A LONG STORY.

IN Britain's isle, no matter where,

An ancient pile of building stands : The Huntingdons and Hattons there Employ'd the pow'r of fairy hands

To raise the ceiling's fretted height,

Each panel in achievements clothing, Rich windows that exclude the light,

And passages, that lead to nothing.

Full oft within the spacious walls,
When he had fifty winters o'er him,
My grave Lord-Keeper led the brawls;

The seals and maces danced before him.