"They live with God, their homes are dust; But here their children pray." To the passing wayfarer the glowing desires and anxious longings, that animated their lives, are now well-nigh forgotten or unknown, and have vanished in the past as a tale that is told,--"in the sight of the unwise they seemed to die, but they are in peace," even the peace that passeth all understanding. BOSWORTH FIELD. But one chance left--'mid these misfortunes vast, Looming like avalanche upon their prey,-- "Treason!" he cried, "the White Rose die is cast," And like an unchained eagle spurred away,-- "The fiery Dragon to the heart I'll wound, And him that with it seeks to snatch my crown,-- Swift! follow me! see Brandon bites the ground, The giant Cheney from his horse is down,-- Fortune attend! my steed, a few strides more, And the Red Rose shall doubly-dyed appear-- Can I but reach him--steeped in its own gore, Or Death, come thou as foe I never fear,-- Traitors make way!"--but they in vengeful ring Closed, and 'neath blows relentless fell the King! [Illustration: INDENT OF THE BRASS OF ARCHBISHOP STAFFORD. CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL] "WITH THE SILVER HAND." A warm sunny morning in early May, and turning our steps from the thriving and somewhat busy town of Trowbridge,--a place which, like its quieter sister of Westbury, "stondith mostly by clothiers,"--its forest of smoking chimneys, garish town-hall, and tall spire,--our path inclines by the broad south-westerly road that leads to Frome and the parts adjacent. The walk is pleasant enough in its way, but without special incident to interest the wayfarer, beyond the ordinary pedestrian and vehicular motion of the hour. In this direction we continue for about a mile and a half, and having passed through the village of Studley, halt at a stile or gateway on our left, and looking across a meadow of some extent, discern, environed by orchards, the grey outline of a building, having the unmistakable time-worn appearance of survival from a former age, albeit not of large size, and flanked with clustering outbuildings, that betoken its present inmate to be engaged in the great primeval occupation. Instinctively--from a memory sympathetically stored--a reverie for the moment takes possession of the thoughts, as at the sight of the unpretending structure, a large picture passes rapidly before the mental eye, and with measured emphasis we observe,--a mother unknown,--a son the most famous,--their last descendant the most unfortunate! Why--friend of mine--say you, do we propound this enigmatic commentary as we view the old place? Gives it short clue to characters, presumably, once connected with it, whose lives have embodied striking phases of human existence, which whet the imagination to contemplate, and to divine with all its subtle ingenuity, incidents conformable to animate them?