grandeur, is the cold and stern repose of those two marble images, side by side, extended in sepulchral state.

No sculptured marble, nor humbler stone, with its forlorn "hic jacet,” marked out at Dartford, even before the dissolution of religious houses, the last resting place of Bridget Plantagenet. Yet, in those troublous times, when " every man's hand was against his brother;" compared with the royal wretchedness of the two Elizabeths, how enviable was her obscure and peaceful destiny! Pleasant and good it is, to turn for a moment from the disastrous annals of those evil days, to one unsullied page,-to the life of one who, "born to great cares, the daughter of a king," early descended from that fearful eminence, and so escaping the ravages of the storm that laid waste her royal house, lived out the term of her natural life in unmolested quiet,—in the exercise of all duties and charities that fell within the sphere of her limited responsibility; and having her hope in Heaven, 66 and her conscience clear of offence to all men," so passed away from earth-unrecorded by its proud chronicles of fame, but having her name written in that book wherein, at the great day of summing up, so many a one shall be found wanting that the world worshippeth; and not a few of those it despiseth or remembereth not, appear blazoned in characters of light.

THE YOUNG NOVICE.

BY MISS MITFORD.

The Princess Bridget Plantagenet, born at Eltham, November 8th, 1480, fourth daughter of Edward the Fourth, was, when very young, consigned to the care of the Abbess of the Monastery of Dartford.-Vide Sandford.

THE choral hymn hath ceased. The child, arrayed
In those strange novice robes, stands hushed and awed
Before the pitying priest. The abbess lifts
One pallid hand to heaven, as summoning
The blessed saints to accept and sanctify
The half-unconscious vow. And she hath ta'en
That vestal vow, pure votaress! hath lisped,
In her clear infant voice, poor innocent babe!
The irrevocable words, and all is o'er.

The wondering nuns are mute: one only sound
Reverberates through the chapel,—the low sobs
Of yonder kneeling woman, whose fair cheek

Is stained with tears, whose breath comes forth in sighs,
Whose throbbing heart doth quiver visibly.

U

Beneath the ermine, as she folds her arms

Around the gentle child. Hark! hark! her grief
Breaks into words.

Farewell, my best beloved!
Dearest of all my daughters, fare thee well!
Oh, holy abbess, hear me ! To thy guard
I give this white, unspotted, virgin flower,
The youngest branch of the Plantagenets —
The latest pledge of Edward's love—my child—
Mine own sweet child. She is a princess !- Lo!
The cushion and the coronet of state,
Her rank's vain pageantries, I offer up
A sacrifice. Lo! at the altar's foot
I offer up a dearer sacrifice-

Herself-my own fair child. Oh! shelter her
From the dark perils that hang o'er our house;
From open foes and treacherous friends; from kinsmen,
Deep, crafty, dangerous; from stern ambition;

From secret hate; from cunning cruelty;

From murder,-foul, unnatural, midnight murder;
From all that my prophetic soul forebodes—
The horrors that beset me in my dreams-

The fears that haunt me waking; from all snares
Of fiend or man, defend her! Look ye prove
True guardians of the sanctuary.-Alas!
She soon may have none other.

My lovely! my beloved! how I shall miss

Thee, and thy pretty ways! See where she stands,
The small, white, delicate foot, which I so oft
Have clasped, bare on the floor; the novice robe
Shrouding her tender form; the novice veil,
Wreathed with gay flowers, around her innocent head,
Half hiding the bright clustering curls, as soft
As fleeces of young lambs, as closely ringed
As tendrils of the vine! Ay, and those curls
Must fall; that beauty wither. Those blue eyes,
So full of infant mirth, must be cast down
In penitential sadness! those smooth cheeks,
Whereon the rival roses bloom, must shrink
And fade, till they be pale and mortified
With midnight penances and wasting fasts.
Yet, better live a' praying nun,' sweet child!
Than die a' weeping queen.'
She tells thee so

*

Who knows the cares that wait upon a crown;

The woes that follow beauty.

Safe from life's bitter changes!

Rest thee here,

Rest thee here

In

peace and holiness!

66

But, oh! to part!

To leave thee, my dear child!-Be kind to her!
Be very kind to her! Lord bishop, thou,
And thou most reverend abbess! 'tis a queen
That kneels to ye,—a mother, that implores

* For my daughters, Richard,

They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens.

SHAKSPEARE.

Your love to her dear child. Let her not quite
Forget me. Sometimes, in her innocent prayers,
Let her remember her fond mother.

"Now,

One parting kiss of those sweet lips!—She weeps!
My tears have wakened her's!
And shivers like a dying fawn!

Poor child, she weeps
Be sure

Ye comfort her! Have some one by to cheer her
With tender smiles, and sing her off to sleep
With pleasant lullabies.— Bless thee, my child!
One other kiss!-Blessings on thy fair head,
Mine own dear child!-So, bear her in! Unclasp
Her little hands from round my neck—I cannot-
And bear her gently in! I could not say

That word, Farewell; but blessings on her head—
Mine own fair child!"