DURING the examination of one of these ancient burial-places by Sir Richard C. Hoare, a storm of thunder and lightning surprised the antiquaries. “Our only place of refuge,” says Sir Richard, “was the barrow, which had been excavated to a considerable depth. The lightning flashed upon our spades and iron instruments, and the large flints poured down upon us from the summit of the barrow, so abundantly and so forcibly, that we were obliged to quit our hiding-place, and abide the pelting of the pitiless storm upon the bleak and unsheltered down.” Mr. Bowles, being of the party, sent the following beautiful poem the next morning to Sir R. C. Hoare:-- “Let me, let me sleep again; Thus methought, in feeble strain, Plained from its disturbed bed The spirit of the mighty dead. O’er my mouldered ashes cold Many a century slow hath rolled, Many a race hath disappeared Since my giant form I reared; Since my flinted[29] arrow flew, Since my battle-horn I blew; Since my brazen dagger’s pride Glittered on my warlike side, Which, transported o’er the wave, Kings of distant ocean gave;[30] Ne’er hath glared the eye of day My death-bed secrets to betray, Since with muttered Celtic rhyme, The white-haired Druid bard sublime, ’Mid the stillness of the night, Waked the sad and solemn rite, The rite of death; and o’er my bones Were piled the monumental stones. Passing near the hallowed ground, The Roman gazed upon the mound; And murmured, with a secret sigh, ‘There, in dust, the mighty lie.’ Ev’n while his heart with conquest glowed, While the high-raised flinty road[31] Echoed to the prancing hoof, And golden eagles flamed aloof, And flashing to the orient light His bannered legions glittered bright, The Victor of the world confessed A dark awe shivering at his breast. Shall, then, the Sons of distant days Unpunished on my relics gaze? Hark! Hesus rushes from on high, Vindictive thunder rocks the sky; See, Taranis[32] descends to save His hero’s violated grave; And shakes, beneath the lightning’s glare, The sulphur from his blazing hair. Hence! yet though my grave ye spoil, Dark oblivion mocks your toil: Deep the clouds of ages roll, History drops her mouldering scroll, And never shall reveal the name Of him who scorns her transient fame.” The Ancient Etruscan City of Luni. BY LA SIGNORA CAMPION. “Lunai portum est operæ cognoscere, cives. Cor jubet hoc Ennî.”--PERSIUS, _Sat._