ling columns once, in sculptur'd pride,
With fine volute or wreath'd acanthus crown'd,
Rear'd some light roof by Anio's plunging tide;
There, in the brightness of the votive fane
To rural or to vintage gods addrest,
Those vine clad symbols of Pan's peaceful reign
Amidst dark pines their sacred seats possess'd.

XV.

Or, did it break with soft and silvery shower
The silence of some marble solitude,
Where Adrian, at the fire fly's glittering hour,
Of rumour'd worlds to come the doubts review'd?
Go mark his tomb!--in that sepulchral mole
Scowls the fell bandit:--from its towering height
Old Tiber's flood reflects the girandole,
Midst bells, and shouts, and rockets' arrowy flight!

XVI.

Warwick, farewell! Long may thy fortunes stand,
And sires of sires hold rule within thy walls,
Thy streaming banners to the breeze expand,
And the heart's griefs pass lightly o'er thy halls!
May happier bards, on Avon's sedgy shore,
Sustain on nobler lyre thy poet's vow,
And all thy future lords (what can they more?)
Wear the green laurels of thy fame, as now!

[6] These lines will form a beautiful pendant to the picturesque
Engraving of WARWICK CASTLE, in No. 357 of the MIRROR--as well as
to the very interesting antiquarian description by our esteemed
correspondent _L.L._

NOTES.

One of the towers of Warwick Castle is complimented with the name of
Guy's Tower; certain ponderous armour and utensils preserved in the lodge
are also attributed to Guy; nobody, in short, thinks of Guy without
Warwick, or of Warwick without Guy; "Arms and the Man" ought to have been
emblazoned on the castle banner; and why should I hesitate to say, that
one of the most amiable of children perpetuates the heroic name within
its walls? Had this renowned adventurer been ambitious of patriarchal
honours, his descendants might have extended the ancestral renown, and
have furnished many a ballad of those good old times; but when the Saxon
Ulysses had returned from his pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and made an end of
Colbrand and the Dun Cow, his fancy was to take alms in disguise from his
own fair lady, at his own castle gate, and then retire (_tous les gouts
sont respectables_) to a certain hole or cave called Guy's Cliff, where
he amused himself (in the intervals of rheumatism) for the rest of his
natural life in counting his beads and ruminating on his sin