[9] From a paper in _The Crypt_, an antiquarian journal, printed at Ringwood, Hants, in the year 1827. The writer observes that Dr. Milner has uniformly applied the term _Saxon_ to the circular arches in this structure, as well as to similar specimens; but subsequent topographers have arrived at the more probable conclusion, that very slight remains, if any, now exist of ecclesiastical edifices by the Saxons. * * * * * THE PUBLIC JOURNALS. * * * * * SCRAPS FROM THE DIARY OF A TRAVELLER. BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. O poets, poets, dream at home, If you would _still_ have visions haunt you; Trust me, if once abroad you roam, That mar-all, Truth, will disenchant you. Still think of VENICE, as in dreams You've seen her, by her ocean-streams;-- Fancy the calm and cool delights Of gondolas on summer nights: Of sailing o'er the bright Lagoon, And listening, as you glide along, To lays from TASSO, by that moon Whose beams, alas! he felt too strong, And of whose mad'ning philters all, Who feel the Muse's genuine call, Are doom'd, at times, to drink as deep, As did Endymion in his sleep! Still by your fire-sides sit, and think Of palaces, along the brink Of ocean-floods,--whose shadows there Look like the ruins, grand and fair, Of some lost ATALANTIS, seen Beneath the wave, when heaven's serene. People those palaces with forms Lovely as TITIAN ever drew-- Bright creatures, whom the sunbeam warms With that ethereal gas, all through. Which finds a vent at lips and eyes, And lights up in a lover's sighs. Fancy these young Venetian maids Listening, at night, to serenades From amorous lutes, where Music, such As southern skies alone afford, Echoes to every burning touch, And thrills in each impassion'd chord. All this imagine, and still more,-- For whither may not Fancy soar, If Truth do not, alas! too soon, Puncture her brilliant air-balloon-- But go not to the spot, I pray; O do not, _do_ not, some fine day. Order, like STERNE, your travelling breeches;-- All's lost, if once upon your way, The passport of Lord ---- Is death to Fancy--like his speeches. If you would save _some_ dreams of youth From the torpedo touch of Truth, Go not to VENICE--do not blight Your early fancies with the sight Of her true, real, dismal state-- Her mansions, foul and desolate,-- Her close canals, exhaling wide Such fetid airs as--with those domes Of silent grandeur, by their side, Where step of life ne'er goes or comes, And those black barges plying round With melancholy, plashing sound,-- Seem like a city, where the Pest Is holding her last visitation, And all, ere long, will be at rest, The dead, sure rest of desolation.