TWM JOHN CATTI'S CAVE.

BY F. W. DEACON, AUTHOR OF WARRENIANA," &c.

TIME A THUNDER STORM.

[Twm John Catti's Cave is the name of a wild and romantic pass in South Wales, where Twm John Catti-a complete Rob Roy in his way-lived for some years, to the infinite terror of the neighbourhood. Sundry veracious legends assert that he still haunts his old place of residence, and certainly, if ever spot afforded comfortable and characteristic quarters for a demon, this savage, dark, and secluded glen is the place.]

'Tis eve, when thought is spun in magic loom;

Stranger, approach with awe; this glowing hour
Sunned by romance bids drooping fancy bloom,
And memories faded spring again to flower:
Here dwelt a forest outlaw in his power,
Of wood and rock, and mountain pathway rude;
Here from the brow of yon deserted tower,
In pride of soul the savage scenes he viewed;
There liv'd and died, the prince of Alpine solitude.
His spirit walks each valley and each glen,

Sighs through the wood, and mingles with the gale;
Cent'ries have roll'd since last 'mid wondering men
He stood; but still they shudder at his tale;
Still, when the westering sun looks cold and pale,
His name his fate-rise, like an awful tower.
On memory's waste, still in yon dim-seen dale
His bugle echoes, and each haunted flow'r
Starts into fairy form; 'tis eve's enchanted hour,
That hour when thought-but hark! upon the wind
Rides the tremendous demon of the storm,
Whirlwinds in murky grandeur crowd behind,
And heaven peals out the trumpet of alarm:
From yon prophetic cloud, with lightning warm,
The wind-god hoarsely laughs, at that wild cry
Pale shrinking twilight hides her vestal form-
He comes he comes-in thunder riding by-
Hear ye his chariot wheels sweep echoing thro' the sky.

'Tis well, the hour accords with the rude scene,
The thunder's voice should be sole music here;
No west wind's female song should intervene
To hush the soul, appall'd by withering fear;
But cloud and storm for aye should hover near,
And dæmons, in sepulchral garb bedight,

Should quit for this their sombre hemisphere;
While o'er each rock, on wing of gloom and blight,
The phantom robber broods—an animated night.

SONG TO ANACREON MOORE.

As Jove, in good humour, was taking his glass,
And lounging at ease in his high wicker chair,
His cronies, delighted, the red goblet pass,
And music and merriment ring through the air.

While jesting and laughter and song were in turn,
And all strove to heighten the genial mirth;
Jove bellow'd aloud-" What is that I discern?"
And instantly added-" Why, there goes the earth,"

All ran to the window, to see us glide by ;-
Then seated again, the chat fell upon men-
Momus talk'd of the days when joy liv'd in the eye,
And said, we shall never see such days again.

"And why may they not?" jolly Bacchus replied,
"Let Jupiter send them Anacreon down;
His name is remember'd with honour and pride,
His presence will give to the world new renown."

The gods all agree-'tis an excellent thought,
And second the motion by Bacchus thus made;
But Jupiter set their opinion at naught,

And thus the great king of the gods gravely said:

"I love well these mortals, though sometimes they err,
And blessings abundant upon them will pour;
The promise thus made, not an instant defer,
You ask for ANACREON, but I will give MOORE."

THE OLD GENTLEMAN.

BY LEIGH HUNT, ESQ.

Our old gentleman, in order to be exclusively himself, must be either a widower, or a bachelor. Suppose the former. We do not mention his precise age, which would be invidious;-nor whether he wears his own hair or a wig; which would be wanting in universality. If a wig, it is a compromise between the more modern scratch and the departed glory of the touquee. If his own hair, it is white, in spite of his favourite grandson, who used to get on the chair behind him, and pull the silver hairs out, ten years ago. If he is bald at top, the hair-dresser, hovering and breathing about him like a second youth, takes care to give the bald place as much powder as the covered, in order that he may convey to the sensorium within a pleasing indistinctness of idea respecting the exact limits of skin and hair. He is very clean and neat; and, in warm weather, is proud of opening his waistcoat halfway down, and letting so much of his frill be seen, in order to show his hardiness as well as taste. His watch and shirt buttons are of the best; and he does not care if he has two rings on a finger. If his watch ever failed him at the club or coffee-house, he would take a walk every day to the nearest clock of good character, purely to keep it right. He has a cane at home, but seldom uses it, on finding it out of fashion with his elderly juniors. He has a small cocked hat for gala days, which he lifts higher from his head than the round one, when made a bow to. In his pockets are two handkerchiefs, (one for the neck at night-time,) his spectacles, and his pocket-book. The pocket-book, among other things, contains a receipt for a cough, and some verses cut out of an odd sheet of an old magazine, on the lovely Duchess of A~~, beginning,

"When beauteous Mira walks the plain."

He intends this for a common-place book which he keeps, consisting of passages in verse and prose, cut out of newspapers and magazines, and pasted in columns; some of them rather gay. His principal other books are Shakspeare's Plays, and Milton's Poems; the Spectator, the History of England,