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But England's Queen, with all her state,
THE ANDALUSIAN LOVER.
BURNHAM, her mother.
But you would like him, dearest grandmamma!
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
-So, daughter Alvarez, what I have heard instantly observed. After a mass peculiarly adapled to the ordeal, the most suspected, calling down the signal vengeance
Is really true; this match meets not your wishes. of heaven if they spoke falsely, successively approached the
MRS. ALVA. bier, and made the sign 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!
MRS. ASH. “Stand back! and let me pass
No doubt on 'ı, daughter Alvarez; but still
What is that fairest fortune, is the question.
There is no question here! I'm not a child,
To form imperfect judgments!
No, my daughter; "Oh body stiff and stark,
But let me hear your reasons 'gainst this match:
The world speaks well of Westwood.
As a man Hide not the guilt if it is mine,
I can say nought against him — but as husband Oh, body stark and still!
For Lucy Alvarez — for your granddaughter,
He is unmeet indeed! “I that have been thy friend,
Is he well-bred i
MRS. ALVA. Whose soul was precious as mine own
Oh, perfectly—or we should ne'er have known him! Oh! if this deed were mine, make known
Handsome and clever, is he?
MRS. ALVA. “Here, on thy stony brow,
So he's thought,
But to my taste is neither; scarce above
The middle stature, and too grave by far; Into thy wounds my hand is prest!
And as for cleverness, all men are taught
To make some show of learning.
Is he moral? " My hand hath not a stain!
A good son, and a generous landlord, is he?
Why, the poor Westwoods is a county proverb: Stand, with firm foot, and right-hand bare ! The father wasted all his patrimony; So heaven attest the right!
He sold and mortgaged his broad, ancient manors,
And by illegal means despoiled the heir, “ I challenge thee to proof!
Till, at his death, the very furniture -
Costly as that of any ducal mansion
Why, the old house and grounds alone remain,
It makes one melancholy but to drive
Past those old gates, where never carriage entersWhich only will be opened for the hearse !
But said you not he had a mother living?
Oh yes ! she was a Cavendish, and brought A noble fortune.
Did grant your judgment right, although you fled,
Ah, my Lncy,
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. ALVĄ. (Kissing her.) No, my dear girl! But had you known your father, You could not laughingly have spoken of him!
True — poor Margaret Cavendish! We were at school together; a fine creature, A generoas-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.
'Tis the world's way! Well, but her son, I hope, is dutiful.
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
prayers Nay, chide me not with looks — our gentle Lucy Shall not be disobedient in her love!
My Alice, let these memories of the past
Come, this day
INSTALLATION OF THE BISHOP OF
'Twas morning, and the city was astir,
Anon the throng returned; the cavalcado
So might you love young Westwood !
Who in the midst in solemn state appeared,
Upon his throne the patriarch took his seat, In silken vesture flowing to his seet, 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 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.
The butterfly went fitting by,
The bees were in the flowers;
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 will this day.
That makes all care be gone,And yet I weep, I know not why,
As I go reading on!" “Who art thou, 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
Down in the dale below."
As steadfast as before;
And you must tell me more. “Who was it taught you thus to read ?"
“Ah, sir, it was my mother,She taught me bóth to read and spell
And so she taught my brother; “My brother dwells at Allonby
With the good monks alway;
But only for one day.
Better than Charlemagne,-
I'll read in it again!"
And the little child went on,
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 lichens on the wall.
There was no garden round about,
Yet flowers were growing free, The cowslip and the daffodil,
l'pon 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.
On, on she read, and gentle tears
Adown her cheeks did slide;
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?
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 !"
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.
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 then he told how he had kr.elt
Where'er our Lord had pray'd; How he had in the Garden been,
And the tomb where he was laid ; -
And read, in English plain,
How he had risen again;
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.”
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;
Unto the set of sun.
A cake of wheaten bread;