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'Twas then the lordly father first
The lily of the Tamar saw,
The holiest links of Nature's law,
Yet not by force, but in the guise
Of fondest interest first he strove
Of happy youth and early love.
He bade the youth in arms aspire
Betimes to honours, wealth, and fame,
To hear but Drake's or Ralegh's name.*
Flush'd with new hopes, at length he steel'd
His heart to quit his native shore,
Had stain'd proud Tudor'st Rose in gore.
With Thomond † and Carew he met
The wily Desmond'sy feudal horde :-
A gentler eye, a braver sword.
But oft, in scenes of feud and blood,
He long d with all a lover's pain,
And see green Devon's woods again.
Dismiss'd with fume, he hoped (for Love
Will hope while hope is test below)
All, all her own, in bliss or woe.
Slow is the keel, anil faint the wind,
That bears a lover fond and true ;-
And Erin's hills in distance blue.
Soon o'er the deep Mount Edgcumbe rose
Fair as it still at sunset shines,
And wave in gold its hundred pines.
How throbb'd his heart, as to the bay
His boat drew nigh, where Mary's home
Where they were wont of old to roam !
Oh, 'tis an hour of bliss, so deep
That nought but tears its depth can tell,
Albeit their hearts with rapture swell! * Sir Francis Drake, Sir Walter Ralegh, both sprung from Devonshire, and both among the proudest ornaments of chivalry in Elizabeth's, or indeed in any reign.
t It is well known with what expense of blood and treasure, Elizabeth kept her “ wild Irishes" in subjection, and how much their refractory spirit embittered her reign.
The Earl of Thomond and Sir George Carew (afterwards Earl of Totnes) united their forces, and performed inportant services to Elizabeth in Ireland.
§ The Earl of Desmond, a name familiar iu the Chronicles of those times, as one of the most powerful and enterprising of the Irish insurgent chieftains.
He found his Mary still his own,
With truth as pure, and form as fair; Yet from her cheek the tinge was flown
That told of health and gladness there.
Upon his fund alarm she smiled
But her sweet smile was full of woe; And sometimes, from her heart beguiled,
The sigh would rise, the tear would flow.
In vain he pray'd her to unfold
To him the secret of her breastUntil her widow'd mother told
What blanch'd her cheek and broke her rest.
'Twas a brief tale of sin and shame :
His father, while afar he stray'd, Had own'd a rival's guilty flame,
And sued with gold the lonely maid.
His heart, its love renounced with scorn,
Thence for revenge alone could pine ; And never sun, he deep had sworn,
Upon their bridal moro should shine.
" And is it thus," young Bevil cried,
Could he so use a father's power ? With all his harlot loves beside,
Could he not spare the Tamar's Flower ?
'Tis not enough that, while his head
So grey, his age to guilt is given-That wine and wassail still bave sped
Away the years he owed to Heaven !
No! he must tempt my plighted bride,
Forgetful that the wild flowers wave O'er one, alas! who loved and died
O'er my wrong'd mother's early grave !"
His words, repeated oft and free,
Reach'd the proud lord of Warlegh's ear, And awful was it then to see
His whitening lip and eye of fear.
- And now he sees that rival nigh
Feels his own dagger at his sideAb, wherefore steals the lover's eye
Where sat apart his destined bride?
Then burst the stiffled flame at once,
Beyond disguise, beyond control,And all the murderer lit his glance,
And all the dæmon fill'd his soul.
As Bevil turn'd, he caught that look
Saw through it flash the smother'd fireAnd felt, to linger were to brook
A father's hate, a rival s ire.
Away! thy life is won or lost!
With hurried step he leaves the pile But, ere the Gothic porch be cross'd,
Lould, long shrieks rung through pave and aisle ! It was his Mary's voice!-he turn'd
Dread was the sight he met behind !His father's eye with vengeance bund,
His father's dagger near bim shined !
One moment, fix'd in pale despair,
He stood-then shot the church-yard o'er ;He gains the green—why stops he there?
The steel is burld-he loves no more!
Fixed in back the poniard stood,
Flung with strong hand, and eve too keen ;He recls-he falls--the hot life-blood
Is bubbling on the crimson'd green!
Beneath a broad oak's massy shade,
Pale, bleeding, on the turf he lay-
The village Lady of the May.
She sees not this—she saw alone
The lifted death-steel gleam on highThen shriek'd-and sell with one deep groan,
As death had seald her heart and eye.
They bore her thence-but all in vain
'Twas but to droop within her bower; And oh, it was a sight of pain,
To watch the blight of Tamar's Flower!
Yet death was beautiful in her,
As the sweet light of evening day ; And, though to hope was but to err,
Her blue eye seem'd to mock decay.
But wherefore-wherefore tell the rest?
'Tis told in one sad word--she died; And 'twas her last and lone request
To sleep in death by Bevil's side.
Alas! forgot are now their graves-
Yet unforgot the father's blow; And still, as then, the green oak waves
Where lay the son so early low.
Still to the oak of Copleston
The neighbouring peasant points his boy, Tells him the deed that there was done,
And warns from passions that destroy.
-The tale is done—and some there are,
Whose hearts will feel its simple power, And love the harp, howe'er it jar,
That told the fate of Tamar's Flower.
CORONATION OF CHARLES THE TENTH AND OF THE
KINGS OF DAWKEY.
Pageants on pageants in long order drawn,
What is a coronation ? Ask Garter King at Arms, and he will, perisas, lell you, ihat it is to the divine right of monarchy what baptism is to religion. Ask any other human being, and the probability is you will be answered, that it is the rebearsal of a melo-drame, much beiier given at the minor theatres. It is passing strange that processiiras and state spectacles should succeed so well on the stage, and should so totally fail in real lite ; that this most sight-seeing age should, in political matters, be, of all others, the least moved through the instrumentality of its eyes, and that the holy oil should fall less efficaciously on the Lord's anointed than if it were bestowed on an old lock. There is nothmg, indeed, in which the sublime approaches nearer to the ridiculous than in a public ceremony, in which the thin line of demarkation between meaning and mummery, pageant and puppet-show, rests wholly on the imagination of the spectator. We shall not easily forget the question of a liale boy who was taken to see one of these public funzioni, the day after his first introduction to Harlequin, and who, as the glittering procession passed, asked if what he saw was “in earnest, or only a thing to laugh ai ?" The answer to this question is a matier of no small importance to statesmen and ministers, (the terms are not always synonymous); for if they persist in thinking themselves in earnest, when the people they govern regard their pageants as things to laugh at," they and their places are in more immediate danger than if they had committed a great crime. Yet there are few riddles so difficult to solve with precision : an association of ideas, more or less germane to the matter, constitutes all the difference, and will make or mar the fortune of the best-conceived combinations of scarlet, purple and gold, that ever passed through the (brain ?) of a Herald. The practical inference to be drawn from ibis consideration is wholly against revivals. My Lord Mayor's show, which has passed annually before our eyes since the days of our infancy, and is deeply associated with Whittington and his cat, still maintains something of its mystic influence in our riper years, and is not viewed without a pleasing reflection on the commercial prosperity of which it is a type. The city marshal is as respectable an officer, in our estimation, as if he were a Russian field marshal in “off” or “ ski;" the state coach, if not handsome, is at least venerable ; and the men in armour by no means suggest the idea of a copper tea-kettle. Not so the case in which an attempt is made to reproduce by-gone combinations, and to strike on the imagination of the people by associations which have been broken up and dissipated. As well might we hope to bring back the illusions of love at sixty, as to influence an adult nation by the playthings of its infancy. The attempt at imposition forms the prominent idea in men's minds on such occasions; and they take a malignant pleasure in substituting for each hallowed notion, connected with the visible type, some burlesque and ridiculous image, to defeat the object and annihilate the effect intended to be produced by the ceremony. On this account a coronation stands a better chance of success in England than in France, although in the former it is merely “upheld by old repute," and is in total discrepance with the semi-republican institutes of the government. Among the English it is regarded simply as an ancient custom ; but nobody is interested in knocking an old custom on the head ; and, like the chimney-sweeper's May-day majesty, a coronation takes place on the proper occasion, and the next day is forgotten by every body except Mr. Dymocke and the Barons of the Cinque Ports. The thing itself leads to no consequence ; or if it should tend to inspire false ideas of conclusions yet to come, a single stormy debate in the Commons will completely dissipate the illusion. In France the case is materially different. When Napoleon defined a throne to be a crimson chair studded with gilt nails, he put an extinguisher on the moral effect of coronations. In reviving the worn-out ceremony, the Bourbons have only given a handle to ridicule, and invited the mocking spirit of Parisian wit to a tournay of epigram and calemburg. The best, therefore, that could rationally be expected from such an exhibition, was that it should pass of smoothly, and without observation; and those who were no well-wishers to the throne, turned every accident into an ill augury, and looked out for the false move of a knight or a bishop, as a sure preliminary to a future check-mate to the king.
The anointing of kings is a ceremony that naturally arose among the Jews, where monarchy sprang out of a theocracy; and every government which has adopted this ceremony, is, for one day at least in each reign, purely theocratic. At the coronation at Rheims the clergy decidedly assumed the pas of royalty. Bonaparte had taken good care, in gratifying bis own and his people's false taste for raree show, not to degrade himself in the eyes of his subjects, but boldly snatched, and himself put on, the iron crown of Lombardy, instead of receiving it by a feudal investiture from the hands of the archbishop. The pious successor of St. Louis remained for hours prostrate at the feet of the clergy, before he could obtain the golden circle ; from which, eventually, he will be in greater danger than from the running away of his post-horses. In the whole of this ceremony there was nothing more amusing than the anointing. Every body knows that in former times the eldest son of the church was anointed from an holy phial that came direct from heaven, where oil continued miraculously renewed in sæcula sæculorum. This phial the Jacobins (those eternal enemies of social order) broke to pieces in the market-place, to show that royalty was for ever cut up by the roots and extirpated from France. But, notwithstanding this event, kings, somehow or other, did come back ; and, as good luck would have it, the oil jar along with them. For a loyal subject, who was an eyewitness of the demolition of the ci-devant jar, fortunately slipped a fragment into his pocket, oil and all, to the great and manifest danger of his inexpressibles, through which the chain of transubstantiation has been preserved unbruken ; and those who are aware of the infinite divisibility of matter, cannot doubt that Charles the Tenth has as efficacious a part in the original miracle as the remote ancestor, for whose especial use the angel brought the sacred ampoule from heaven. In this piece of stage trick, the breaking of the pbial is indeed admirably typical of the rude process which monarchy underwent in the hands of the Sans Culottes ; but it remains to be