The young, fair Spring, is tripping o'er the Earth, With feet that ne'er can know the lag of age; The Earth, her lover, conscious of her worth, Flings down all his rich treasures to engage That blushing wanderer: but she journeys forth Heedless of all his offerings. The hot rage Of love shall scorch his heart in tortures fell, Till Winter comes with many an icicle. That loved-one yet is here; and flowers, and songs, And streams—to gush above her own free feet Of stainless ivory,—and countless throngs Of birds are living, her pure soul to greet. And the lone spirit, thoughtfully that longs For a dim view of Eden, from a seat O'erhanging some green valley, now espies Nought that might dread compare with Paradise! There is a glory gone forth from on high!— It quickens the heart's beat, whereon it flings Its fervour;—the flushed cheek and glowing eye Confess its influence;—and the many strings, Voiceless too long in the young heart, reply To the mute promptings of a thousand things Which Spring has conjured up;—all, all is hers— That Glory without name—she ministers. Now—all the thoughts she wakens in the heart Are glorious Music!—divine Poesy!— Now—all the dreams on Fancy's eyes that start, She will disown not, wayward though they be. Sweet Dreams!—down Lethe's billow they depart— Words are too weak to clothe them worthily. Rich incense, burnt upon some altar stone Censerless,—in a temple—desert—lone! What shall we do in these delightful days, When the full, bounding heart, will not be still;— When the glad eye, absorbed in far-sent gaze, Forgets Earth's plenitude of grief and ill;— Shall we dream on, in a bewitching maze Of sweet affections and bold hopes, until Earth is not Earth—but Heaven? or shall we die Hourly, to some "dissolving minstrelsy?" Sometimes, when day is dying—when twilight Brings its dim Vigil,—hour of quietness,— 'Tis sweet to listen, till the cheated sight Pictures strange shadowings of awfulness,— Some wild, old tale of goblin's ghastly spite, Or antique strain of passionate distress;— And one, which has been wept o'er many a time I seek, to mar, perchance, with feeble rhyme

May, 1828.

THOMAS M–s

EXECUTION AND LAST MOMENTS OF LORD WILLIAM RUSSEL

(For the Mirror.)

This distinguished patriot and martyr to the cause of liberty was the third son of William, the first Duke of Bedford, by a daughter of the Earl of Somerset. He refused the generous offer of Lord Cavendish to favour his escape, by changing clothes with him in prison; and he also declined the Duke of Monmouth's proposal to surrender himself, should Lord William Russel think it might contribute to his safety. "It will be no advantage to me," he said, "to have my friends die with me." Conjugal affection was the feeling that clung to his heart; and when he had taken his last farewell of his wife, he said, "The bitterness of death is now over." He suffered the sentences of his judges with resignation and composure. Some of his expressions (says his biographer) imply much good-humour in this last extremity. The day before his execution, he was seized with a bleeding at the nose. "I shall not now let blood to divert this distemper," said he to Burnet, who was present; "that will be done to-morrow." A little before the sheriffs conducted him to the scaffold, he wound up his watch. "Now I have done," said he, "with time, and henceforth must think solely of eternity." The sad tragedy of the death of the virtuous Lord Russel, (says Pennant,) who lost his head in the middle of Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, took place on July 21st, 1683. Party writers assert that he was brought here in preference to any other spot, in order to mortify the citizens with the sight. In fact, it was the nearest open space to Newgate, the place of his lordship's confinement. Without the least change of countenance, he laid his head on the block, and at two strokes it was severed from his body. He was, at the time of his death, only forty-two years of age. To his character for probity, sincerity, and private worth, even the enemies to his public principles bear testimony. At Woburn Abbey is preserved, in gold letters, the speech of Lord Russel to the sheriffs, together with the paper delivered by his lordship to them at the place of execution.

P.T.W

INDEPENDENCE OF PORTUGAL

(For the Mirror.)

Portugal was first created into a monarchy on the 27th of July, 1139; on which day, Dom Alphonso I., son of Henry, Count of Burgundy, the son of Robert, king of France, was proclaimed at Lisbon, after having vanquished and slain five Moorish kings in the battle of Campo d'Ourique, where he was unanimously chosen as sovereign of Portugal by his army. This dignity was confirmed to him by the first assembly of the states-general at Lamego. In commemoration of this event, the Portuguese arms bear five standards and five escudets.1 After the unfortunate expedition of Dom Sebastian I. to Africa, where he was slain in the battle of Alcazar, the crown devolved upon his great uncle, the Cardinal Dom Henry, a man of 67 years of age, and who reigned but 17 months. At his death there were several claimants for the succession, and the kingdom in consequence became the theatre of civil war. Philip II. of Spain, the most powerful of these, sent an army, under the Duke of Alba, into Portugal, and completed the conquest of the country with little opposition. This event took place in the year 1580, and the kingdom of Portugal remained under the dominion of Spain until the 1st of December, 1649, the day on which the Duke of Braganza was proclaimed king with the title of Dom Joao IV. Since that time Portugal has maintained its independence. For a more detailed account, see L'Abbé Nertot's "Revolutions of Portugal."

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 322, July 12, 1828

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STANZAS,

(BEING AN INTRODUCTION TO AN INTENDED VERSIFICATION OF ONE OF THE TALES OF BOCCACCIO.)

THOMAS M–s

EXECUTION AND LAST MOMENTS OF LORD WILLIAM RUSSEL

P.T.W

INDEPENDENCE OF PORTUGAL

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