arrive, be enabled to feast their eyes upon the newly found remains, now deeply hidden from our own.

The poetical genius of James Bird-a native Bard of Suffolk --and like to many of his tribe, though master of a lyre, capable of touching all hearts alive to its music-owned little more than a local reputation, has in a poem entitled "A Tale of the splendid City," invested old Dunwich with an air of romance, beyond even that which mystery and antiquity have themselves woven for it. In this effort of his muse, under the guise of a chivalric tale, the Poet has rendered into verse, many of the historical incidents connected with the place. He thus describes one of those mighty storms, which raging as though missioned to uproot the world, swept Dunwich from its foundations, and laid its magnificence beneath the wave.

In that portentous pause, the gathering deep
Coiled up its strength--and with one giant sweep,
One mighty roll-and one appalling roar

Sent all its waves resistless to the shore!

O'er rock and cliff, o'er lofty forest oak,

O'er pier and mound, and massy rampart tall!

Then fled the Warder from the City wall

With fearful speed, blanched cheek, and failing breath,
While deep the sea moaned out his knell of death!

With dreadful crash the City wall gave way,
Beneath the billows' strong and tyrant sway.
The convent towers which long had stood sublime
The shock of tempest, and the touch of time,
Crushed, in a moment fell!-the searching waves
Disgorged the mouldering coffins from their graves,
Tossed shroudless bones of scattered men long dead,
And recent corses from their dreamless bed;
While loud, beneath the invading ocean's swell,
The towering glories of St. Michael fell!

*

A little simple flower grows here, known by the name of the Dunwich Rose, to which the Bard of whom we have just spoken thus prettily alludes

There blooms the heath, whose bright, though humble flower An emblem shows of modest beauty's power;

There smiles the DUNWICH-ROSE, with snow-like blossom,
Soft, pure, and white, as is the cygnets bosom ;
This decks the stern and sterile cliff, and throws
O'er its rough brow new beauty where it grows,
Gives its proud ruggedness an aspect fair,
Like hope that brightens on the brow of care!

Of the present condition of Dunwich little need be said. It owns a few good habitations within it, and there yet exists, some trade in the place. The interest attaching to the spot, arises out of its former splendour, its ruined condition-and such remnants of antiquity yet standing, as serve to attest its ancient grandeur.

We cannot more appropriately conclude than by quoting the closing words of the poem of Bird.

I love thy haunts, and I have loved them long;
Farewell!-farewell!-The Bard who sings of thee
Will soon be all that withering Man must be,
Low in the dust!-within the silent grave,
No more to hear the murmuring of thy wave,
No more no more of thee, and thine to tell,
Thou dear, though wild, and lonely spot !-Farewell!

James Bird, the author of the poem from which the above extracts are taken, was post-master at Yoxford, in this county, and died after a long illness upon the 26th March, 1839. He was originally a miller, but from the lack of "grist to the mill," he became unfortunate in that capacity, and eventually settled as a bookseller in the town above named. Though born in rural life, and surrounded by the sights and sounds of the country, his muse was not particularly enamoured of such things. Taking a far higher flight, she revelled for the most part, amid the pomp of chivalry, and din of arms, in those times of "bold antiquity”—when the hall of the baron, and the song of the castle minstrel, were among the proudest things of which Englishmen could boast. The spirit of local attachment was, however, strongly developed in the outpourings of his genius, for the ground on which many of his poetical heroes fought and bled, was the soil of Suffolk, and the deeds in which they struggled, borrowed from the brightest pages of our local history.

The productions of Mr. Bird, are as follows:

The Vale of Slaughden, a Poem, in five cantos, 1819, 8vo. Machin, or the Discovery of Madeira, a Poem, in four cantos, 1821.

The Vale of Chamouni, a Poem, 1822, 8vo.

Cosmo, Duke of Tuscany, a Tragedy, in five Acts, 1821.

Poetical Memoirs. The Exile, a Tale, 1824.

Dunwich, a Tale of the Splendid City, in five cantos, 1828, 8vo. The Emigrant's Tale, and Miscellaneous Poems, 1833.

Suffolk has a right to be proud of her Bards. The "cunning hands" of BLOOMFIELD and BIRD, are now rigid in death, and fresh tones from their lyres can never more be heard. BERNARD BARTON, however, is yet amongst us, and will, it is hoped, be long spared to delight the world by those quiet outpourings of his gentle muse, for which he has received the well-earned fame of the world, and the homage of simple and tender hearts.