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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

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Perhaps I might, my love; but now sit down,
And take your work, your drawing, or your books;
And if you mean to wed a poor man, Lucy,

Learn to be an economist of time.

- So, daughter Alvarez, what I have heard instantly observed. After a mass peculiarly adapted to the Is really true; this match meets not your wishes.

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."

"STAND back! and let me pass

On to the holy place!

Stand back, my friend, if such thou be;-
Stand back, my slanderous enemy ;-
Impede me none! and let me see
The dead man face to face!

"Oh body stiff and stark,

If I have done thee ill,

Let every cruel wound of thine
Pour to the earth the sanguine sign!
Hide not the guilt if it is mine,

Oh, body stark and still!

"I that have been thy friend,

And with thee counsel ta'en,
To whom thy secret thoughts were shown;
Whose soul was precious as mine own —
Qh! if this deed were mine, make known
By blood outpoured like rain!

"Here, on thy stony brow,

My bared right-hand I lay;
Here, on thy loving, wounded breast,
Into thy wounds my hand is prest!
Oh, body, by black wrong distrest,
If I am guilty, say!

"My hand hath not a stain!

The death-robe yet is white!
Now slanderer, come forth, an thou dare,
And here upon this altar-stair,

Stand, with firm foot, and right-hand bare!
So heaven attest the right!

"I challenge thee to proof!

I know the secret wood,
Where thou and thine accomplice ran!
Here lieth he, thy murdered man!
Now, touch that body stark and wan,
And dare the accusing blood!"


My wishes! Is 't not natural for a mother
To wish her only child the fairest fortune!

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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

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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?


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!


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 will-
Is 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!


'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 'twas 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

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.



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.

The butterfly went flitting by,

The bees were in the flowers; But the little child sate steadfastly, As she had sate for hours.

"Why sit you here, my little maid?”

An aged pilgrim spake;

The child look'd upward from her book, Like one but just awake.

Back fell her locks of golden hair,

And solemn was her look,
As thus she answer'd, witlessly,
"Oh, sir, I read this book!"

"And what is there within that book
To win a child like thee?-
Up! join thy mates, the merry birds,
And frolic with the bee!"

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"Who art thou, child, that thou shouldst read A book with mickle heed?

Books are for clerks-the King himself
Hath much ado to read!"

"My father is a forester

A bowman keen and good;
He keeps the deer within their bound,
And worketh in the wood.

"My mother died in Candlemas,—
The flowers are all in blow
Upon her grave at Allonby

Down in the dale below."

This said, unto her book she turn'd,
As steadfast as before;

"Nay," said the pilgrim, "nay, not yet,
And you must tell me more.

"Who was it taught you thus to read?"

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On, on she read, and gentle tears
Adown her cheeks did slide;
The pilgrim sate, with bended head,
And he wept at her side.

"I've heard," said he, "the Archbishop,
I've heard the Pope of Rome,
But never did their spoken words
Thus to my spirit come!

"The book, it is a blessed book!

Its name, what may it be?

Said she, "They are the words of CHRIST
That I have read to thee;
Now done into the English tongue
For folks unlearn'd as we!"
"Sancta Maria!" said the man,
Our canons have decreed
That this is an unholy book

For simple folk to read!

"Sancta Maria! Bless'd be GOD!

Had this good book been mine,
I need not have gone on pilgrimage
To holy Palestine!

"Give me the book, and let me read!
My soul is strangely stirr'd;-
They are such words of love and truth
As ne'er before I heard!"

The little girl gave up the book,

And the pilgrim, old and brown, With reverent lips did kiss the page, Then on the stone sat down.

And aye he read page after page;
Page after page he turn'd;

And as he read their blessed words
His heart within him burn'd.

Still, still the book the old man read,
As he would ne'er have done;
From the hour of noon he read the book,
Unto the set of sun.

The little child she brought him out
A cake of wheaten bread;
But it lay unbroke at eventide;

Nor did he raise his head
Until he every written page
Within the book had read.

Then came the sturdy forester
Along the homeward track,
Whistling aloud a hunting tune,

With a slain deer on his back.
Loud greeting gave the forester
Unto the pilgrim poor;

The old man rose with thoughtful brow, And enter'd at the door.

The two had sate them down to meat,
And the pilgrim 'gan to tell

How he had eaten on Olivet,
And drank at Jacob's well.

And then he told how he had knelt
Where'er our LORD had pray'd;
How he had in the Garden been,

And the tomb where he was laid;-
And then he turn'd unto the book,
And read, in English plain,
How CHRIST had died on Calvary;
How he had risen again;

And all his comfortable words,
His deeds of mercy all,
He read, and of the widow's mite,
And the poor prodigal.

As water to the parched soil,
As to the hungry, bread,
So fell upon the woodman's soul
Each word the pilgrim read.

Thus through the midnight did they read,
Until the dawn of day;

And then came in the woodman's son

To fetch the book away.

All quick and troubled was his speech,
His face was pale with dread,
For he said, "The King hath made a law
That the book must not be read,-
For it was such a fearful heresy,
The holy Abbot said."


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