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cravetts; he gave to the vicars a silver cup of great weight, and a massive bowl of silver to the canons. From Yorke he was removed hither to Canterbury, and here he sate one month above seventeen years. In which time, at the west end of his church, he built a faire spire steeple, called to this day Arundell steeple, and bestowed a tunable ring of five bells on the same, which he dedicated to the Holy Trinity, to the blessed Virgin Mary, to the angel Gabriel, to Saint Blase, and the fifth to St John the Evangelist. This much he effected; howsoever hee was no sooner warm in his seate, than that he, with his brother, the Earl of Arundell, were condemned of high treason, his brother executed, and he banished the kingdom, and so lived in exilement the space of near two yerrs, until the first of the raigne of Henry Fourth. This worthy prelate died of a swelling in his tongue, which made him unable to eate, drink, or speake for a time before his death, which happened February 20, anno 1413." In Fox's History of the Martyrs, the Archbishop appears in a different light. "After the decease or martyrdom of these who were executed in the month of January A.D. 1414, in the next month, and in the same year, God took away the great enemy of his word, and rebel to his king, Thomas Arundel, Archbishop of Canterbury, whose death followed after the exe cution of these good men, by the marvellous stroke of God, so suddenly, may seem somewhat to declare their innocency, and that he was also one great procurer of their death, in that God would not suffer him longer to live, striking him immediately with death."

And here we may notice, that we have within an hour been reading in Fox's Martyrs, "the Examination of William Thorpe, penned with his own hand," of which the Martyrologist says well," Next comes the history of Master William Thorpe, a valiant warrior under the triumphal banner of Christ, with the process of his examination before Thomas Arundel, Archbishop of Canterbury. In his examination (A. D. 1407) thou shalt have,

good reader, both to learn and to marvel. To learn, in that thou shalt hear truth discoursed and discussed, with the contrary reasons of the adversary dissolved. To marvel, for thou shalt behold large, in this man, the marvellous force and strength of the Lord's might, Spirit, and grace, working and fighting in his soldiers, and also speaking in their mouths according to the word of his promise." The author of the Poem before us, has well studied the character of the Archbishop's mind, exhibited in that "Examination"-worked most effectively upon the materials he found there-and not with ingenuity only, but with genius, transferred the spirit of the persecutor from a real to a fictitious case, of the persecuted from that of William Thorpe, the Protestant Christian, who was indeed given to the fire, to that of Anne Ayliffe, who knew not how to choose between the Cross and the Crescent, and perishes only before our imagination, in these flames.

"Peace, ho attend! His Grace the Primate speaks!"

And the haughty Churchman speaks well-yca even as if he were a humble Christian. Who shall say that he is not sincere in hatred of heresy, and would fain persuade the heretic to adopt the only creed by which she may save her soul alive? To show her how wicked is her own creed and how wild, would be a fruitless task with her-to him and the brethren a painful one-nay, might haply "taint some less instructed breast" with her unhallowed and sinful delusions. Enough that she has confessed her tenets, and that Holy Church condemns them-therefore the mother of souls must rescue this erring child as from a fascinating serpent-from a slippery cliff and a gulf of fire. Oh! that the poor, dear, infatuated, lost creature would but recant and repent, and how blessed an office would it be for that servant of the Lord of mercy as well as judgment, to save her soul from perdition, and her body from the flames!

For, hear how like a disciple of Jesus the Primate says

"Taken, I call to witness you, whose aid
Thereto was lent, and Heaven, for whose we pray'd,
No art was unemploy'd, no time exempt,
No labour spared, unwearied no attempt;
All, wit could compass, zeal and pity gave,

To purify her soul, convince, and save.
But all in vain! When Self-conceit and Doubt,
Those unbelieving spirits, seem'd cast out,
There entered in two others, near allied,
But more unclean, Obduracy and Pride.
To banish these required more sharp research,
By rigorous means, abhorr'd of Holy Church;
Means only urged when none beside succeed,
Then urged with sorrow, nor beyond the need;
But which, urged here to equal it, have proved
Less rigid than the soul they have not moved.

"What rests? All human labours know their span:
Nor will the Spirit always strive with man:
Apostasies are rife; more odious none;

Examples needed;-and God's will be done!

God's and the King's. For having crown'd his brows
O'er prostrate France, the Fifth King Henry vows
To wear Christ's cross, his sepulchre restore,
And lash the apostate tribes from Judah's shore.
And well must we in England aid our chief,

And purge his realm of schism and unbelief.

What therefore rests? but having once more striven,
Ere that last-dread-anathema be given,

To save this miscreant, miserable maid,

Whom Hell has hardened thus, and Heaven betray'd;
Should these lures fail-the last to be renew'd,
Should penitence and grace be stili eschew'd,
What rests, my brethren, save-ye all concur,
To leave the secular arm to deal with her?"

What saith Anne Ayliffe to an appeal so kind, considerate, charitable, Christian? She says not a word-for the Evil one is busy within her-and she smiles. "Smiles, wretched girl, beseem her ill," cries the Primate, shocked at the blindness-not of her bodily eyes-for these he had extinguished-but of her soul; for it he would fain enlighten with gospel


"And on its sightless eyeballs pour the day."

But tolerance must end somewhereand is near its end. The gates of hell are yawning to receive her. "Penance and pardon still are in thy choice."

"Behold the Book of Life! abjure thy sin,

And haste, dear child, to write thy name therein;

Thine shall be all rewards a heaven pos


And all this earth retains to make thee blest.

What blessing-she might haply say-pointing to the bandage, can earth now retain for her? Hush-say not-think not so-for the good Bishop, "Lord Primate of the realm, Lord Legate of the Pope," has ready for her a holy retreat, where she may enjoy earthly peace and commune with heaven.

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"In Netley Abbey-on the neighbouring isle
The woods of Binstead shade as fair a pile ;-
(Where sloping meadows fringe the shores with green,
A river of the ocean rolls between,

Whose murmurs, borne on sunny winds, disport
Through oriel windows and a cloister'd court;
O'er hills so fair, o'er terraces so sweet,

The sea comes twice each day to kiss their feet:-
Where sounding caverns mine the garden bowers,
Where groves intone, where many an ilex towers,
And many a fragrant breath exhales from fruit and flowers :-
And lowing herds and feather'd warblers there
Make mystic concords with repose and prayer;
Mix'd with the hum of apiaries near,

The mill's far cataract, and the sea boys' cheer,

Whose oars beat time to litanies at noon,
Or hymns at complin by the rising moon;
When, after chimes, each chapel echoes round,
Like one aërial instrument of sound,

Some vast harmonious fabric of the Lord's,

Whose vaults are shells, and pillars tuneful chords,
Echoes with song far circling hills and bays,

And heavenward waiting their consent and praise :)-
In either house a corody is mine:

Submit to Holy Church, her Scriptures sign,
And name in which retreat you choose to live,
And learn what blessings life has yet to give.

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I offer life and heaven-or death and hell.
Ah, how perverse is sin! and how unwise!
Well, speak thy choice! The book before thee lies;
Subscribe it, and be bless'd for evermore!

Refuse, the feet of those are at the door,
Who bore thy father, and shall thence return,
And bear thee also to the stake, and burn;
With boughs in Holburn yet uncut from treen,
Whose sap is flowing, and whose leaves are green;
Burn, and ere evening break thy bones calcined
On Smithfield flags, and scatter to the wind.
Come, choose the path thou never may'st retrack.
Dost hear? Wilt answer?'

The Primate has a fine eye both for nature and art, and the picture he paints is so beautiful, that it might well have softened a less hardened sinner. Yet there is something harsh and grating to the ear in what he says about Anne's father-and he ought not perhaps to have told her so abruptly that the old man had been burnt

alive. "Wilt answer?" "Yes, without the rack." But

"I thirst-I faint--for charity some water."

Drink, daughter-but remember that the damned ghosts howl in vain for one drop to cool their burning tongue. Repent therefore of thy crime!

"My crime! Whomever have I wrong'd on earth?
I, inoffensive maid, of humble birth,

Secluded life, scant means, and manners grave,
Child of an English leech and Syrian slave,—

Who for his love escaped the Haram's bound,

And here sought peace and freedom-here she found,
And in the grave secured them, blest indeed!
Ere you denounced or I denied her creed.

By father left to cherish it or change,

And bred his books and cottage to arrange,
His studies aid, and dress his favourite flowers,

Where willowy Ham the winding Thames embowers,-
What have I dared could move the realm's alarm,

The Church's anger, or the secular arm?
What crime was mine?-Unless ye call it such
To love some friends too little, some too much;
Unless a proud conceit of maiden prime,

And peevish tongue, be such,-what other crime?

Our books were naught ?- -we lock'd them in the shelves.

Our creed accursed?-we kept it to ourselves.

We never sow'd nor sought calumnious words

Of Holy Church's lucre, law, or lords;
We framed no sect, used no forbidden rite,
Preach'd no reform, desired no proselyte;
Nor ever jested where our neighbours knelt;
Nor dared betray contempt-whatever felt:

But held our thoughts aloof, and seldom spoke
E en to ourselves, and never to the folk.

You, you bear witness, question'd I was dumb,
Till blood o'erflow'd the vice that crush'd my thumb.
That steel'd my heart; that stirr'd, beyond control,
My latent pride and bitterness of soul;
More rapt than pain'd, indignant more than weak,
I spoke the secrets of my troth, and speak.

But before you hearken to her declaring the "secrets of her troth," remember that Anne Ayliffe is the daughter of an English physician and a Syrian slave. You will hear from her own lips, by and by, of the strange wrongs endured by them all-enough now to know that her mother had died a Christian, but that she herself had early imbibed from her, ere she had

been wholly converted, the doctrines of another creed-and had come at last to disbelieve the Revelation of the New Testament. Her father, against whom no heresy had been proved, by wicked machinations had been cast into prison, as she for months had known, and as she now knew, had been put to death. With what power she speaks!

"The Eternal reigns in all through boundless space :
Unwise! who first design'd him form or face;
Profane! who shaped that image like our own;
Impious! who dared adore the stock or stone;
And thrice accursed! who yoked mankind and trode,
With prostrate necks while bow'd before his God:
But what was he, who studied racks and used,
To bend their necks and spirits that refused?
Studied the seat of anguish, and degrees,
Till pangs were found more cruel than disease,
And used them as a test for thought to search,
And called the hell-born science Holy Church!
Oh, Allah akbar! God is great, and right!
He crown'd man's brow with radiant orbs of light;
Light, which inspirits all, abstracts, and prints
On each twin lens all images and tints,
To contact brings the world beyond our span,
And makes the farthest star converse with man.
To read his works-God thus illumed the head,
But made man's breast no window-to be read.
Glory to God! Though given to King and Pope
To seal our eyes, our bosoms none can ope-
There still shall freedom one asylum find.

Go to make creeds, and laws, to scourge mankind!
Enthral them, hand and foot, and sight and speech!
Thought, only thought, is barr'd beyond your reach.
What racks can bend it? What research unveil ?
The soul, with flesh encompass'd as a mail
Of proof impervious save to God alone,
Defies your labours, and resumes her own.
Whether she break communion with the tongue,
And bid it mock you with the lie ye wrung,
Or scorning such degenerate use of breath,
Escape with truth, and leave you dust and death.

Father chose well. But I-Who whispers ? Hark!-
Am I a baby trembling in the dark?

Give me the volume!-Thank you. Let us read.

This is, you tell me, Holy Church's creed;

Which teems with menace of God's wrath and curse,

But which I must subscribe, or suffer worse.

Already beasts are driven from the mart;

Where men, more brutish, flock from every part,

To make my last their holiday, and see

The pier of iron, girt with chains for me,

'Mid circling hearth-stones, and a leafy pyre---
Azreal! oh, spare me agonies of fire!
What hours are told in such a moment's pain!
More than I dare confront, or can sustain.
Oh, mercy, spare, forgive me kneeling here!
Am I not like your sisters, brethren dear?
Still like in substance, and was like in shape?
You call me daughter.-Is there no escape?
One Father formed us all of common mould-
Witness, oh witness here, the Book I hold,-
His breath inspired, his likeness graced, the clod;
Respect the work and image of your God!
Lord Primate, mercy! One, one mercy give!
I ask not much-I do not wish to live:
But let whate'er you do be briefly done.
Oh, mercy! Mercy ?-Holy Church has none.
No. Allah kierim! Anne Ayliffe, rise!
Mercy dwells with our Prophet in the skies.
Kneel not to idols, nor implore their priests,
Who burn God's children in the mart for beasts.

Mercy, of all his attributes alone,

Whose hand made day so dark, or nigh so long,

Made heaven's bright arch as murky as
this den,

And changed the sea to blood-FOR

No church usurps, no priests would make their own. How else were father's age and merits vain? Inhuman clerks! all reason who disdain, Brook no denial, no deserts respect, I will not add me to your bloody sect. Not for the heaven ye threaten to forefend; The stake, the hell-ye imitate and vend: Let fiends for ever tear and spurn me--look! As thus I rend, and trample on your book.!'" The conclave are smitten-as well they might be with horror and consternation, and exclaim, "Wretch, wretch, Paynim, atheist!" as, forgetful of the bloody bandage over her eyeless sockets, she tramples on the Book of Mercy, before the unmerciful, and laughs them all to scorn. Keep Anselm off-I know his hand," are words that give a horrid hint. And the Primate, who throughout is "pitiful, wondrous pitiful," gives permission to the Trappist, and to him alone, to stand near her side. "Oh! what fiends possessed thee!— and art thou woman?" cries Thomas Arundel, Primate. And Anne Ayliffe, heretic, gives a dreadful answer. "THE THREE" she cried, "grim, terrible, and strong,

Yet hark! here's something human: something sobs,

As from a heart where still compassion throbs."

The Trappist, you see, is at her side; if any sob there were, it must be his.

But who is he?

"Fitz-Hugh of Merton once, now Phillip of La Trappe."

She is ready to be carried out to her doom. But is there no tribunal before whom it may be revised? If such there be

"Thither I cite, Lord Legate, thee-to come,
And answer why you seized and haled from home
A leech so sage, beneficent, and mild,

His witless maid, and miserable child:

And lodged in dungeons, with a rush to shine,

Books meet for babes, and victual not for swine.
With God and me how dared you interpose?

Why ask my creed of what He only knows?

By what right dared ye ask, and by what work dis cl ose?
Reveal the secrets of yon blood-stained cell,
Arch'd under step-stones, half-way hence to hell;
What engines rack, and who o'erlooks the wheel,
To add his hand where others flinch,-reveal!

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