dictating to me somewhat in a window, and he was loth to be discerned; and the Lords and Gentlemen were then in the room, and his back was towards them; but I can hereof take my oath, that they were the biggest drops that I ever saw fall from an eye, but he recollected himself, and soon stifled them!"*

In the account of the burial of the King in Windsor Chapel by Sir Thomas Herbert, the spot where the body was laid is described minutely, opposite the eleventh stall. The whole account is singularly impressive; but it is extraordinary it should ever have been supposed that the place of interment was unknown, when this description existed. At the late accidental disinterment, some of his hair was cut off. Soon after, the following lines were written, which I now set before the reader for the first time.

ON THE FUNERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST,

AT NIGHT, IN ST. GEORGE'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR.†

The Castle-clock had toll'd midnight,

With mattock and with spade,
And silent, by the torches' light,

His corse in earth we laid.

* Cromwell, who had the gift of prayer and crying at will, called the broken-hearted King "a dissembler!"

As this composition might appear, in some turns of expression, to resemble a celebrated military funeral dirge (the death of Sir John Moore), I can only say, it was written soon

The coffin bore his name, that those

Of other years might know,
When Earth its secret should disclose

Whose bones were laid below.

"PEACE TO THE DEAD" no children

Slow pacing up the nave;

sung,

No prayers were read, no knell was rung,
As deep we dug his grave.

We only heard the winter's wind,

In many a sullen gust,

As, o'er the open grave inclin'd,
We murmur'd, "Dust to dust!"

A moon-beam, from the arches' height,
Stream'd, as we plac'd the stone;
The long aisles started into light,
And all the windows shone.

We thought we saw the banners then,
That shook along the walls,

While the sad shades of mailed men

Were gazing from the stalls.

after the account of the late disinterment of Charles. The metre and phrase is the same as some lines published twenty years ago:

"O'er my poor Anna's lonely grave

No dirge shall sound, no bell shall ring."

"Spirit of Discovery."

'Tis gone! again, on tombs defac'd,*

Sits darkness more profound,

And only, by the torch, we trac'd
Our shadows on the ground.

And now the chilly, freezing air,
Without, blew long and loud;

Upon our knees we breath'd one prayer†
Where He slept in his shroud.

We laid the broken marble floor

No name, no trace appears

And when we clos'd the sounding door

We thought of him with tears.

After the melancholy completion of the drama, and the burial of his kind master, Morley resolved to leave England, but waited, as we have said, to take his earthly farewell of a noble friend, brought to the scaffold in the same cause.

This was the brave, and loyal, and virtuous, and intrepid Lord Capel. Whitelock, speaking of his noble demeanour at this awful hour, says, "He appeared on the scaffold, without any clergyman!” Yes. Being insulted by the inspired soldiery, his dying friend, to secure him from this brutality, took his last leave of him at the foot of the scaf fold. This generous nobleman's conduct, at that trying hour, evinced from whom he had learnt the

* Every thing in the Chapel now defaced.

The Service by the Prayer-book was forbidden.

CHRISTIAN LESSON, HOW TO DIE! And we can have little doubt but that, had Morley, like Laud, been called to suffer the great agony himself, he would have shown how well he could have practised the lessons he taught.

Morley had lived, as we have related, from the time of his expulsion from Oxford, at the lonely cottage of poor Isaak Walton. He had now sojourned in that peaceful but humble abode twelve whole months, and to that cottage of affectionate friendship he returned after the execution of Lord Capel, for a few weeks, we may imagine, till he left England, to partake exile and adversity with his new master, the Son of the murdered Charles.

From the time of his leaving the household of Lord Carnarvon, the life of Morley was that of peculiar sorrow. Both his friends, Carnarvon and Falkland immaturely perished the King was no more Lord Capel no more his Oxford friends scattered his portion penury.

Every one knows the circumstances of the Papal visitation at Oxford, but the Puritanic visitation, though important in many respects, and involving the fate of so many ornaments of the Church, has been less considered, chiefly because the Clergy, under all their wrongs, suffered in dignified silence. They appealed not even to compassion, if we except Hall's "Hard Fare!" and a few other narratives.

The ejected Non-conformists preached and published their "Farewell Sermons." It was not till

after Calamy had written his account of the number of the sufferers under the Act of Uniformity that Walker, as late as the reign of Queen Anne, published the names of those ejected in 1647, and by Cromwell's "tryers." He has given the names and residences of two thousand✶ clergymen, ejected from their livings, and turned into the world to beg their bread, without any complaint, except in a very few instances.

Walker, in his "History of the Sufferings of the Clergy," has detailed the residences and names. As to the Oxford Puritanical visitation, the particulars may be seen in Wood's History of the University. Walker has quoted a curious book written at the time, now in the Bodleian Library, called "Pegasus."

This publication gives a ludicrous description of Lord Pembroke, and his godly train, whom the Parliament sent down to Oxford, with full powers to reform and purify it. The entrance of the solemn cavalcade into Oxford is described with some humour and pleasantry.

Francis Cheynell, “damned to everlasting fame” for his insults on the dying and dead Chillingworth, was a principal actor, and as delighted as Hugh Peters is described, when he rode before the miserable Charles, "triumphing!"

Lord Pembroke, the fifth Earl of Pembroke, who having voted against the Bishops, was himself dis

* A few, and those very few, are duplicates.