It was a pretty ornamented harp -a relic of more fortunate days a little battered-the flowers that were painted on it had certainly lost something of their colour-but, battered and faded as it was, the desolate walls to which it hung did but ill become it: that was no matterit told the story of its mistresses admirably well.

Ella sung to her harp a little Saxon song.-Alfred wrote many of these; and his example rendered the love of them prevalent. They contained little stories, fables, and pithy sentiments of virtue, well calculated

to arrest the attention of an uncultivated people. Alfred knew that the darkness of barbarism yields to nothing more readily than to the light of the song.' His own greatness, indeed, is attributed to the poems which he read in his youth; and the experience of mankind has always supported this maxim of Shakespeare:

"Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy."

Egbert's sheep stray onward : he must needs follow them; or, at least, stop their progress; Ella looks to her mother for consent while she proposes taking her harp, and accompany

ing

ing the shepherd to a small distance from their abode.

The sheep scatter themselves in the valley; Egbert and Ella walk slowly by the side of a winding brook, beneath the shade of willows; Ella touches her instrument; while Egbert gathers flowers, pink flowers from tall stems, that bloom on the water's edge, and meadowsweet, of a creamy white, to braid the little harper's hat.

The time flies swiftly; and, one song after another, they stray farther than they intended. The brown fallows glow in the evening beams, as Egbert leads

his flock to the fold: he turns back with Ella, to accompany her to her mother's cottage.

They reach the brook where Ella sung; and where Egbert gathered the flowers that are now drooping in her hat.

What sensations possess them when they find the bridge of planks torn up; and behold, headlong among the rushes, the body of a youth, covered with wounds! He has died, no doubt, in defending the villagepass against the plundering Danes! To ford the brook is impracticable; the destruction of a neighbouring flood-gate has

swelled

swelled its stream; it rushes along with velocity; it inundates the meadows. Darkness is fast approaching. They hear, as they imagine, distant shrieks of distress, mingled with shouts of exultation; and they see-or, does their terrified fancy mislead them!--they see smoke, as of burning cottages, ascending ;or-it may be the white mist of evening.

They are obliged to retrace a considerable number of their steps, and to take a long circuitous course to the cottage of Bertha. Delay could never have been more dreadful; for cala