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But England's Queen, with all her state,
THE ORDEAL OF TOUCH.
"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
Oh, most absurd! Landlord! He has no tenants!
He sold and mortgaged his broad, ancient manors,
Did grant your judgment right, although you fled,
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 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,
Anon the throng returned; the cavalcade
Who in the midst in solemn state appeared,
And to the roof a thousand tapers blazed;
And clouds of incense every hand obeyed.
The Bishop was installed; the golden sun
A FOREST SCENE
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,
She sate upon a mossy stone
And round, for miles on every hand,
The summer sun shone on the trees,
Their pleasant clamour made.
There was no garden round the house,
There was no garden round about,
"Nay, read to me," the pilgrim said;