This poem has never before been published. ERZA. Oh, let the kindred circle, Far in our northern land, From heart to heart draw closer Affection's strength'ning hand: To fill my place long vacant, Soon may our loved ones learn; For to our pleasant dwelling I never shall return. Peace to each heart that troubled My course of happy years; Peace to each angry spirit That quench'd my life in tears! Let not the thought of vengeance Be mingled with regret; Forgive my wrongs, dear mother! Seek even to forget. Give to the friend, the stranger, Whatever once was mine; Nor keep the smallest token To wake fresh tears of thine,-- Save one, one loved memorial, With thee I fain would leave; 'Tis one that will not teach thee Yet more for me to grieve. 'Twas mine when early childhood Turn'd to its sacred page, The gay, the thoughtless glances Of almost infant age; 'Twas mine thro' days yet brighter, The joyous years of youth, When never had affliction Bow'd down mine ear to truth. 'Twas mine when deep devotion Hung breathless on each line Of pardon, peace, and promise, Till I could call them mine; Till o'er my soul's awakening The gift of Heavenly love, The spirit of adoption, Descended from above. Unmark'd, unhelp'd, unheeded, In heart I've walk'd alone; Unknown the prayers I've utter'd, The hopes I held, unknown; Till in the hour of trial, Upon the mighty train, With strength and succour laden, To bear the weight of pain. Then, Oh! I fain would leave thee, For now my hours are few, The hidden mine of treasure, Whence all my strength I drew. Take then the gift, my mother, And till thy path is trod, Thy child's last token cherish-- It is the Book of God. WITCHCRAFT IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. Sir Roger Twysden, with all his learning, could not rise above the credulity of his age; and was, to the last, as firm a believer in palmistry and witchcraft, and all the illusions of magic, as the generality of his cotemporaries. His commonplace-books furnish numerous instances of the childlike simplicity with which he gave credence to any tale of superstition for which the slightest shadow of authenticity could be discovered. The following amusing instance of this almost infantine credulity, I have extracted from one of his note-books; merely premising that his wife Isabella was daughter of Sir Nicholas Saunders, the narrator of the tale:--