And when they fail'd she sigh'd and said,
"I'll make my dinner on the bread!” i i
She ate the bread, and thought with sorrow,
"There's nothing left me for to-morrow!”

She pull'd her Lover's letter out,
And turn'd its vellum leaves about A
It was a billet-doux of fire, d

Scarce thicker than a modern quire o
And thus it ran I never suppe,
Because mine heatte dothe eatte me uppe;
And eke, dear Loue, I never dine, a
Nor drinke atte Courte a cuppe of wine;
For daye and nighte-I telle you true,
I feede uponne my Loue for you."
Alas! that Lady fair, who long.bit
Had felt her hunger rather strong,
Said (and her eye with tears was dim),
"I've no such solid love for him!" !
And so she thought it might be better

To sup upon her Lover's letter.

She ate the treasure quite or nearly,

I

From "Beauteous Queen!" to "Yours sincerely!"
She thought upon her Father's crown,

And then Despair came o'er her!-down
Upon the bottom-boards she lay,

And veil'd her from the look of day;

The sea-birds flapp'd their wings, and she

Look'd out upon the tumbling sea;

And there was nothing on its face

But wide, interminable space.
And so she gave a piteous cry--
The murmuring waters made reply!

Alas! another morning came,

And brought no food! the hapless Dame.
Thought, as she watch'd the lifeless sail,
That she should die "withouten fail!"
Another morn-and not a whiff!
The Lady grew so weak and stiff
That she could hardly move her stumps;
At last she fed upon her pumps!
And call'd upon her absent Lord,
And thought of going overboard:
As the dusk evening veil'd the sky
She said "I'm ready now to die!"

>

She saw the dim light fade away,
And fainted as she kneel'd to pray.

I sing not where and how the boat
With its pale load contriv'd to float,
Nor how it struck off Hartland Point,!
And 'gan to leak at every joint ;
"Twill be enough, I think, to tell ye
Linda was shaken to a jelly,

And when she woke from her long sleep,
Was lying in the Giant's Keep,
While at a distance-like a log,

Her Captor snored, prodigious Gog!

He spared as yet his captive's life;
She wasn't ready for the knife,
For toil, and famine, and the sun
Had worn her to a skeleton :
He kept her carefully in view,
And fed her for a week or two;
Then, in a sudden hungry freak,
He felt her arm, and neck, and cheek,
And being rather short of meat,
Cried out that she was fit to eat.
The Monster saw the bright dark eye
That met his purpose fearlessly,
He saw the form that did not quail,
He saw the look that not did fail,
And the white arm, that tranquil lay,
And never stirr❜d to stop or stay;

He chang'd his mind-threw down the knife,
And swore that she should be his wife.

Linda, like many a modern Miss,
Began to veer about at this;

She feared not roasting!-but a ring!-
Oh Lord! 'twas quite another thing;
She'd rather far be fried than tied,
And make a sausage than a bride;
She had no hand at argument,
And so she tried to circumvent.

*The latter part of Linda's history,
In Ariosto's work is an ingredient;
I can't imagine how my Monks and he
Happen'd to hit upon the same expedient ;
You'll find it in "Orlando Furioso;"
But Mr. Hoole's Translation is but so so.

My Lord," she said, “I know a plaister, The which, before my sad disaster,

I kept most carefully in store
For my own Knight, Sir Paladore.
It is a mixture mild and thin;
But, when 'tis spread upon the skin,
It makes a surface white as snow
Sword-proof thenceforth, from top to toe;
I've sworn to wed with none, my Lord,
Who can be harm'd by human sword.
The ointment shall be yours! I'll make it,
Mash it and mix it, rub and bake it :
You look astonish'd!-you shall see,
And try its power upon me."

She bruis'd some herbs; to make them hot
She put them in the Giant's pot;
Some mystic words she uttered there,
But whether they were charm or prayer
The Convent Legend hath not said;
A little of the salve she spread
Upon her neck, and then she stood
In reverential attitude,

With head bent down, and lips compress'd,
And hands enfolded on her breast;
"Strike!" and the stroke in thunder fell
Full on the neck that met it well;
"Strike!" the red blood started out,
Like water from a water-spout;
A moment's space-and down it sunk,
That headless, pale, and quivering trunk,
And the small head with its gory wave
Flew in wild eddies round the cave.

You think I shouldn't laugh at this;
You know not that a scene of bliss
To close my song is yet in store;
For Merlin to Sir Paladore
The head and trunk in air convey'd,
And spoke some magic words, and made,
By one brief fillip of his Wand,
The happiest pair in all the land.

The Giant-but I think I've done
Enough of him for CANTO ONE.

Private Correspondence.

III.

PEREGRINE OF CLUBS TO GEORGE OF ENGLAND.

May it please your Majesty,

I am your loyal subject, and an Editor. I am induced to address you in print by three considerations. First, I am like yourself, a King; although my clain to the title is not quite so legitimate as your Majesty's. Secondly, I am an Author, and it is much the fashion with Authors of the present day to indite letters to the Crown. Thirdly, I am enthusiastically fond of novelty in every shape; and I flatter myself I am going to strike one;-A Letter to the King without an ounce of Politics in its composition.

I am not going to offer my congratulations upon "glorious accession,' "recent successes," or "the flourishing state of our manufactures;" neither am I going to present you with memorials "excessive taxation,' relating to starving weavers," or "Ilchester Gaol." I am myself too tired of flattery and abuse to offer such insipie dishes to the palate of a Brother Monarch. No! Sire! I am about to offer you some observations upon that part of your Majesty's dominions which falls more immediately under the notice of the King of Clubs The Royal Foundation of Eton.

May it please your Majesty, I have been long a member of it, and I am sure that (exceptis excipiendis) you have not in any part of your sovereignty five hundred better-disposed subjects, than are to be met with in its" Antique Towers." I shall not therefore be repulsed with harshness if I lay before you a few of the grievances, or the fancied grievances, under which we labour. I think it was in the year 1814 that I first saw your Majesty at Frogmore. The Emperor of Russia was there, and the King of Prussia, and Blucher, and Platoff, and sundry other worthies, whom were I to attempt to enumerate, the line would reach out "to the crack of doom." One single individual of that illustrious body could have drawn all London to the monument, if he had promised to exhibit himself in the gallery; and we, favoured alumni, had the privilege of staring by wholesale. I never shall forget the reception of those illustrious Potentates. All voices were loud in hurras, all hats were waving in the air; and there was such a squeezing, and pushing, and shouting, and shaking of hands, and treading on toes, that I have often wondered

how I escaped in safety from the perils into which my enthusiasm threw me.

Never shall I forget the soul-enlivening moment, when your Majesty, stepping into the midst of our obstreperous group, proclaimed aloud-"A whole Holiday for the Emperor of Russia." -(Cheering.)—“ A whole Holiday for the King of Prussia.". (Renewed Cheering.)—" Now, my Boys," you said, with a goodhumoured laugh, that set Whiggism and awe at defiance, "I must add my mite; "-and there was long, loud, reiterated, unanimous, heartfelt, cheering. In that look of yours there were years of intimacy. The distinction which rank had placed between us seemed at once overturned; you raised us up to your own level,—or rather, you deigned to come down for a moment to ours. One could almost have imagined that you had been yourself at Etonian, that you had shared in our amusements, that you had tasted of our feelings!

It was a proud evening for Eton, but a troublesome one for those who made it so. The warmth of an English welcome is enough to overpower any one but an Englishman. Platoff swore he was more pestered by the Etonians, than he had ever been by the French; and the kind old Blucher had his hand so cordially wrung, that he was unable to lift his bottle for a week afterwards. To your Majesty the recollection of that evening must have been one of unmingled gratification. You had enjoyed that truly royal pleasure, which springs from the act of bestowing pleasure upon others; you had been applauded by Etonians, as the patron of Etonians ought to be; you purchased more than three hundred whole hearts at the price of only three whole Holidays.

It would be needless, as it would be endless, to enumerate all the instances of Royal favour, which since that time have been extended towards our Foundation; I have not room to give an extended narration of the cricketing at Frogmore, nor to describe your Majesty's visit to our Triennial Montem. One subject however there is, the omission of which would be both irksome to myself and ungrateful to your Majesty. I mean the gracious liberality which gave to the School your lamented Father had so constantly esteemed, the permission to attend at his obsequies, and follow their Patron to his grave. That unsolicited attention, and the delicate manner in which the notice of it was conveyed to us, live still in our hearts. They proved to us that you were aware of the loss we had sustained; they proved to us that by your munificence that loss would be alleviated or repaired.

Having thus performed what I conceived to be my duty by expressing the sense we entertain of your Majesty's bounty,