grandeur, is the cold and stern repose of those two marble images, side by side, extended in sepulchral state. No sculptured marble, nor humbler stone, with its forlorn "hic jacet,” marked out at Dartford, even before the dissolution of religious houses, the last resting place of Bridget Plantagenet. Yet, in those troublous times, when " every man's hand was against his brother;" compared with the royal wretchedness of the two Elizabeths, how enviable was her obscure and peaceful destiny! Pleasant and good it is, to turn for a moment from the disastrous annals of those evil days, to one unsullied page,-to the life of one who, "born to great cares, the daughter of a king," early descended from that fearful eminence, and so escaping the ravages of the storm that laid waste her royal house, lived out the term of her natural life in unmolested quiet,—in the exercise of all duties and charities that fell within the sphere of her limited responsibility; and having her hope in Heaven, 66 and her conscience clear of offence to all men," so passed away from earth-unrecorded by its proud chronicles of fame, but having her name written in that book wherein, at the great day of summing up, so many a one shall be found wanting that the world worshippeth; and not a few of those it despiseth or remembereth not, appear blazoned in characters of light. THE YOUNG NOVICE. BY MISS MITFORD. The Princess Bridget Plantagenet, born at Eltham, November 8th, 1480, fourth daughter of Edward the Fourth, was, when very young, consigned to the care of the Abbess of the Monastery of Dartford.-Vide Sandford. THE choral hymn hath ceased. The child, arrayed The wondering nuns are mute: one only sound Is stained with tears, whose breath comes forth in sighs, U Beneath the ermine, as she folds her arms Around the gentle child. Hark! hark! her grief Farewell, my best beloved! Herself-my own fair child. Oh! shelter her From secret hate; from cunning cruelty; From murder,-foul, unnatural, midnight murder; The fears that haunt me waking; from all snares My lovely! my beloved! how I shall miss Thee, and thy pretty ways! See where she stands, * Who knows the cares that wait upon a crown; The woes that follow beauty. Safe from life's bitter changes! Rest thee here, Rest thee here In peace and holiness! 66 But, oh! to part! To leave thee, my dear child!-Be kind to her! * For my daughters, Richard, They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens. SHAKSPEARE. Your love to her dear child. Let her not quite "Now, One parting kiss of those sweet lips!—She weeps! Poor child, she weeps Ye comfort her! Have some one by to cheer her That word, Farewell; but blessings on her head— |