much importance, or those still dearer, possessions once identified with our name. Oh, lady! you think you require from me a toy, a trifle ; but imagine the value my heart attaches to that jewel, when I tell you, that, even at this moment, it all but overpowers in the balance, the hope of gaining back my early home.'

She paused-and then nestling closer to Lady Ormond, and glancing upwards with a child-like and deprecating expression, she exclaimed, 'Forgive me, dear lady, most true and early friend, and say, can you spare me one short hour while I relate how those pearls came into my possession, and why they surpass earth's richest treasures in my heart?'

The Duchess made no answer, but with a look of the deepest interest, she made a silent gesture of acquiescence, as again she pressed her lips on that fair brow: and Florence, sadly smiling, commenced.

(To be continued.)

LINES

WRITTEN AFTER VISITING GLOUCESTER CATHEDRAL.

*

Он, shine not here so brightly,
Thou glorious orb of day,

Not on these time-worn monuments
Should joyous sunbeams play-
Light, if thou wilt, the stately homes
Where kings and princes dwell ;
Or go where bards in lady's bower,
Of high achievements tell,
But come not here-the pensive eve,
When shadows softly fall,

Suits better with this cloistered aisle,
This old cathedral wall—

Go, and athwart the dancing wave
Display thy gladsome light,
Leave thou this palace of the tombs,
To silence and to night.

Oh, shine not here, for sleeping low
Beneath the blackened stone,

Lies Normandy's young gallant Duke,*
Forgotten and alone ;—

Robert, Duke of Normandy, son of William the Conqueror.

He, who o'er Palestine's broad plains
Once led his glittering host,

The Saracen's oft dreaded foe,

The brave crusader's boast.

Oh, shine not thus, resplendent sun,
Upon his lowly tomb ;

For bright as were his early years
He died 'mid prison gloom.

And shine not here, not on the grave, Of a scorned fallen king ;* 'Twere mockery on that sculptured form,

Thy golden beams to fling.

Ah, Edward, better hadst thou lived,

Poor, lowly, and unknown, Than worn a kingly diadem, Or filled a regal throne; The victim of a nation's hate,

Left by a faithless wife;

In Berkely's dreary dungeon towers,
Closed thy sad chequered life ;

And here they laid thee, here, where oft,

In days of pomp and pride,

Thou satt'st a crowned and flattered Prince

Thy Bride Queen at thy side;

All silently they laid thee here,
A thousand knees had bowed;
A thousand voices hailed thy name,
With acclamations loud;

None sorrowed o'er thy cruel death,
No hand was stretched to save ;

*Edward the Second.

Oh, sunbeam, shed not thy glad light,
On this dark lonely grave.

Oh, shine not here, this fretted roof
And each high pillared arch,
Have echoed back in times long past,
The monk's slow solemn march;
And picture worshippers have knelt,
deluded throng,

A

poor

And superstition's voice been heard
In sounds of sweetest song.

Unsheltered by these ancient walls,*
All plain and unadorned,
A stone records the fate of one,
Whose death a nation mourned;
No marble wreath-no chaplet fair,
No words of pompous pride;
There needs none-'tis enough that here
The martyr'd Hooper died.

Oh, sunbeam, ever brightly shine

Upon the sacred spot,

For on this hero's worthy fame

Is found no stain, no blot.
Oh, shine, for here a sinful man,

Strengthened by Jesu's power,
Bore witness for the truth of God,
In life's last trying hour.

Oh shine, the flames which wreathed his form, But freed the deathless soul,

And proved a nearer road to heaven,

The spirit's wished-for goal.

* In the church-yard of St. Mary de Lode.

A thousand years those grey old walls
May brave the tempest's rage;

But that calm sufferer's name shall live

To yet remoter age :—

Shall live when time itself is o'er,

And thy sweet light hath fled,
Oh sunbeam, softly, brightly shine,
Upon the martyred dead.

JANUARY, 1847.

F

J. T.