And day by day this pining innocent
  Thus to his father piteously did cry,
  Till hunger had perform’d the stern intent
  Of their fierce foes.  “Oh, father, I shall die! 
  Take me upon your lap—­my life is spent—­
  Kiss me—­farewell!” Then with a gentle sigh,
  Its spotless spirit left the suff’ring clay,
  And wing’d its fright to everlasting day.

  (He who has mark’d that wild, distracting mien,
  Which for this Count immortal Reynold’s drew,
  When bitter woe, despair, and famine keen
  Unite in that sad face to shock the view,
  Will wish, while gazing on th’ appalling scene,
  For pity’s sake the story is not true. 
  What hearts but fiends, what less than hellish hate,
  Could e’er consign that group to such a fate?)

  And when he saw his darling child was dead,
  From statue-like despair the Count did start;
  He tore his matted locks from off his head,
  And bit his arms, for grief so wrung his heart. 
  His two surviving babes drew near and said,
  (Thinking ’twas hunger’s thorn which caus’d his smart,)
  “Dear sire, you gave us life, to you we give
  Our little bodies—­feed on them and live!”

  Like two bruis’d lilies, soon they pin’d away,
  And breath’d their last upon their father’s knee;
  Despair and Famine bow’d him to their sway;
  He died—­here ends this Count’s dark tragedy. 
  Whoso would read this tale more fully may
  Consult the mighty bard of Italy;
  Dante’s high strain will all the sequel tell,
  So courteous, friendly readers, fare ye well.

P. Hendon.

* * * * *

A LAPLANDER’S FAREWELL TO THE SETTING SUN.

(For the Mirror.)

  Adieu thou beauteous orb, adieu,
  Thy fading light scarce meets my view,
  Thy golden tints reflected still
  Beam mildly on my native hill: 
  Thou goest in other lands to shine,
  Hail’d and expected by a numerous line,
  Whilst many days and many months must pass
  Ere thou shall’st bless us with one closing glance. 
  My cave must now become my lowly home,
  Nor can I longer from its precincts roam,
  Till the fixed time that brings thee back again
  With added splendour to resume thy reign.

Iota.

* * * * *

ANCIENT VALUE OF BOOKS.

(For the Mirror.)

We have it from good authority, that about A.D. 1215, the Countess of Anjou paid two hundred sheep, five quarters of wheat, and the same quantity of rye, for a volume of Sermons—­so scarce and dear were books at that time; and although the countess might in this case have possibly been imposed upon, we have it, on Mr. Gibbon’s authority, that the value of manuscript copies of the Bible, for the use of the monks and clergy, commonly was from four to five hundred crowns at Paris, which, according to the relative value of money at that time and now in our days, could not, at the most moderate calculation, be less than as many pounds sterling in the present day.