Warton, in his _History of English Poetry_, has published a few fragments of poems on the Passion, which he ascribes to the reigns of Henry III. and Edward I. There is a harmony in the versification of the following that one scarcely looks for at so early a date: “Jhesu for thi muckle might Thou gif us of thi grace, That we may day and night Thinken of thi face: In myn herte it doth me gode Whan y thinke on Jhesu blod, That ran down bi ys side; Fro ys herte dou to ys fot, For us he spradde ys hertis blod, His wondes wer so wyde.” * * * * * “Ever and aye he haveth us in thought, He will not lose that he so dearly bought.” One fragment more, which is taken from a sort of dialogue between our Lord on the Cross and the devout soul: “Behold mi side, Mi woundes spred so wide, Restless I ride, Lok on me, and put fro ye pride: Dear man, mi love, For mi love sinne no more.” “Jhesu Christe, mi lemman swete, That for me deyedis on rood tree With al myn herte I the biseke For thi woundes two and thre: That so fast in mi herte Thi love rooted might be, As was the spere in thi side When thou suffredst deth for me.” --_Christian Schools and Scholars._ THE HOUSE OF YORKE. CHAPTER XXV. BOADICEA’S WATCH. It was rather late when Mr. Yorke came down Sunday morning. The storm was yet violent, and he did not mean to go out; and besides, he had been tormented all night with disagreeable dreams. When he appeared in the breakfast-room, Patrick had been to the village, and had seen Father Rasle. The priest was resolutely keeping his fast, and even hearing confessions. The occurrence of the night before had stirred up the sluggish faith and piety of those few Catholics who had not meant to attend to their religious duties, and they crowded about their pastor at the last moment. It would, perhaps, be just as well not to describe the manner in which Mr. Yorke received the news they had to tell him, for his anger was scarcely greater toward the mob than toward his own family. He would eat no breakfast, would scarcely stop to change his slippers for boots, but started off to see Father Rasle. “I shall bring the priest home with me; or, if he will not come, shall stay with him, and defend him with my life from any further outrage,” he said as he went out the door, addressing no one in particular. “We expect him to return with you, Charles,” his wife said; but he paid no attention to her. “Coddled like a great booby!” he muttered to himself as he strode down the avenue. “Amy should have more respect for me, or, at least, more regard for my reputation. It is a wonder she does not dress me in petticoats, and set me spinning.”