet in length. There were also a variety of weapons of war, with helmets, and some curious boots, which buttoned on the leg from top to the bottom, and had wooden soles. They were then kept in an attic on the top of the leads over the hall. Many of these relics are said to have belonged to the famous "Robin Hood," who lies buried in the park; the remains of the ancient grave-stone having been surrounded with a handsome iron railing, by the late Sir George Armitage; in the wall is an old inscription on brass; it is situated in a very gloomy place. Not far distant from his grave are the remains of a Nunnery, and a burial-ground, with tombs in it; but I could find no date, either in the house or on these tombs. One of the tombs has this inscription round its edge:

"Sweet Jesus of Nazareth, show mercy to Elizabeth Stainton, late Prioress of this place."

If an intelligent person were to call at the Hall, he would be able to gather much information of an authentic nature respecting Robin Hood.1

JOHN BATEMAN

SONGS, Found in the Album of a Delia Cruscan Poet

(For the Mirror.)

THE HUMMING-BIRD

By T. MOORE, ESQ

Thou winged gem, whose starlike splendour Gleams on the bosom of the rose, I lore thy light when skies are tender, And winds are wandering to repose. The Grecian lute, the Moorish song, And Crockford's home, with all that's in it, May challenge fame from many a throng, But thou, alone, fair bird, canst win it! I've often watch'd thy plumage glancing So evanescent in thy bower, And heard thy silver voice entrancing Soothe me, as music soothes the flower. Although diminutive as me, Thy song is sweeter, who can doubt it? So, as I cannot sing like thee, I'll break my lute, and live without it.

G.R.C.

THE SKYLARK

By L.E.L

Thou minstrel of the sunny air, Thy vocal fount is rich with song, And fragrant breezes softly bear Its silver melody along. I love to hear thy liquid note When bees are humming on the rose, And in their sapphire ocean float The stars prophetic of repose. Thou feel'st the sunny influence Like Memnon's fabled lyre of old, And wanderest in the beam intense Which turns the liquid air to gold. The spirit's bright imaginings Ne'er soar'd to loftier spheres than thee, And if I had, thy fairy wings, Afar from earthly haunts I'd flee. Insipid are the weekly themes Of –'s imbecile review, Whose page with adulation teems, And makes me "beautifully blue." But cockney praise is ebbing fast, And Sappho's lute has lost its power, And surely my career is past Like Summer's brightest, loveliest flower. Arcades ambo, Moore and me Are Delia Crusca's sweetest doves, And ours too is the poetry Which meditative beauty loves. Sweet bird, farewell! and be it thine To thrill the blue air with thy song; But fame will wreathe this brow of mine, If I am right, and Pope is wrong.

G.R.C.

DOMESTIC LIFE IN AMERICA

(In a Letter from a Correspondent at Cincinnati.)

This town is far superior to our late place of sojourn, Pittsburgh, being spacious and clean, with handsome houses and wood for fuel. Pittsburgh, on the contrary, is dirty and confined, abounding in iron works burning coal, which gives forth a denser smoke than English coal. The houses in this place, when we visited it in 1818, were mostly of wood; these have been in general removed on wheels drawn by oxen and horses, and placed in the suburbs, whence they are now removing once more. Here are four markets well supplied with the necessaries, and even the luxuries, of life, including almost everything you can think of, and many things which you have never thought of. Apple butter, for instance, is one of the latter, and is made by stewing apples in new cider, after it has been boiled down to one-third of its bulk. It is sold at 6-1/4 cts. per quart, and is very delicious. The fruits of this country are abundant: apples are excellent, and in profusion; peaches are plentiful in most seasons, but sometimes totally fail; grapes grow wild and tame, i.e. cultivated or imported; cherries are not very good, and dearer than at Pittsburgh; pears, strawberries, and raspberries are not so choice as with you; quinces are plentiful and fine; wild plums perfume the whole house, like jessamine or mignionette, and are excellent for pies and tarts. The persimon is a fruit to which you are a stranger; it may be ranked with the plums, but has four stones, and is not fit to eat till bitten by the frost, when its austere and astringent taste disappears, and it becomes nearly transparent, and as rich and sweet as Guava jelly. The May-apple, or Mandrake, a wild fruit, is a favourite with our young folks; it grows on a single-steemed plant, usually one foot high, and is about the size of a plum, but with seeds, and in taste resembling a highly flavoured pear. The custard-apple, or paw-paw, is my favourite, and my boys go with me into the woods to gather them when ripe. In the summer, water melons, musk melons, nutmeg melons, and Cantaloupes may be seen in large heaps in the market, or in carts or wagons, at 6-1/4 to 25 and 50 cts. each, some weighing 40 lbs.

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 548, May 26, 1832

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THE WRECK

(For the Mirror.)

THE ARBALEST OF ROBIN HOOD

(To the Editor.)

JOHN BATEMAN

SONGS, Found in the Album of a Delia Cruscan Poet

(For the Mirror.)

THE HUMMING-BIRD

By T. MOORE, ESQ

THE SKYLARK

By L.E.L

DOMESTIC LIFE IN AMERICA

(In a Letter from a Correspondent at Cincinnati.)

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