vestige of the opening of a cavern was obliterated. Thus failed another of the repeated opportunities, for releasing the spell-bound king of Britain from the "charmed sleep of ages." Within his rocky chamber, he still sleeps on, as tradition tells, till the appointed hour, or if invited by his enchantress to participate in the illusions of the fairy festival, it has charms for him no longer. "Wasted with care, he sits besides her-the banquet untasted-the pageantry unmarked, "by constraint Her guest, and from his native land withheld The groundwork of this legend, says Sir Walter Scott, "is a tradition common to all nations, as the belief of the Mahommedans respecting their twelve Imaums demonstrates. It is found with several variations, in many parts of Scotland and England; the scene is sometimes laid in some favourite glen of the Highlands, sometimes in the deep coal-mines of Northumberland and Cumberland, which run so far beneath the ocean. It is also to be found in Reginald Scott's book on Witchcraft, which was written in the sixteenth century. It would be in vain to ask what was its origin. The choice between the horn and sword may, perhaps, include as a moral, that it is fool-hardy to awaken danger before we have arms in our hands to resist it." THE MATCHLESSE MAYDE OF MORPETH. BY GEORGE SAVILLE CAREY. EORGE SAVILLE CAREY the author of the following poem, was son of the celebrated Harry Carey, a successful comic writer in the earlier part of the last century; who, though often in great distress, and the author of many convivial and festive songs, never employed his Muse in opposition to the interests of morality. It has been long understood, that Harry Carey was author of the tune and words of "God save the King." This was mentioned by the late Dr. Arnold, and no person has ever laid claim to this popular composition. He was the avowed author of the words and air of the well-known song "Of all the Girls that are so smart," which Incledon and other singers brought again into vogue. Poor Harry Carey, like many who have no regular profession, and devote themselves to the Muses, was at last reduced to such distress, that he did not wait for Nature to relieve him from the burthen of life, and when he was found dead, had only a half-penny in his pocket. How much it is to be regretted, that the man whose song has so often afforded pleasure to loyal and patriotic hearts, and which has at length become the chief national strain, should himself have fallen a victim to poverty and despair!-George Saville Carey, who was a posthumous child, inherited the misfortunes of his father; but he inherited also his talents in a great degree, though they took another direction. He inherited too his moral qualities; for, though he wrote a vast number of Lyric compositions, they are all intended to awaken patriotic, generous, and amiable emotions. He was at first a printer; and attempted the stage early in life, but did not display such abilities as encouraged him to persevere in theatrical pursuits. He afterwards, for more than forty years, supported himself, in a most precarious manner by his writings and by giving lectures on elocution, mimicry, &c., and his imitations of the most celebrated performers of that day are said to have displayed talents of a very superior order. Yet though he went through various vicissitudes of fortune, he always maintained a decent appearance, and supported the character of an honest man. He possessed musical taste and talents that would have raised him to eminence if he had cultivated them with diligence, or had not been obliged "to provide for the day that was passing over his head." For many years Carey regularly visited Newcastle, where he had numerous friends, and it was at that town that he wrote his "Matchlesse Mayde of Morpeth," from a tradition which he had heard in the neighbourhood. His death, which took place in 1807, and in the 64th year of his age, might be considered as a fortunate event for him, if we may not presume to ascribe it to the kindness of Providence, as the infirmities of age were gathering upon him; and if he had lived much longer, he could not of course, have subsisted by his talents, but must have sunk into one of the common asylums of misfortune.-Gent's Mag. T. Bell's Col., &c., The Matchlesse Mayde of Morpeth. B LEAKE was the nyghte, and darke the skye, The rayne fell faste, the winde blewe highe, On such a nyghte, while neare the fyre A poore olde mann all muck and myre All supplyante he, abas'd and sad, Some mercy shew, he cry'd, to one The wynds have rift my cot, The floods have wash'd away my bed, My little all is gone, Permit me shelter in some shed, Untill the morne returne. Now anger like the fyre redd, In Pyrkyne's face appear'd, He said he had nor strawe nor shedd The poore old mann, was bought to turne, But hearde a female in concerne, Who pleaded on his parte. 'Twas Pyrkyne's daughter, Rachel fayre, To shelter him from wynde and rayne, How can you heare the poore complayne, How can your hearte a scene endure, Now Pyrkyne stampt, and now he swore, Against his will to urge him more, The poore olde mann on hearing this, Cry'd, "Twould in me be much amisse To that fayre mayde shall praise be sung, Around her neck shall gems be hung, Knyghtes shall attend that lovelye mayde, A garlande shall adorne her heade; No more he sayde, but bent his waye, I'th' morning when the clouded sun He rode to yeoman Pyrkyne's doore, Sir Knyghte you're welcome, Pyrkyne cry'd, I thank you, Sir, the Knyghte reply'd, He enter'd in and sate him downe, He sayde she was so seemly growne, Her bashful eyne she downwarde bente, A blush her dimpled cheekes did painte, Sir Walter then to Pyrkyne sayde, Of venerable meine. Such one, cry'd Pyrkyne, here hath beene, He begg'd that I woulde let him in He murmur'd much with strange pretence, But soon I sent him trudging hence, |