"Through _Berkeley's roofs_ that ring Shrieks of an agonized king!" Yet as your correspondent, _J.S._ seems of the intelligent kind, he may be in possession of some authority to which he can refer, and thereby prove it is not merely an assertion inadvertently given, to increase the interest of his _Visit to Corfe Castle_. Knowing your wish that the pages of your entertaining _Mirror_ should reflect the truth, the insertion of this will oblige your Constant Reader, W. * * * * * LINES WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD. (_For the Mirror_.) Why am I here?--Thou hast not need of me, Home of the rotting and the rotten dead-- For thou art cumber'd to satiety, And wilt be cumber'd--ay, when I am fled! Why stand I here, the living among tombs? Answer, all ye who own a grassy bed, Answer your dooms. Thou, massy stone! over whose heart art thou? The lord who govern'd yonder giant place, And ruled a thousand vassals at his bow. Alack! how narrow and how small a space Of what was human vanity and show Serves for the maggot, when 'tis his to chase The greatest and the latest of his race. One of Earth's dear ones, of a noble birth, Slumbers e'en _here_; of such supernal charms, That but to smile was to awaken mirth, And for that smile set loving fools in arms. The grave ill balances such living worth, For here the worm his richest pasture farms, Unconscious of his harms. Yon grassy sod, that scarcely seems a grave, Deck'd with the daisy, and each lowly flower, Time leaves no stone, recording of the knave, Whether of humble, or of lordly power: Fame says he was a bard--Fame did not save His name beyond the living of his hour-- A luckless dower. 'Tis strange to see how equally we die, Though equal honour be unknown to light, The lord, the lady of distinction high, And he, the bard, who sang their noble might, Sink into death _alike_ and _peacefully_; Though some may want the marble's honour'd site, Yet earth holds all that earthliness did slight. P.T. * * * * * ANCIENT BOROUGH OF WENDOVER. (_For the Mirror._)