old age (for grief kills not) in the cloistered gloom of Bermondsey. But though the memory of Elizabeth,— the once lovely and beloved,—the admired and envied,— the flattered and calumniated, the minion and the sport of fate and fortune,-had well nigh passed away from the land she had ruled over, before a little of its cold earth was required to heap on her remains, Providence had kept in store for the creature thus severely chastened, one drop of sweetness, to mingle with her bitter make "the end more blest than the beginning."

cup,

and

Towards the latter years of Elizabeth's life, Henry so far relaxed in his vindictive cruelty, as to permit occasional intercourse between the captive queen and her daughter Bridget. The former was not allowed to exchange her prison of Bermondsey for the convent of Dartford; but the royal nun was indulged in the liberty of absence from her own cloister; and the inestimable privilege of sharing, for weeks together, and with no long intervals, the solitude of her declining parent; for the meek and blameless nun, the humble sister Alice of Dartford nunnery, had merged those fatal distinctions so obnoxious to the distrustful temper of the king. Of her, therefore, he entertained no jealous apprehension; and his hatred and suspicion of the queen dowager being in some measure satiated and laid to rest, by the oblivious neglect into which her very name and living memory had already fallen, he foresaw no danger of reviving influence in that quarter, or of recalling Eliza

beth to the recollection of the people, by permitting her occasional intercourse with one, “the world forgetting— by the world forgot."

So it was, that having "cast her bread upon the waters," Elizabeth "found it again after many days;" and that when forgotten by the world, and forsaken by those of her own family whose earthly prosperity she had most laboured to secure, the treasure she had "lent unto the Lord" was returned into her bosom (as had been prophetically promised), at the hour of her greatest need. The child, to whose eternal welfare she had sacrificed so large a portion of her own happiness, was sent, like a ministering angel, to bind up her bruised and broken heart,-to pour into its wounds, the balm of filial love and holy consolation,-to cheer, and comfort, and sustain her in the decline of age, at the time of sickness, and in the hour of death.

Of Bridget Plantagenet little more is known, than that, after fulfilling the last offices to her departed parent, she returned to her own cloister, and the humble obscurity of her conventual life; "and there," saith the chronicler, "spending the remainder of her days in devotion and contemplation, she died, and was buried in the same convent, An. Dom. 1517, in the eighth year of King Henry VIIIth.

The effigy of Elizabeth Plantagenet still lies at Westminster, in marble magnificence, beside that of her royal consort. Emblematic of their living union and joyless

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 66 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, " 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
In those strange novice robes, stands hushed and awed
Before the pitying priest. The abbess lifts
One pallid hand to heaven, as summoning
The blessed saints to accept and sanctify
The half-unconscious vow. And she hath ta'en
That vestal vow, pure votaress! hath lisped,
In her clear infant voice, poor innocent babe!
The irrevocable words, and all is o'er.

The wondering nuns are mute: one only sound
Reverberates through the chapel,-the low sobs
Of yonder kneeling woman, whose fair cheek

Is stained with tears, whose breath comes forth in sighs,
Whose throbbing heart doth quiver visibly

Beneath the ermine, as she folds her arms

Around the gentle child. Hark! hark! her grief

Dearest of all my daughters, fare thee well!
Oh, holy abbess, hear me! To thy guard
I give this white, unspotted, virgin flower,
The youngest branch of the Plantagenets ——
The latest pledge of Edward's love-my child-
Mine own sweet child. She is a princess !— Lo!
The cushion and the coronet of state,
Her rank's vain pageantries, I offer up
A sacrifice. Lo! at the altar's foot
I offer up a dearer sacrifice-

Herself-my own fair child. Oh! shelter her
From the dark perils that hang o'er our house;
From open foes and treacherous friends; from kinsmen,
Deep, crafty, dangerous; from stern ambition;

From secret hate; from cunning cruelty;

From murder,-foul, unnatural, midnight murder;
From all that my prophetic soul forebodes —

The horrors that beset me in my dreams

The fears that haunt me waking; from all snares defend her! Look ye prove

Of fiend or man,

True guardians of the sanctuary.- Alas!

She soon may have none other.

My lovely! my beloved! how I shall miss