arble bason.

For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed,
Where the weeds and desolate dust are spread.

One would almost imagine Byron had written his lines in the "Giaour"
describing Hassan's residence amidst the ruins of Fonthill, so striking,
so tangible, is the resemblance. He says of the fountains--

'Twas sweet of yore to hear it play
And chase the sultriness of day,
As springing high the silver dew
In whirls fantastically flew
And flung luxurious coolness round
The air, and verdure o'er the ground.
'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright,
To view the wave of watery light
And hear its melody by night.

But the shades of evening, now rapidly advancing, warned us to depart
while there was yet light enough to trace our path through the gloomy
wood. We entered its thick and umbrageous covert, and were near losing
our road before we reached the barrier gate. The road was strewed with
dry leaves, which reminded me of the earthly hopes of man.

He builds too low who builds beneath the skies,

and he who wishes for solid happiness must rest on a broader base than
that afforded by momentary enjoyment, tempting and blooming as the
foliage of summer, but evanescent as its withered leaves.

The next morning was finer than our most sanguine wishes could have
anticipated. We were not long dispatching our comfortable breakfast, and
hastened to the barrier gate. We here met a venerable woman, whose noble
features and picturesque dress would have served as a splendid model for
Gainsborough or Ben Barker. Stopping to inquire a nearer road to the
Abbey, as she seemed indigenous to the place, I was tempted to ask if she
knew Mr. Beckford. "I have seen him, sir, many, many times; but he is
gone, and I trust--I do trust--to rest. He was a good man to the poor,
never was there a better." "You astonish me; I had heard that he never
gave away anything." "Good gracious, sir, who could have invented such
lies? There never was a kinder friend to the poor, and when he left they
lost a friend indeed. Not give away anything! Why, sir, in the winter,
when snow was on the ground and firing dear, he used to send wagons and
wagons for coal to Warminster, and make them cut through the snow to
fetch it, and gave the poor souls plenty of firing, besides money,
blankets, and clothing, too, and as for me I can answer for three half-
sovereigns he gave me himself at different times with