The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 342, November 22, 1828

(For the Mirror.)

[Magnus, King of Norway, having committed sacrilege, by opening the grave of St. Olave, he was commanded by the spirit of the offended saint to perform the voluntary penance of quitting the kingdom in thirty days. He obeyed this intimation, and immediately left Norway. Having conquered many of the Western Isles, at length he established himself in the Isle of Man. Afterwards attempting the reduction of Ireland, he was surrounded by the natives and slain, with the whole of his followers.]

Olave, of rocky Norway's saints, the holiest and the best,
Entomb'd in tumulus, enjoys a calm and peerless rest;
By all of heav'ns votaries in saintly rank renown'd,
As high in blessedness, and chief in holy missal crown'd.

The dead—in holy, stilly peace, the sacred dead repose,
Afar from earth's turmoil and grief, and all of sick'ning woes;
From racking pain, and withering pride, and avarice's care,
Secure they rest in solitude, unaw'd by sin or snare.

To sack the gloomy sepulchre of lately living clay,
From cheerful day and life remov'd, by dreaded death away,
Is crime indeed of blackest hue, deserving exile's fate,
From native climes ordain'd to feel an outlaw's dreary state.

Could Norway's priest-despising chief, deem sacrilege a crime
Fitting for absolution,—or dark penance of set time
That daring such all dreaded sin, he gazes on the grave,
And tramples o'er the hallow'd dust of canoniz'd Olave.

Lone sepulchre in holy earth—sure wickedness so dire,
Of holy man, and sacred place, incenses heaven's ire;
Can less than ever banishment from Norway's ice bound land,
Stay sure revenge—pursuing fate—and justice' awful hand?

Away he sails—the foaming seas as Corsair now he laves,
Dauntless—heroic—daring winds, and man-entombing waves,
To visit other lands afar,—to combat chiefs of fame;
In battle-field to spread around the dread of Norway's name.

Lone Mona's sea-girt isle he dares with spear and flashing sword,
Usurping regal rule and right by power of pirate horde;
Yet vengeance drear, and dark desert of direst actions, crave
A bloody death, a justice clear, and dark usurper's grave.

On Erin's lovely land he falls—awarded darksome doom,
When, ruffian-like, he dared profane the saintly Olave's tomb:
He leaves his conquests, kingdoms, crowns, and all of earthly state,
To sleep in loneliness, and fill his dark predicted fate.

    Kirk Michael, Isle of Man. A B.C.

THE ANECDOTE GALLERY

A LIVING ALCHEMIST

(From Sir R. Phillips's Tour.)

At Luton, Beds. Sir Richard hears of an ALCHEMIST, who lives at the village of Lilley, midway between Luton and Hitchen. The whole of his interview with this eccentric personage, will doubtless be interesting to our readers.

It was four miles out of my road, but I thought a modern alchemist worthy of a visit, particularly as several inhabitants of Luton gravely assured me, that he had succeeded in discovering the Philosopher's Stone, and also the Universal Solvent. The reports about him would have rendered it culpable not to have hazarded anything for a personal interview. I learnt that he had been a man of fashion, and at one time largely concerned in adventures on the turf, but that for many years he had devoted himself to his present pursuits; while for some time past, he had been inaccessible and invisible to the world, the house being shut and barricadoed, and the walls of his grounds protected by hurdles, with spring-guns so planted as to resist intrusion in every direction. Under these circumstances, I had no encouragement to go to Lilley, but I thought that even the external inspection of such premises would repay me for the trouble. At Lilley, I inquired for his house of various people, and they looked ominous; some smiled, others shook their heads, and all appeared surprised at the approach of an apparent visiter to Mr. Kellerman.