But England's Queen, with all her state,
Nor baron's wife, nor miller's mate,
With all their wealth, are blest as we,
Within the tent, beneath the tree,-
As thou and I, my bright-eyed dove,
And he, the father, whom we love!
"On occasion of these practices upon the credulity of the ignorant, the face of the corpse was bared, as well as the breast and arms; the body was wrapped in a winding-sheet of the whitest linen, so that if blood should flow, it would be instantly observed. After a mass peculiarly adapted to the ordeal, the most suspected, calling down the signal vengeance of heaven if they spoke falsely, successively approached the bier, and made the sign of the cross upon the dead man's
breast."
MRS. ALVA.
Oh, most absurd! Landlord! He has no tenants!
Why, the poor Westwoods is a county proverb:
The father wasted all his patrimony;
He sold and mortgaged his broad, ancient manors,
And by illegal means despoiled the heir,
Till, at his death, the very furniture -
Costly as that of any ducal mansion -
Was sold to pay his debts. Landlord indeed!
Why, the old house and grounds alone remain,
And how they're kept up is a miracle!
It makes one melancholy but to drive
Did grant your judgment right, although you fled,
As Lucy shall not — like a guilty thing —
So may you, in this matter of her wooing,
Find that our little Lucy chooseth well,
Despite her mother's judgment.
Ah, my Lucy, You knew not, did you, that your mother's marriage Was one of stealth? that she was wooed
Like Juliet, in the play?
LUCY.
Oh, yes; for many a year I've had a guess at some such sweet romance! There was a famous painter made a picture, And that same picture from my earliest childhood Fixed my regard; 't is in the drawing-room, Hung just above the Indian cabinet, And it is called "The Andalusian Lover;" I thought it was the portrait of my mother; And that the lover bore a strong resemblance Unto the miniature my mother wears,― I understand it now!
But, mother dear, Have I said aught to grieve you?-Oh, forgive me! MRS. ALVA. (Kissing her.)
No, my dear girl! But had you known your father, You could not laughingly have spoken of him!
MRS. ASH.
My Alice, let these memories of the past
Bring blessings to your daughter! Good Don Pedro Was worthy of your never-dying love;
And Arthur Westwood-nay, I'll have my willIs not less worthy Lucy's.
Come, this day
I'll visit my old friend who hath been schooled By hard adversity, good Margaret Cavendish; And you shall go with me!
INSTALLATION OF THE BISHOP OF MAGNESIA.
'Twas morning, and the city was astir,
As if some new joy were awaiting her.
Doors were thrown wide, and all adown the street
The pavement answered to the tread of feet;
And everywhere some eager-spoken word
About the expected Bishop might be heard.
And then 't was told, how, while the people slept,
Ere the first streaks of day, the church was swept;
How holy water all about was spilled;
How every censer was with incense filled;
And furthermore, that even now might they
Expect the Bishop on his onward way,
For they who rode to meet him had been gone
Three hours at least. They must be here anon!
Anon the throng returned; the cavalcade
Along the street their easy progress made;
And all admired the horses' stately tread,
And the mixed rider's vestments, blue and red;
But chiefly all regards to him were given,
Who came the anointed delegate of heaven,
Who in the midst in solemn state appeared,
With high, pale forehead, and a curled black beard.
The church was reached; the holy hymn was
raised,
And to the roof a thousand tapers blazed;
Priests robed in white received him at the door,
And turbaned foreheads touched the marble floor.
Upon his throne the patriarch took his seat,
In silken vesture flowing to his feet,
Wrought in rich needlework with gold and gem,
Of pictured saints embroidered round the hem.
Lights beamed; the censer's silver chains were
swayed,
And clouds of incense every hand obeyed.
The Bishop rose, and o'er the kneeling crowd
Thrice waved the rood, and blessing spake aloud.
Again hymns pealed, and incense warm and rich
In cloudy volumes veiled each sainted niche.
The Bishop rose; the pictured saints were kissed,
And from the door the people were dismissed.
The Bishop was installed; the golden sun
Blazoned the purple sea, and day was done.
IN THE DAYS OF WICKLIFFE.
A LITTLE child she read a book Beside an open door;
And, as she read page after page, She wonder'd more and more.
Her little finger carefully
Went pointing out the place; — Her golden locks hung drooping down, And shadow'd half her face.
The open book lay on her knee,
Her eyes on it were bent;
And as she read page after page,
The colour came and went.
She sate upon a mossy stone
An open door beside;
And round, for miles on every hand,
Stretch'd out a forest wide.
The summer sun shone on the trees,
The deer lay in the shade;
And overhead the singing birds
Their pleasant clamour made.
There was no garden round the house,
And it was low and small,—
The forest sward grew to the door;
The lichens on the wall.
There was no garden round about,
Yet flowers were growing free,
The cowslip and the daffodil,
Upon the forest-lea.
"Nay, read to me," the pilgrim said;
And the little child went on,
To read of CHRIST, as was set forth
In the Gospel of St. John.
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