And not content with starving, they cruelly did treat These poor unhappy orphans, and often them did beat.

O think, ye tender-hearted, how shocking was the sight

Of these poor starved children, reduced to a fright!

Then to a beam they hanged the girl but nine years old,

Where she three days remained, expos'd to frost and cold;

Her tender limbs were frozen, her feet were mortified, And of this cruel treatment the tender infant died.

Now this unfeeling father, and this inhuman bride, For Murder were convicted, and for the same they died;

Their bodies were dissected, a warning full to be To all, who are disposed to acts of cruelty.

THE

Fail of Edmund,

KING OF THE EAST ANGLES:

A TRADITIONARY TALE.

In 870, Inguar, the Danish chieftain, gained possession of Thetford, the capital of East Anglia. King Edmund collected his forces, and marched to oppose the invaders. The hostile armies met near Thetford, and after an engagement, maintained for a whole day

with the most determined courage, and great slaughter on both sides, victory remained undecided. The pious king, to use the language of the Monkish writers, was so extremely affected by the death of so many martyrs, who had shed their blood in defence of the christian faith, and the miserable end of so many unconverted infidels, that he retired in the night to the village of Eglesdene, now Hoxne. Hither he was followed by an embassy from Inguar, who was soon after the battle joined by his brother Hubba, with ten thousand fresh troops. The Danish chieftain proposed that he should become his vassal, and divide with him his treasures and dominions. But Edmund returned for answer that he would never submit to a pagan. At the same time, out of tenderness for his subjects, he resolved to make no further resistance, and accordingly surrendered without a struggle to the superior force sent against him Still, however, refusing to accede to the terms of the conquerors, he was bound to a tree, his body was pierced with arrows, and his head cut off, and thrown contemptuously into the thickest part of a neighbouring wood.

The tradition, on which this tale is founded, is as follows, and is current in the parish of Hoxne to this day. In the hope of escaping his pursuers, the monarch concealed himself under the arch of a bridge near the place, now called GOLD BRIDGE, and so named from the brilliant appearance of the gilt spurs, which he happened to wear, and which proved the means of discovering his retreat. A newly-married couple, returning home in the evening, and seeing by moon-light the reflection of the spurs in the water, betrayed him to the Danes. Indignant at their treachery, the King is said to have pronounced, in the warmth of his resentment, a dreadful curse upon every couple, who should afterwards pass over this bridge in their way to or from the altar of Hymen; and we are told that even at this day, after an interval of nearly one thousand years, such is the superstitious regard paid to this denunciation, that persons, proceeding to or coming from the church on such an occasion, never fail to avoid the

bridge, even if they are obliged to take a circuitous road. It is a remarkable instance of the great length of time in which traditions in parishes are sometimes continued.

THE morn arose, and shot her ray,
Resplendent, from the clime of day,
Along the wide extended heath,
Which night beheld a scene of death.
The tents of England's King gleam'd white,
Reflected from the dawning light.

Fast o'er the misty hills, afar,

The Chief of Lochlin* urg'd the car,
And wak'd to strife th' advent'rous war:
His standards, streaming to the sky,
Led forth his troops to victory.
With eagle glance, the Monarch stood
And view'd the fatal field of blood,
Then urg'd his valiant few, to stand,
The guardians of their native land;

The spirits of the mighty dead

Leaned from the Heavens, o'er Conflict's bed,

Intent to hear th' expiring sigh,

The dying moan of Liberty.

Inguar approached, Death in his rear,
And on his van, Revenge and Fear.
Each line advanced-the battle woke,
And reddened at each echoing stroke;
Sword rang on helm, and spear on shield;
Each chieftain doubtful held the field-
Oppression swayed the Danish heart,
But Freedom nerved the English dart.

Denmark.

Long raged the thick fight's furious bray;
With blood bedewed-a fallen prey

Lay high-piled ranks of countless dead,

The Heavens their shroud—the heath their bed—
The bannered Raven,† tow'ring, waved
O'er Edmund's ranks.-In vain they braved
The ruthless fury of their foe,

For Victory sat on Inguar's brow.
Distraction seized on Edmund's soul,

And o'er his senses phrenzy stole.

The day's declining ray was past,
And evening's mist the sky o'ercast,-
Uncertain of the trackless space,
The vanquish'd Monarch urg'd his pace,
Till Eglesdene's high rising fane,
At distance, cheer'd the gloomy plain ;-
With weeds o'ergrown, an ancient pile
Of mossy bricks, and Runic style.
The Waveny's sedgy confines bore,
A passage safe from either shore.
Urged by mistrust, the Monarch sped,
And gladly sought its friendly shade;
Securely, there he silent lay,
Till Luna rose, with burnish'd ray,
And through the regions of the West
Raised high in air her silver crest.

From Hymen's rites, a youthful pair
Were speeding, by the evening star

They passed the bridge; the moon's soft beam
Fell radiant on the ripling stream,

The "Raven" was the famous standard of the Danish troops: gold, worked in a black banner.

And to the wanderers on the shore
Betrayed the Spurs that Edmund wore:
Suspicion seized each wondering mind,
And, faster than the rising wind,
They hastened to the long-past gate,
Eager to point their King's retreat.

Ill-fated Monarch! once the dread
Of foreign foes-thy hopes are fled!
How chang'd thy fate! the rising day
Beheld thee England's sceptre sway;
Its dying beams illume the breast
Of Edmund now pale Sorrow's guest:
A suppliant at a conqueror's throne,
E'en on the shores so late his own.

Submissive at a Victor's frown,
Usurper of thy country's crown ;
Chain'd to the stake by anguish torn,
Thy hurried breast must know the scorn
Of murd❜rers, happy in thy moan;
Thy fortune lost, thy honours flown.

Not sorrow, torture, pangs unsung
Can wrench confession from his tongue,
But, glorying in his noble death,
He, calm, resigns his parting breath.

But hark-the dying martyr speaks,
From his parch'd lips his last will breaks :-
"Cursed be the spot, where Edmund lay-
Dimm'd in that spot be Luna's ray-

These are nearly the last words of the expiring martyr.