title: Five poems.
text: A^ *'!nL'* '*> V •«*•- <^ A?^ %•/£'♦ *> V j V- #fc X/ fgbr, X<? V A V A° ^ TyT* .-A a7 ^ e * i *+& «5°^ • .* v **_ • °0\ "Ov A** 1 V ^ ••i*' 9 ' ^ ^ A' m ?A. *NiV 1 ^ o « o ^Ol? •" ^ *,-«• ;.• y\ f?# /\ l P • < u^. FIVE POEMS. £& BY J. J. RIPLEY, ESQ. LONDON: PRINTED BY CHARLES AND EDWIN LAYTON. 150, FLEET STREET. 1855. 205449 '13 West End, Hampstead, 1855. I request my friends to receive with indulgence the five following Poems, principally composed, long since, in my daily walks between Home and Office, and now printed for distribution among them, as a token of my regard. The four first in order have little other pretension than an attempt to ornament by versification the popular stories on which they are founded. The fifth — a Poem of higher and more solemn character than it became me to under- take — with little better claim than those which precede it, has, I am sensible, need of far greater indulgence. J. J. RIPLEY. CONTENTS. I. Reculver. PAGE 1 II. MlNA. 33 III. The White Cat. 59 IV. Plaktagenet 109 V. Light 141 A LEGEND OF THE SISTERS. INTRODUCTION. My guide awaits me ; nor do I refuse l With thee to leave awhile the loveliest home — The fragrant flower plots of many hues ; The vine bunch glassy ; the nectareous pome ; The chestnut's thick and now most grateful shade ; The oaks, which, branching to thy portal, wear The majesty of many a hundred year, Amid the lessening land in thine own groves arrayed. The hill declines, and we have said adieu ; Yet mindful of a sometime shaded hour, When the brown upland rising, to our view But just permitted, hides the village tower — Sacred too soon to the departed guest 2 Who knows thy hospitality no more, Yet owns thy sepulchre, his sojourn o'er, As in Samaria by the prophet laid to rest. 3 We pass not, till his requiem is sung, The level valley whither Stour retires Between the slopes with wood or verdure hung From Cantuaria's faintly pictured spires. Our gentle steeds obey the rein and hand Which find them footing on a pass untried, 4 And lightly buoyant on the trembling tide ; Then pause on Thanet's soil; then bear us from the strand, RECULVER. And, last, the confines of the isle are gained, Extending in primeval solitude ; Where yet the sunshine and sea breeze have reigned, In freshness and in fervour unsubdued. The corn is gathered, and the landmark rare ; Thinly the tree, the fold and dwelling, strown — But somewhat like an echo of renown Amid the calm awakes, and seems repeated there, Hist we the nearer sounding of the surge Those beaten and defenceless shores among. Yon cliff, abrupt upon the wat'ry verge — Where is the plain which once it overhung ; A vestige that Severus' castle stood, 5 The royal house of Ethelbert ; the bower By Eadred given to be a saintly dower — Where is their place? Alas ! a place beneath the flood. Upon the broken sand where ocean basks Smooth in oblivion of the wintry storm, Some careful peasants urge in vain the tasks, Such as their skill and labour may perform, To shield their margin from the billows' sweep : In range oblique the heavy piles are fixed, Bound, and with pliant brushwood intermixed, To baffle or elude the mighty refluent deep. Yet has Reculver's venerable fane 6 Its station on the relics of the land : Between the Sister Towers, which yet remain, The fretted arch and pediment expand ; And pious care has perfected anew The stately form of each ascending spire, Which yet may warn the pilot to retire Ere on the perilous shoal he dash his homebound crew. RECULVER. I Its ancient walls protect the holy place, And pavement, laid with obsolete device ; Though roofless those, and tott'ring to their base, And this bereft of many-coloured dyes ; And though the tomb retain no kingly dust ; While bones, which mouldered in the mother soil, Amid the wreck disclosed, are ocean's spoil : For here the grave, sea-worn, has rendered up its trust. Perhaps, of those who labour on the beach To guard or to redeem their heritage, There are who pause amid their toil, and teach The progress of its foe from age to age ; And gentle strangers, who have wandered here, May listen to a legend of the deep Which sometime made Reculver's rudest weep — Which thus the bard repeats : and who disdain to hear ? b 2 RECULYER. PAET I The sunbeams brightened over many a cloud, Seaward propelled by light ambrosial gale, That, wending with the halcyon tide, allowed An easy progress to the distant sail, Which seemed beneath the light and shade to veer, Averted from Keculver's holy strand, And little heeded of a rustic band Who viewed it bounding by upon its blithe career. They saw the shadow and the ray succeed, Without a thought on their vicissitude, And gaily bade the gliding vessel speed. But, with the waning of the hour, more rude The breeze, the billow less auspicious grew. Then apprehensions of the crowd awoke ; Of their deceitful sands in doubt they spoke, And trusted to their saints the safety of the crew. Whate'er they whispered, or, perchance, expressed, To one who travelled on their path alone, His gentle tidings thus awhile repressed : " St. Benedict is gracious to his own. He, with good angels, has that bark in care : It holds, methinks, a mother of his house, Gone forth from Faversham to pay her vows At Bradstowe's sea-girt shrine — the Lady of St. Clair. EECULVEE. " A calmer spirit and more spotless mind Ne'er bade the vanities of life farewell — Too tender for the world which she resigned — Protected, but not hidden, in her cell : While men, a multitude whom feudal awe Held hardly patient of her sire's command, Revere the rule in her monastic hand, And zealously obey the meek Superior's law. " Religious rite, and charitable care, And occupations such as these allow — An orphan sister, Isabel St. Clair, Not long a sweet associate in her vow — Have busied her for thrice five summers' tide. One love is theirs to whom one hour gave birth ; And, since bright Isabel was weaned from earth, They pass the livelong day secluded side by side. " We had beheld the holy mother pale With sickness such as heaven has removed ; And she will keep the new May festival Within that chapel of the Virgin loved 7 And graced by miracles and cures divine, Which, when the mariner returning sees, He slackens sail before a fav'ring breeze, And strikes his topmost low in honour of the shrine. " I heard the noontide bell o'er Medway toll, Amid the gratulations of the poor ; And those who had distributed the dole Hardly repressed them from th' expanding door Which gave the van of the procession way : I saw the breath of fuming censers toss, In honour of th' Invention of the Cross, 8 And unshod palmers bare bring on the meek array. RECULVER. "Lay sisters after — then those unprofessed, Who keep noviciate in the convent's aisle. White-robed, with hands composed upon the breast, And eyes as yet unguarded by the veil. The symphony, which sank awhile, confined Beneath the brows of the repellent arch, Broke forth anon, amid the lengthened march, And words of holy song were borne upon the wind. " Then — in its most triumphant measure loud, When after solemn pause and interval, Proceeded, to the Saint of Broadstowe vowed, A golden reliquary, wrapped in pall. The grey-robed almoner of high St. Clair, By six accompanied, succeeding six Who joined to bear a silver crucifix, Displayed the gorgeous gift, and said appointed prayer. " The pious multitude had bowed the knee, And kept unbroken silence while they came ; Then fell in whispers, ' Benedicite,' And awe and stillness ceased in glad acclaim: For then the bounteous mother met their gaze. She lifted up her meek eyes from the ground, And, ere they fell upon her friends around, Collected holy thoughts, and gave her saint the praise. " Her elder sisters hastened to sustain Her yet unequal steps, with duteous pride ; The younger Benedictines filled her train — All in their solemn weeds of wool undyed, 9 And sable stole, and hood, and scapular. So forth they went along the flow'r-strewn way, And parted on the margin of the bay, With chorus and response flung faintly from afar — KECULVEB. Chorus. u i Beloved saint, in thy protection have Those that are left the keepers of thy door ! ' Response. u i All those of thine that occupy the wave, To thy blest courts, beloved saint, restore ! ' " Such was the strain — while to the rippling tide The lady hastened, with a chosen few; And those divided, while they signed adieu, Unwillingly retired, and often turned aside." Keculver's sons around the speaker pressed. Some, with the grave garrulity of age, The Lady's name and holy office blessed, And praised the purpose of her pilgrimage. The younger comments light and briefly ran, And many quitted and rejoined the throng With frequent tribute of an idle tongue, And all forget th' alarm wherewith their speech began. Yet had the darkness gathered while they spoke, And once the barbe'd lightning flashed amain ; Then, instantaneously, loud thunder broke ; And pattered ever and anon deep rain, Fitfully tossed upon the whirling wind, Which met the tide where Thames and Swale unite, 10 Lashed into fury by its opposite ; And distant ocean howled, and cheerless day declined. EECULVEE. Amid the darkness o'er th' horizon hang, And flash and peal, filled faster and more fast, Where is the bark ? Upon the quicksands flung, Or, peradventure, driv'n before the blast, The gazers see it not — their spirits sink ; And while they shudder for the tempest-tossed, In fond and vain imaginations lost, This seems surpassing hope, and that too sad to think. They listened, and their ear received no sound Save of the hurricane, and billows' dash. They left their shelter-place, and looked around On ocean, as it drank th' electric flash. Twice after midnight waned the hour — the storm Sank, and the weariest gave themselves to sleep : When voice and whistle issued from the deep, And, where the lightning died, emerged a dusky form. The watchful, with a loud tumultuous cry Aroused the slumberers, and sprang to aid ; All that their haste for rescue could supply, Flung to the shoulder, in the hand displayed. Their torches glanced upon the ruddy sand ; In every wind arose a nearer call, A seaman's voice at every interval. The form escaped the surge, and lay upon the land — A shattered bark, which yet in safety held All that had trusted to its fragile plank, When, in severe extremity, compelled To leave their vessel, sand-locked, ere she sank. A female garment fluttered here and there Among the weary men who dropped the oar ; And, by the first that struggled to the shore, Was reverently borne the Lady of St. Clair. RECULVER. In silence she submitted to their aid — The prompt humanities of those around ; Until her almoner, approaching, said, " Lo, lady ! we were lost, and have been found n Through him who laboured thus a night and day " (He pointed to an image on his cope). "Father! how found? she perishes, past hope," The sufferer replied ; and sank, and died away. And Heaven, most indulgent in her woes, Permitted her unconsciousness of all, Until the melancholy morning rose, And seaward rang the ready boatman's call. With many of the rescued in his crew, He made the wreck, impatient to bear Escape to such as were surviving there ; And set his curving sail, and vanished from the view. 10 RECULVER. PAET II. Yet with the promise of a happier dawn, The Lady of St. Clair and Isabel Had seen their yester solitude withdrawn, And looked upon a world which pleased them well, And found the freedom ne'er so sweet before. They joyed in every living thing that stirred ; In each new sound a gratulation heard ; With placid, pious thoughts, on one sad trial o'er. And then the beauty of the river scene, " And ocean in magnificent expanse — The broad sails moving o'er the wide serene, Beneath the sunbeams' variable glance — The forms which floated on th' unbroken wave — The sea-bird, as it cowered in pursuit — The vessels passing, not without salute — The blithe and brief reply their happy sailors gave. And Isabel — the darling and delight Of many fosterers in early day ; Then, in the bloom of promises more bright, Flower of the fair, and loveliest of the gay— A playful, tender, and ingenuous child, Pleased in the partial eyes which welcomed her — A maiden joyous, gentle, and sincere, Who won without essay, and innocently smiled : RECULVER. 11 When in her glad simplicity she shone With modest fascination, undesigned, And wore a grace surpassing beauty's own, That influence revealed her inmost mind. The springs of Medway, welling from their source, Were not more pure, and soft, and bright, than she ; And when their stream paid tribute to the sea, 12 It had reflected none so fair in all its course. Loveliest she was, and brightest, on the morn That harbingered affliction in its wane ; Her sweetest hope had silently been worn, And unrevealed was her severest pain. Her joyous spirit chastened and refined, The same sincere and gentle heart she bore In all her beauty to the convent door, And left without a look the vacant world behind. At even she had gained the vessel's prow, With her beloved sister hand in hand, And far beyond her solitary vow Felt her reviving, grateful heart expand, And breathed a name, long registered above, But by her lips unuttered ; in her heart If haply cherished, hid with pious art, Since its last worldly sigh resigned her maiden love. When from the field of Bosworth, at her gate, Silently sorrowing, Sir Bertram stood — Partaker of the fortune, not the fate, Of him who sealed his duty with his blood, And had remitted by his last behest Her pledge, with lifelong adoration worn, And from his clay-cold quivering kisses torn The latest earthly thing his living lip had pressed — 12 RECULVER. Permitting then that long-unwonted name — " Henry," she said, " devoted, tender friend ! This hope and joy — the dearest I can frame — Will soothe my separation to its end. I see the blessing of a breath divine Upon my sister's renovated cheek ; And seem to hear angelic whispers speak, Premonishing our souls' reunion — thine and mine." A smile which earnestly the lady wore Eefrained in her emotion Isabel : She paused, and told her pearly chaplet o'er, While, downcast with the beads, her eyelids fell. And yet, this fervent sisterly delight, And happy expectation were not all That memories of Isabel recall, Since her exalted soul winged heavenward its flight. For in the day's severe vicissitude, When wind arose to daunt and wave to whelm The pilot, on his native shore subdued — When his tossed bark had answered not her helm, And quailed the strong beneath the lady's hand, Who, while on danger and distress she gazed, Extended not the crucifix it raised, Nor reassurance gave by blessing or command ; Then, Isabel, continually serene In virtuous resolve and heavenly peace, Arose the doubtful and their shrift between, As if to bid the wind and waters cease. And, " Oh, my brothers, penitent and bold, May we be sainted in this sign," she said, " Whene'er our peril passes human aid, If such the will above ; that time is not yet told." RECULVER. 13 She said — and many a gallant spirit stirred, And swart cheek burned beneath her steadfast eye ; While, with the howling of the storm, were heard Eeproof and counsel, cheering and reply. They left the vessel to her fate no more, But spread their sail, and, veering with the wind, Receded for the anchorage behind, And set their hope of life upon Reculver's shore. And did that friendly shore receive them all — All, and their poor ungovernable bark ? She weathered well the fury of the squall, ' Between the seas and sky, till all was dark — Then doubled, and recoiled with sudden force ; And, to a sullenly repeated sound, The pilot's with'ring answer was, " "We ground ! 13 O miserable men ! we strike upon the Horse ! " The seamen sped amain to low'r the boat, Amid confusion, terror, cry, and prayer ; But, at the moment when it fell afloat, And they had placed the trembling lady there, And Isabel was almost on its verge — The many, to their peril multiplied, Who filled it from the ship on ev'ry side, Were fain to cut adrift, and parted in the surge. A crew forlorn, on fearful enterprise, Amid the tempest, in a bark so frail, A thousand shapes of death before their eyes, One subterfuge alone, and that might fail ! And what had those upon the vessel left ? Illusions of deliv'rance more remote, And doubtful as their parted fellows' lot ; Of ev'ry other hope, except in Heaven, bereft. 14 RECULVEE. Locked lay the vessel, and the water gained And broke upon her hull at each rude blast ; And little else for Isabel remained Than pious ministrations, ere her last, To soothe the struggles of th' irreconciled — To wean from human loves and charities — All that a man may covet as he dies. And was her sister safe ? She augured thus and smiled. The sun arose upon the water-world With gentle airs, and it was all serene ; And every wave as softly, lightly curled, As if that yester storm had never been. 14 And, still unbroken, in its bed of sand The bulk of that disordered vessel lay : The shoremen saw it as they plied their way, And bade with lighter hearts a broader sail expand. Yet there was dew upon the hardy brow, Many a cheek flushed, and lifeblood beating fast, When, now within the vessel's hail, and now Impeded by her tackle floating past, They were aware of none upon her deck. But what responses ever rang so dear As those which smote upon th' impatient ear Which first received acclaim of voices from the wreck ? All had survived'. They sprang to succour each : They bent o'er Isabel's exhausted frame. She gazed, and struggled eagerly for speech, But found her happiest tidings ere it came — " The lady lives." Her eye inquired no more. Feebly she folded hands, and to her breast The rescued golden reliquary pressed, Then gave herself to those who wafted her ashore. RECULVER. 15 But cold, and wet, and accidents of wreck, Were in her image fearfully betrayed, And somewhat agonizing rose to check The welcome which the lady would have bade. Upon the margin of Reculver's sand The first she sprang, and uttered " Isabel ! " Then looked into that altered face, and fell, Relinquishing the hand which touched her sister hand. Love most affectionate, and gentlest care Hovered o'er Isabel, and smoothed her bed ; But, when the leech had worn the morrow there, He spoke despondingly, and hung his head. Alas, the Lady of St. Clair ! She cried, " Me, me, sad authoress of this alone ! 15 Improvident, and reckless of mine own, I left her to the waters ! " Isabel replied — " Let not your heart be sorrowful in vain ; It is the will above, to which I bend. Heav'n gave one natal hour between us twain, And keeps us undivided to the end. I die in peace, as I have lived ; how blest In your dear love, my parting spirit knows. Repeat your orisons for its repose, And leave me where your own remains will sometime rest." She paused, and colour came into her cheek Without a word, and so it passed away ; And placid, pure, and radiantly meek, As if in her beatitude she lay. The sacrifice of the supremest rite, With all its holy prevalence, was paid ; Her flutt'ring breath in pious whispers strayed Upon the crucifix : and this was her good night, 16 RECULVER. Let others, eloquent in mournful strains, Eelate the sorrow which the lady bore — The pomp that waited on those dear remains, From sad Heculver brought to Medway's shore, With psalm, and springlings pure, and holy sign : How maidens strewed the freshly flow'ring May, 16 And wept, and hung around the beauteous clay, Exposed in solemn state before her Patron's shrine : That, when meek sadness came of fond complaint,. And time went by with healing on his wings, The relic-casket, vowed to Bradstowe's saint, Enriched her treasury of sacred things : That, for a sister's everlasting rest, High mass, with hymns of peace and orisons, Was duly chanted by her holiest sons, And Isabel St. Clair accounted with the blest : And, that Keculver's church has two fair tow'rs, Surnamed from hence " the Sisters of St. Clair " : The doubtful pilot, as the tempest low'rs, May mark their double beacon, and beware. And here, while saint was sought or requiem sung, Upon the morning of the month recurred l7 Continual Litany, no longer heard Those wild-careering waves and hollow sands among. They leave for me — how, all devoutly willed By Isabel in her supreme request, The lady's piety and fate fulfilled, Their earthly relics reunited rest Beneath a spot on Medway's brink, unseen ; But, while St. Benedict had household stone, Or sanctuary to his servants known, There was none holier place without his silver screen. RECULVER. 17 There, hand in hand, their images had kneeled Before a cross, in Benedictine stole ; A saintly legend at their feet revealed What has survived beyond the brazen scroll, And may be meet for simple bard to tell — The memory of that endearing name Which, in their pilgrimage, so well became The Lady of St. Clair, and Sister Isabel. NOTES. INTRODUCTION. 1 My guide awaits me. This Poem was occasioned by a visit, in 1822, to the venerable church of Reculver, in the Isle of Thanet ; as described in the Intro- duction. The incidents of the story are supplied from " Keate's Sketches," a transcript of the text of which is subjoined. History is silent as to the truth of them, but the narrative accords with the traditions of the county. It may be remarked, however, that there is no account of any monastic institution for females at Faversham or in the neighbourhood, except Davington Priory, the remains of which, still existing, do not claim the splendour and consequence at- tributed in the narrative to the house over which Frances St. Clair is therein stated to have presided. 2 Sacred too soon to the departed guest. Dr. Pemberton, who died at Fredville, Kent, the house of his brother-in-law, July 24th, 1822. 3 As in Samaria by the prophet laid to rest. " And the prophet took up the carcass of the man of God, and laid it upon the ass, and brought it back ; and the old prophet came to the city to mourn, and to bury him. "And he laid his carcass in his own grave; and they mourned over him, saying, ' Alas, my brother ! ' " 1 Kings, chap. 13. 4 A pass untried, And lightly buoyant on the trembling tide. Grove Ferry. 5 A vestige that Severus* castle stood, The royal house of Ethelbert ; the bower By Eadred given to be a saintly dower. " It is said, Severus, Emperor of Rome, about the year 205 built a castle at this place, which he fortified against the Britons; KECULVER. 19 that Ethelbert, one of the Kings of Kent, erected a palace here for himself and his successors; and that, about two hundred years after, a monastery was erected here, which, in the year 949, King Eadred gave with the manor to Christchurch, Canterbury. The dredgers for oysters on this coast, which are reckoned exceedingly good, have often met in the sands with Roman vessels, cisterns, cellars, &c, besides vast numbers of Roman coins, rings, and bracelets, which came from the land by the fall of the cliffs. " The sea has got so much of this town, that there are but few houses left; and its church was in such danger, above twenty years ago, that men were almost continually employed to make good the walls or banks." England's Gazetteer, 1751. 6 Yet has Reculver's venerable fane Its station on the relics of the land. " The west door is a pointed arch of Caen stone, with Saxon ornaments, much decayed. There is a pediment at the west end, between the two spires. " The floor was laid in terras, made of coarse stone and mortar, so smooth as to seem polished, being thinly encrusted with a red composition." " In this church the body of King Ethelbert is said to have been buried. And Weever says, in his time (that is, King James the First's reign) there was remaining at the upper end of the south aisle a monument of an antique form, mounted with two spires, beneath which, according to tradition, this monarch lay; but no re- mains of the monument are left." Hasted, Hist. Kent. " The remains of the church of Reculver are now the property of the Corporation of the Trinity House. The forms of spires are pre- served by framework on the top of each of the Sister Towers, for the purpose of a seamark. PAET I. 7 Within that chapel of the Virgin loved And graced by miracles and cures divine. "A chapel consecrated to the Virgin, at Broadstowe, or Broad- stairs, in the Isle of Thanet, and in which her image was esteemed to work such great miracles that pilgrims came from parts very re- mote to visit it; and it was held in such veneration, that all ships passing within sight of it are reported constantly to have lowered their topsails to salute it." c 2 20 NOTES. 8 In honour of tK Invention of the Cross. The festival of the Invention of the Cross is on the third day of May, as noted in our calendar. The voyage of the sisters, for the purpose of being present at the celebration of the festival at Brad- stow, is recorded to have begun on the first of the month. 9 All in their solemn weeds of wool undyed, And sable stole, and hood, and scapular. " St. Benedict, a native of Nursia, in the dukedom of Spoleto, in Italy, was born about the year 480, and died about the year 543. His rule was not confirmed until fifty-two years after his death, when it received the sanction of Pope Gregory the Great. " There were nuns of this order, as well as monks. Their habit was a black robe, with a scapulary of the same, under which was a. tunic of undyed wool ; and when they went to the choir, they had, over all, a black cowl, like that worn by the monks." Grose, Antiq., Preface. 10 Which met the tide where Thames and Swale unite. " Sheppy Island is encompassed by the East and West Swale, two branches of the Medway, which here fall into the Thames." England's Gazetteer. 11 Lo, lady! we were lost, and have been found Through him who laboured thus a night and day. " Thrice have I suffered shipwreck; a night and a day have I been in the deep." St. Paul, 2 Cor., chap. 11. PAET II. 12 And when their stream paid tribute to the sea, It had reflected none so fair in all its course. " Phoebus, on fleetest coursers borne, Sees none so fair in all his race." Old Song. 13 We ground ! miserable men ! we strike upon the Horse. "A bank of sand, called _the "'Horse/ which lies a little off from Reculver." Keate. EECULVEE. 21 14 As if that y ester storm had never been. " remoter from the scene, Where, but for him, that strife had never been, A breathing but devoted warrior lay." Lara, Canto 2. 15 Me, me, sad authoress of this alone. " Me, me, adsum qui feci." Nisus. — Virg. ^En. ix. 427. 16 How maidens strewed the freshly flowering May. The white thorn is often noticed by writers of monastic legends as symbolical of purity and saintship. 17 Upon the morning of the month recurred Continual Litany. Instituted by the Lady of St. Clair; the shipwreck fatal to her sister having taken place on the first day of the month. ■^^^^S^S^^x FROM "KEATE'S SKETCHES." Several years ago, being on a journey to Spa, I was detained some time in the University of Louvain by an accidental illness, which seized me on the road. During my stay I made an acquaint- ance with an Irish Jesuit, who honoured me with many civilities, and whom I found a very intelligent companion. He showed me whatever he thought most curious in the place; though, except the great library and the public schools, there is but little worth notice. I was, however, much pleased with two manuscript volumes which I met with in the library of one of the colleges. They chiefly contained anecdotes relative to some English families, and to several historical and monastical antiquities, and were the memorials of a Dominican Friar of Canterbury, who quitted England at the time of the Reformation, and retired to Louvain. At his death he bequeathed them, with other curious books, to the College where they were. My friend, who was one of its members, procured the manuscript for me ; and in turning over many subjects far less interesting, I met with the historical account of this church (Reculver). I have divested it of the obsolete language of the times, but the substance of it is nearly as follows : — Towards the end of those troublesome times, when England was shaken by the feuds of the Houses of York and Lancaster, there resided in a village on the banks of the Med way a gentleman whose name was Geoffry de St. Clair, descended from a family of great antiquity and repute in those parts. The many lances and pieces of armour which hung around the old hall did not render it more respectable than did the unbounded benevolence of its possessor. The poor sat at his gate and blessed his liberal hand ; and never a pil- grim reposed in his porch without remembering in his orisons its hospitable owner. St. Clair had allied himself in marriage with the Lady Margaret de Boys, a woman of high birth and rare endowments; whose ac- complishments might have embellished the greatest scenes, had not a RECULVEE. 23 love of domestic life and a religious cast of mind induced her to prefer retirement. All her leisure hours which her family did not call for were spent in duties which, in that age, ladies of the noblest rank exercised, without thinking that they demeaned their stations. She relieved the indigent, advised with the unfortunate, visited the sick, and brought up her twiii daughters, Frances and Isabella, in the same sentiments, accustoming them very early to attend her in all these acts of primitive piety. As these young ladies were the sole issue of St. Clair and Lady Margaret, they devoted their whole attention to their education; and had the comfort to find in their minds so rich a soil, that everything prospered which was planted in it. No useful knowledge was omitted, no external accomplishment neglected. Frances and Isabella were now arrived at the age of twenty-five. The amiableness of their characters, their enlarged understandings, and the gracefulness of their persons, won the admiration and esteem of all who approached them. They had, from similitude of manners and sentiment, contracted so rare an affection for each other, that it seemed as if Nature, by forming them together in the womb, had prepared them for that extraordinary union which was to distinguish their lives, and for those effusions of elevated friendship which the loss of their exemplary mother was one day to call forth. Nor was this event very remote. Lady Margaret was seized by a sudden illness, which in a few days carried her off, and desolated one of the happiest families in the world. It would be difficult to describe the sounds of woe which on this occasion echoed through all the mansion, or the sighs of the discon- solate poor under the windows. The grief of St. Clair, after the many years of uninterrupted happiness that he had enjoyed with Lady Margaret, in its first attack almost overpowered his reason; whilst Frances and Isabella had the weight of a father's sorrow added to their own, which compelled them to smother their feelings, and to assume a fortitude which their hearts disavowed. Though St. Clair called in all his philosophy to support himself under the loss of his beloved Lady Margaret, yet he was worn by a silent sorrow, which had so visible ai* effect on his health as to endanger his life, and which in about a year put an end to it. In this mournful interval, the greatest comfort his dejected daughters received was from the frequent visits of their uncle, John 24 EECULVEE. de St. Clair, who was at that time Abbot of the Monastery of St. Augustin, in Canterbury, of which place there are at this day such noble remains existing. He was the younger brother of Geoffry, though there was but the difference of a year between them; and was reputed to be a man of so much learning and virtue, that St. Clair, by his will, recommended his children to his care and protec- tion, bequeathing to each of them a very large inheritance. The manner in which Frances had been brought up, added to her natural turn of mind and the example of a mother whom she so much revered, determined her to a life of religious retirement; and a great convent of Benedictine nuns, not very distant from Faversham, happening a few months after to lose their Principal (who was always one of a considerable family), the Abbot of St. Augustin, perceiving her fixed in her scheme of life, procured her to be named the Lady Abbess of it. Isabella, who had never as yet been separated from her sister, would on this occasion most willingly have taken the veil. " The same roof," says she, "hath ever, hitherto, covered us — the same have been our wishes, the same our pursuits. The grave hath divided us from those who taught us the amiableness of friendship, and shall alone divide us from one another." The Abbot was much hurt by this declaration of his niece. He desired her to banish from her thoughts such a resolution; and failed not to intimate to her that, Frances having devoted herself to the cloister, she remained the only support of the family of St. Clair — that her virtues should rather embellish society than be lost within the walls of a monastery; and wished she would, by accepting some alliance of suitable rank and fortune, rather permit those accomplish- ments to be seen by the world which she sought to hide in oblivion. Frances, on her part, however she was charmed with this testi- mony of her sister's affection, joined in sentiment with her uncle, expressing to her how much happier she should be to see her settle herself by marriage, and imitate the good life and example of their excellent mother. " I am not, you know,'" she said, " by the reli- gious office I fill, tied down to all those rites which must, of course, be imposed upon you; my liberty remains. We shall have constant opportunities of continuing that intercourse of love our hearts so mutually desire. It will be the highest pleasure to me to see you united to a man worthy your choice, preserving in our father's castle RECULVER. 25 that hospitality for which it hath so long been famed; and whenever you wish to make a short retreat from the bustle of the world, our holy house will afford you a peaceable asylum." It was not without great difficulty, nor even till much time after, that, by the repeated solicitations of Frances and her uncle, Isabella was prevailed on to relinquish entirely her intentions of entering into a monastic life. She resided for some time in her father's venerable old mansion on the Medway, accompanied by a widowed aunt, her father's sister, who at intervals attended her on visits to Frances, and also, at particular seasons, to the Abbot, at his house, which was a noble building adjoining to the monastery of St. Augustin. It was in one of these visits to the Abbot that she became ac- quainted with Henry de Belville, between whose father and the Abbot there had long subsisted a most firm friendship. He was of good birth, though much inferior to Isabella in fortune, his father's estate having greatly suffered in the confusion of those turbulent times. Belville was now in his twenty-ninth year. His figure was grace- ful and manly; and to a disposition as amiable as his person was joined an understanding both quick and strong, which had been improved by the most extensive education that the fashion of the age allowed. He had been sent to travel over Europe, had resided in several of its principal courts, and was now on his return from a short expedition into France, and had stopped at Canterbury to pay his respects to the Abbot, and to deliver him certain letters with which he had been charged. Belville, on his first return to England, a few years previous to the present period, had been honoured by the patronage of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, near whose person he held an employment which could not long dispense with his absence; for that prince being now mounted on the throne of England, the whole kingdom was thrown into a hostile state. It will not be wondered at, if, after Belville and Isabella had been a few days together, their mutual accomplishments, and their mutual desire to please, should have made them much charmed with one another. Belville felt himself enamoured of his fair companion, and had the satisfaction to perceive that his attention to her was not thrown away. Though he took leave, after a short time, to go to London, yet he found an excuse for returning very soon; and having reason to think he had made a favourable impression on Isabella, did 26 EECULVEE. not long hesitate to propose himself to her as one who would be happy to pass his life in the society of so engaging a woman. His offer was not less pleasing to Isabella than it was to her uncle and Frances, the latter of whom proposed to give up to her sister her right in the castle of St. Clair, where it was intended they should reside. Everything was preparing for their nuptials, and nothing could wear a fairer face of prosperity than did this proposed union of true and disinterested affection; but the successful progress that the arms of Henry of Richmond now made in the kingdom had obliged Richard to oppose them with his utmost force, and to summon all his servants to attend his camp — among whom, as I before mentioned, was the intended bridegroom, who at this time would most willingly have waived the service, had not his own nice sense of honour, and his zeal for his royal master, overcome every private consideration. Were I to follow closely the manuscript from which the substance of this story is drawn, it would lead me into some of the historical transactions of those times, which are already sufficiently known : ouly it is worthy of being remembered, that there are encomiums bestowed on the character and person of Richard, upon both of which historians have thrown so much deformity. I shall therefore pass over these circumstances, which are foreign to my subject, and only observe that the unfortunate Belville was among those of the King's followers who shared the fate of their royal master in Bosworth field. He was near Richard in a great part of the battle, and was also a witness of his death ; and, his own horse being killed under him, either by the fall, or by being trampled on in the confusion, his thigh was broken ; and after Richmond's party had obtained the victory, this gallant youth was carried, with several others, wounded, into Leicester, where, his rank being known, he was lodged in a monas- tery of Black Friars in that city. His page, Bertram, who had served him from his infancy, took care that every assistance should be procured for him ; but the fever which was occasioned by the accident, together with the many bruises he had received, neither gave himself nor those about him any other prospect than that of his approaching death. Those who contemplate Belville a few weeks before, in the full vigour of youth, flattering himself with every expectation of happiness which virtue, fortune, and a union with one of the loveliest of women KECULVER. 27 could present to his imagination, and now picture him stretched on a poor pallet, surrounded by a parcel of mendicant friars, his counter nance shrunk and wan, and his eyes fixed with humility and resig- nation on a crucifix which they held before him, cannot, surely, by the contrast, avoid dropping a sigh at the fallacy of human hopes. A little while before he expired, he desired to be left alone with his page, that he might give him his latest orders. " Bertram," he said, looking wistfully at him, " the day which hath ruined our sovereign's fortune, hath blasted mine; and that, too, in the moment when it shone the fairest. Thou wilt soon render me the last of thy faithful services. Let my body rest with the fathers of this house, and, as soon as thou hast seen its due rites performed, speed thee to Canterbury, and acquaint the holy Abbot of St. Augustin with the bloody event of yesterday; conjure him that he unfold it to my intended bride in such manner as his discretion shall advise. Bear her this jewel from my finger, in token that my last thoughts dwelt on her; and tell her my only sigh, in leaving the world, was for losing her, whose virtues so embellished it." The faithful Bertram dropped a tear of affection and gratitude over the grave of his gallant master, and, journeying to Canterbury with a bursting heart, presented himself before the Abbot with such a countenance as scarcely needed a tongue to tell his melancholy errand. The arrival of Belville's page could not long be a secret to Isa- bella, who was then at her uncle's, and whose mind instantly fore- boded some extraordinary event; though the news of the battle had not yet reached that city. When St. Clair found himself sufficiently composed to open the mournful business to his niece, he spared none of that ghostly com- fort which a good man would offer on such an occasion; though the amount of all that can be said to the sons and daughters of affliction is no more than this, that it is our duty and our interest to bear with patience that which it is not in our power to alter. The exertions of nature must subside before the soothing voice of reason can be heard. Isabella, after giving way to the first transports of passion, assumed a fortitude and resignation which her piety alone could inspire. She desired that Bertram might be detained two or three days at the monastery, and, as soon as her mind was more fortified, 28 RECULVER. she would despatch him to her sister Frances, whom she could then bear to see with more calmness, and to whom she sent a letter by the hands of the page. When the Lady Abbess saw her sister, she found her confirmed in a resolution of entering on a monastic life; her uncle, conceiving it might best restore a calm to her troubled spirits, no longer opposed it; and, as soon as her affairs were properly adjusted and every- thing prepared, she took the veil in the convent where Frances pre- sided. Isabella found in religion the only consolation for her past mis- fortunes; and although the remembrance of her beloved Belville would often come across her, and spread a temporary gloom over her mind, yet she constantly strove to dispel it by piety and resignation. The two sisters enjoyed all that heartfelt pleasure which arises from rooted friendship; and, as the effect of benevolent dispositions operates on all around, theirs served to communicate happiness to all the sisterhood. The Louvain manuscript informs us that, after these ladies had passed nearly fourteen years in this peaceful retirement, the Abbess was seized with an alarming fever, the effects of which hung so long upon her that they greatly endangered her life. It is not difficult to conceive how severe Isabella's sufferings were in this interval of suspense and apprehension, or the anxieties of her mind until her sister was restored to health. 