A rugged chasm, by time, or shock
Of nature, channel'd in the rock,
Though sylvan art had grac'd the room
With rustic portico and dome

Of arching chesnuts roughly hewn,
And couch of roots, with rushes strewn ;
While from its side a gushing rill
Roll'd, murmuring, down the rocky hill.
This silent hour the sage had given
To breathe his oraisons to heaven;
His sainted look might fitly shew
How resignation tempers woe;
Devotion pure and zeal refined

Had raised to heav'n his ardent mind:
But when his glance, in soften'd mood,
That youth and bleeding warrior view'd,
The tears that pity's eyelids fill,
The nurse's care, the leech's skill,
All prov'd his heart was human still.
Wash'd in that fountain's crystal tide,
Each healing balm with pray'rs applied,
And gently laid on bed of rushes,
Soft breathing sighs, and frequent flushes,
O'er Ivan's cheek began to spread
Of life and health the mantling red:
But Hurder's eye, in sullen glare,
Rejected hope and wooed despair,
While frenzy's accents on his tongue
With imprecating horror hung.

"Ah cease, rash man!" exclaim'd the sage,

"And calm thy bosom's impious rage,

"For know, if wounded christian lave, "His gashes in this blessed wave,

E

"They meet no ling'ring doubtful cure, "His life is safe, his healing sure: "With Hermit's pray'rs and hermit's skill "I bath'd you in the holy rill."

"For christian flow these waters free "With healing pow'r? Then not for me."Yet greets my heart the boon they give, "My Ivan, gallant boy! shall live; "For he of christian parents born, "By spoil from Britain's coast was torn."For me thy saintly pray'rs are vain ; "Black Hurder I, the pirate Dane."

"The pirate Hurder? O'er my soul 66 Again the storm is doom'd to roll! "Be hush'd my wrongs; revenge, be still: "Ah heaven, restrain my wand'ring will! "Speak, tell me, ere thy wasting breath "Be captiv'd in the pangs of death, "Say, who this youth, whose glances dart "Tumultuous throbbings to my heart?"

"I know not:-from your eastern shore, "His mother, with the boy, I bore, "Of beauty meet for Hurder's bride, "But she with scorn my suit denied, "Plung'd, desp'rate, in the raging sea, "And fled from life, to fly from me. "Ask not if Hurder knew remorse :"I train❜d the boy in honour's course "And christian lore; 'twas all I could, "And lov'd him, as a father would!

"O spare me, death,—

—a moment more,

"A ruby on his neck he wore

“Enchas'd in gold, and on his arm
"Some skilful hand, for spell or charm,

Had, with indelible emboss,

"In punctur'd stains pourtray'd the cross. "Forgive me, Ivan, darling boy! "Thy hand, dear youth,-I faint; I die." In one deep sigh the spirit fled, And Hurder rested with the dead.

On Ivan's neck the hermit hung; To Ivan's breast enraptur'd clung, And wept, and sobb'd in transport wild. "O Sigebert! my child! my child! "For Heav'ns best gift restor'd, to Heav'n "The sacrifice of praise be given ! "Record my vow, ye Saints, to found "A chapel on this hallow'd ground, "And consecrate the Holy Well

"With shrine and altar, book and bell.
"Here youths shall chaunt the choral lay;
"Here rev'rend priests devoutly pray;
"And matin song, and vesper rite,
"Salute the morn, and bless the night."
Soon rose from earth the sacred fane,
And sweetly breath'd the pious strain:
That fane, as circling seasons flew,
In fame, in wealth, in splendor grew,
And shrine, and church, and holy ground,
A bishop's stately palace crown'd.

But time, with silent slow decay,
Sweeps earthly pomp and pride away;
Nor church, nor palace, now are known
By massy wall, or mould'ring stone;

A moated square just marks the scite
Of mitred state, and splendid rite:
Yet pure and bright the living rill
Rolls down the alder-skirted hill,
And fancy loves to linger here,
And paints the past, in vision clear,
As, whispering, to the muse she tells
The legend of the HOLY WELLS.

LINES, WRITTEN ON LEAVING IPSWICH.

Ipswich is an ancient and populous, but an irregular built town, happily situated on the side of a hill, with a southern aspect, declining by an easy descent to the river Orwell, near the place where the fresh and salt water meet; and forming a sort of half moon or crescent on its bank. It contains twelve parish churches, a spacious market place, a corn exchange, a custom house with a good quay, theatre, assembly and subscription rooms, free grammar school, shire hall, county and borough goal, house of correction, barracks for cavalry, &c. The streets are well paved, but, like those of most ancient towns which have not suffered by fire, are narrow and irregular; and consequently do not make such a striking appearance, as if they ran in right lines. At the corners of many of them are yet to be seen the remains of curious carved images, grotesque figures, arms, flowers, &c. and great numbers of the houses are adorned, some of them to profusion, in a similar manner. The town contains many good buildings; and an advantage which it possesses in a high degree is, that most of these, even in the heart of the place, have convenient gardens adjoining, which render them not only more agreeable, but the town itself more airy and salubrious. It has declined from its former consequence; the manufactures of broad cloth and canvas being at an end; and its

present commerce chiefly depends upon the malting and exportation of corn. It has, however, a considerable coasting trade, and a small share of foreign commerce. Several views of Ipswich have been at different times published.

OH Ipswich! sweet scene of my juvenile hours,
Thy pleasures recede from my view,

Tothy grass cover'd meads, embroidered with flowers,
I bid a reluctant adieu.

Ye scenes of my childhood, I bid you farewel,
With smiles that my anguish conceal,

But the heart's secret pain sighs unbidden tell,
These tears its reluctance reveal.

I

go
where bright science her standard has plac'd,
And commerce extends her wide sail,

Where beauty is deck'd by the finger of taste,
And elegance throws off her veil.

Yet want these gay scenes the dear charms of that spot,
Where childhood, sweet era, was past;

Oh Ipswich! thy pleasures will ne'er be forgot,
Long as mem'ry's tablet shall last.

I view thy green meads as the land of my youth,
Ere sorrow this breast did invade,

Ere yet I had prov'd the too sorrowful truth,
Life's landscape is chequer'd with shade.

How sweet to reflection now rises each hour,
Spent under the shade of thy trees;
The past seizes on me with syren like power,
Forbidding the present to please :