« ElőzőTovább »
Perhaps I might, my love; but now sit down, "On occasion of these practices upon the credulity of the And take your work, your drawing, or your books; ignorant, the face of the corpse was bared, as well as the And if you mean to wed a poor man, Lucy, breast and arms; the body was wrapped in a winding-sheet Learn to be an economist of time. of the whitest linen, so that if blood should flow, it would be instantly observed. After a maes peculiarly adapted to the Is really true; this match meets not your wishes.
- So, daughter Alvarez, what I have heard ordeal, the most suspected, calling down the signal vengeance of heaven if they spoke falsely, successively approached the bier, and made the sigo of the cross upon the dead man's My wishes! Is 't not natural for a mother breast."
To wish her only child the fairest fortune!
“Oh body stiff and stark,
If I have done thee ill,
Oh, body stark and still!
“I that have been thy friend,
And with thee counsel ta’en,
By blood outpoured like rain!
“Here, on thy stony brow,
My bared right-hand I lay;
If I am guilty, say!
As a man
Is he well-bred ?
So he's thought,
Is he moral?
“My hand hath not a stain!
The death-robe yet is white!
So heaven attest the right!
“I challenge thee to proof!
I know the secret wood,
And dare the accusing blood !"
True — poor Margaret Cavendish! We were at school together; a fine creature, A generous-hearted, noble-minded girl Was Margaret Cavendish!
But now none see her; She keeps no company; she has no carriage, Has lived so long out of society, That no one misses her.
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!
'Tis the world's way! Well, but her son, I hope, is dutiful.
MRS. ALVA. No doubt on it-I ne'er heard a word against him; But with a ruined name and broken fortune He is no match for Lucy Alvarez! - Why does he enter not the church or army, And get preferment there !- 't were nobler farT were manlier far, than being a fortune-hunter!
My Alice, let these memories of the past
Come, this day
Now, daughter Alvarez, one little word:
There are not many Would bid me call again what is scarce past.
MRS. ASH. I am no flatterer, but your matron years Become your brow like youth ; and now, my Alice, Cast back your memory twenty living years, And what is present with you?
Ah, I see
But, dearest Alice, Did you not suffer him 10 woo you, spite Your father's wishes and your mother's prayers Nay, chide me not with looks — our gentle Lucy Shall not be disobedient in her love!
INSTALLATION OF THE BISHOP OF
'T was morning, and the city was astir,
Anon the throng returned; the cavalcade
But time proved I was right. Poor Alvarez!
So might you love young Westwood !
Who in the midst in solemn state appeared,
Upon his throne the patriarch took his seat,
The Bishop was installed ; the golden sun
The butterfly went flitting by,
The bees were in the flower; But the little child sate steadfastly,
As she had sate for hours.
An aged pilgrim spake;
Like one but just awake.
And solemn was her look,
“Oh, sir, I read this book!"
To win a child like thee?-
And frolic with the bee!"
I love it more than play ;-
Ne'er saw I ull this day.
That makes all care be gone,And yet I weep. I know not why,
As I go reading on!" " Who art thon, child, that thou shouldst read
A book with mickle heed ?-
Hath much ado to read !" “My father is a forester
A bowman keen and good;
And worketh in the wood.
The flowers are all in blow Upon her grave at Allonby
Down in the dale below."
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,
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.
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 ?"
Ah, sir, it was my mother,She taught me both to read and spell
And so she taught my brother; “ My brother dwells at Allonby
With the good monks alway; And this new book he brought to me,
But only for one day. “Oh, sir, it is a wondrous book,
Better than Charlemagne,And, be you pleased to leave me now,
I'll read in it again!"
And the little child went on,
There was no garden round the house,
And it was low and small,-
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.
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 meal,
And the pilgrim 'gan to tell How he had eaten on Olivet,
And drank at Jacob's well.
On, on she read, and gentle tears
Adown her cheeks did slide;
And he wept at her side. "I've heard,” said he, “ibe 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?
That I have read to thee;
For folks unlearn'd as we!"
Our canons have decreed That this is an unholy book
For simple folk to read!
Had this good book been mine,
To holy Palestine !
My soul is strangely stirr'd; –
As ne'er before I heard !"
And the pilgrim, old and brown,
Then on the stone sat down.
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 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.
And all his comfortable words,
His deeds of mercy all,
And the poor prodigal.
As to the hungry, bread,
Each word the pilgrim read.
Until the dawn of day;
To fetch the book away.
His face was pale with dread,
That the book must not be read, For it was such a fearful heresy, The holy Abbot said."
Still, still the book the old man read,
As he would ne'er have done;
Unto the set of sun.
A cake of wheaten bread;