'With Charles I,' says Ranke, 'nothing was more seductive than secrecy. The contradictions in his conduct entangled him in embarrassments, in which his declarations, if always true in the sense he privately gave them, were only a hair's-breadth removed from actual, and even from intentional, untruth.'--Whether traceable to descent, or to the evil influence of Buckingham and the intriguing atmosphere of the Spanish marriage-negotiations, this defect in political honesty is, unquestionably, the one serious blot on the character of Charles I.--Yet, whilst noting it, candid students will regretfully confess that the career of Elizabeth and her counsellors is defaced by shades of bad faith, darker and more numerous. _When the kingdom_; See Clarendon's description of England during this period, 'enjoying the greatest calm and the fullest measure of felicity that any people in any age for so long time together have been blessed with.' _Three golden heads_; Mary, the second child of Charles and Henrietta, was born Nov. 4, 1631: Elizabeth, Dec. 28, 1635: Anne, Mar. 17, 1637. The last two were feeble from infancy. Consumption soon showed itself in Anne, and her short life, passed at Richmond, closed in November, 1640. For her last words, we are indebted to Fuller, who adds: 'This done, the little lamb gave up the ghost.' The affection and care of the royal parents is well attested. 'Their arrival,' when visiting the nursery, 'was the signal of a general rejoicing.' In the latter portion of this piece I have ventured, it will be seen, on an ideal treatment. The main facts, and the words of the dear child, are historical:--for the details I appeal to any mother who has suffered similar loss whether they could have been much otherwise. _Not seeing_; See the _Captive Child_. _The frost_; It is noticed that death, the _Sarsar-wind_ of Southey's _Thalaba_, often occurs at the turn between night and day, when the atmosphere is wont to be at the coldest. AFTER CHALGROVE FIGHT June 18: 1643 Flags crape-smother'd and arms reversed, With one sad volley lay him to rest: Lay him to rest where he may not see This England he loved like a lover accursed By lawlessness masking as liberty, By the despot in Freedom's panoply drest:-- Bury him, ere he be made duplicity's tool and slave, Where he cannot see the land that he could not save! Bury him, bury him, bury him With his face downward! Chalgrove! Name of patriot pain! O'er thy fresh fields that summer pass'd The brand of war's red furnace blast, Till heaven's soft tears wash'd out the blackening stain;-- Wash'd out and wept;--But could not so restore England's gallant son: Ere the fray was done The stately head bow'd down; shatter'd; his warfare o'er.