“Yes, the church is there, but it has been closed for ten years. The former Roman Catholic pastor, who persisted in preaching upon the dignity of man, the liberty of the children of God, and even of the pope and other dangerous things, was transported to Siberia, and the church was closed by my command.” “I admire your eminently practical method,” observed the guest from Berlin. “We would not dare as yet to do such a thing in the new German Empire.” “But it will be done in good time,” replied the Russian. The carriage, in returning, had by this time reached the outskirts of the city. “Ah!” exclaimed Herr Schulze in joyful surprise, “the huts have already disappeared. I shall write at once to my friends in Berlin, and apprise them of the expeditious manner in which the Russian government acts.” TO BE CONCLUDED IN OUR NEXT NUMBER. THE VIRGIN MARY TO CHRIST ON THE CROSSE. What mist hath dimd that glorious face? what seas of griefe my sun doth tosse? The golden raies of heauenly grace lies now eclipsèd on the crosse. Iesus! my loue, my Sonne, my God, behold Thy mother washt in teares: Thy bloudie woundes be made a rod to chasten these my latter yeares. You cruell Iewes, come worke your ire, vpon this worthlesse flesh of mine: And kindle not eternall fire, by wounding Him which is diuine. Thou messenger that didst impart His first descent into my wombe, Come help me now to cleaue my heart, that there I may my Sonne intombe. You angels all, that present were, to shew His birth with harmonie; Why are you not now readie here, to make a mourning symphony? The cause I know, you waile alone and shed your teares in secresie, Lest I should mouèd be to mone, by force of heauie companie. But waile my soul, thy comfort dies, my wofull wombe, lament thy fruit; My heart giue teares unto my eies, let Sorrow string my heauy lute. —_Southwell._ POET AND MARTYR.[17] PART FIRST—MARTYR. “Hoist up sail while gale doth last, Tide and wind stay no man’s pleasure: Seek not time when time is past, Sober speed is wisdom’s leisure. After-wits are dearly bought, Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.” “Time wears all his locks before, Take thou hold upon his forehead; When he flies, he turns no more, And behind his scalp is naked. Works adjourn’d have many stays; Long demurs breed new delays.” —_Robert Southwell, 1593._[18]