274

DICKY CROSS, THE IDIOT OF EXETER.

that she was still absent, and that Timothy had been drinking too many bumpers to the king's health to be able to keep the promise he had made, Neville instantly proceeded to the house of Miss Stapeldon, who, had retired to rest several hours before, but was not less alarmed than Miles when she heard that Mary was missing. Dame Morley was next applied to, and from the information received from her, it occurred to Neville that his bride might actually be locked up in the cathedral. Torches were procured, and the door was no sooner open than a noise was heard which led at once to the spot where the last struggle was taking place.

The blows which the idiot had received were not mortal; but for the rest of his life he was kept in close and severe confinement.

It was from Mary Woodward herself, then Mrs. Miles Neville, the happiest and prettiest young wife and mother in Exeter, that I obtained the particulars of this story a good many years ago.

POETICAL

FOUND IN

PIECES

MY OLD PORTFOLIO.

I'faith a mad wag!

Aye, by'r Lady! a merry philosopher."
Ben Jonson.

A BREATHING OF THE COUNTRY.

SEATED all a summer's day
By the margin of a brook,
'Neath a tree whose shadows play
O'er the pages of thy book;
Reading words of power to stir
Many a thought of happiest kind,
Glancing through the theatre

Of thy free uncurtained mind,

Yieldeth joy I value more,

Than all the hot town hath in store.

Angling in a breezy pool

With a lure of auburn wing,

While the waters beautiful

Dancing o'er a cascade sing,
And the fish of green and gold
Leap contending for the prize,
Till a scaly patriarch old

Gasping on the fresh sward lies
Tell me, in the city where

Pleasure dwells so passing rare?

Wandering o'er a gentle hill,

Brilliant with earth's common flowers, Which, though men nor sow, nor till, Greet the sunshine and the showers; Viewing far the landscape spread,

Mapp'd into a thousand fields, Whilst in blue air, overhead,

Many a cloud its palace builds, Lost in smoky streets, can we E'er so much of beauty see?

Far away, within a wood

Where the birds forget to sing,

And the solemn solitude

Almost grows bewildering, Nursing dreams of bygone days,

Broken fancies, sad but sweet,

Broken as the flower that lays

Its bruised odours at thy feet ;

Better love I thus to muse,

Than the haunts where fashion wooes.

Lovely in each garb art thou,

Nature, God's most holy child!

Bright for ever is thy brow,

Ne'er with worldly passion soiled!

When the soul is faint with sin,
Hardly knowing where to flee,

Let it leave the feverish din

To make a fellowship with thee,
And on thy altar lay its cares,
Thy altar fann'd by mountain airs!