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It was a Sabbath's eve of love,
When nature seem'd more holy;
And nought in life was dull, but she,
Whose look was melancholy.

She lean'd her tear-stain'd cheek of health
Upon her lily arm;

Poor, hapless girl! she could not tell

What caus'd her wild alarm.

Around the roses of her face
Her flaxen ringlets fell;
No lovelier bosom than her own,
Could guiltless sorrow swell!

The Holy Book before her lay,
That boon to mortals given,
To teach the way from weeping earth
To ever-glorious heaven;

And Mary read prohetic words,
That whisper'd of her doom :-
"Oh! they will search for me, but where
I am, they cannot come !

The tears forsook her gentle eyes,

And wet the sacred lore;

And such a terror shook her frame,
She ne'er had known before.

She ceas'd to weep, but deeper gloom
Her tearless musing brought;
And darker wan'd the evening hour,
And darker Mary's thought.

The sun, he set behind the hills,
And threw his fading fire

On mountain, rock, and village home,
And lit the distant spire.

(Sweet fane of truth and mercy! where
The tombs of other years
Dis-course of virtuous life and hope,
And tell of by-gone tears!)

It was a night of nature's calm,
For earth and sky were still;
And childhood's revelry was o'er,
Upon the daisied hill.

The alehouse, with its gilded sign
Hung on the beechen bough,
Was mute within and tranquilly
The hamlet-stream did flow.

The room where sat this grieving girl
Was one of ancient years;*

Its antique state was well display'd

To conjure up her fears;

The house has since disappeared, but the village draw-well on the green

still occupies its old position directly opposite the site.-J. L. S.

With massy walls of sable oak,
And roof of quaint design,
And lattic'd window, darkly hid
By rose and eglantine.

The summer moon now sweetly shone
All softly and serene;

She clos'd the casement tremblingly
Upon the beauteous scene.

Above that carved mantle hung,
Clad in the garb of gloom,

A painting of rich feudal state,-
An old baronial room.

The Norman windows scarcely cast
A light upon the wall,

Where shone the shields of warrior knights
Within the lonely hall.

And, pendent from each rusty nail,

Helmet and steely dress,

With bright and gilded morison,

To grace that dim recess.

Then Mary thought upon each tale
Of terrible romance ;-

The lady in the lonely tower-
The murderer's deadly glance-

And moon-lit groves in pathless woods,
Where shadows nightly sped;
Her fancy could not leave the realms
Of darkness and the dead.

There stood a messenger without,

Beside her master's gate,

Who, till his thirsty horse had drunk,
Would hardly deign to wait.

The mansion rung with Mary's name,
For dreadful news he bore-

A dying mother wish'd to look

Upon her child once more.

The words were, "haste, ere life be gone:

Then was she quickly plac'd

Behind him on the hurrying steed
Which soon the woods retrac'd.

Now they have pass'd o'er Morton bridge,
While smil'd the moon above

Upon the ruffian and his prey

The hawk and harmless dove.

The towering elms divide their tops;
And now a dismal heath

Proclaims her "final doom" is near

The awful hour of death!

The villain check'd his weary horse,
And spoke of trust betray'd;

And Mary's heart grew sick with fright,
As, answering, thus she said-

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"Oh! kill me not until I see
My mother's face again!
Ride on, in mercy, horseman, ride,
And let us reach the lane!

"There slay me by my mother's door,
And I will pray for thee;

For she shall find her daughter's corse "No, girl, it cannot be :

"This heath thou shalt not cross, for soon Its earth will hide thy form;

That babbling tongue of thine shall make
A morsel for the worm!"

She leap'd upon the ling-clad heath,
And, nerv'd with frensied fear,
Pursued her slippery way across,
Until the wood was near.

But nearer still two fiends appear'd,
Like hunters of the fawn,

Who cast their cumb'ring cloaks away,
Beside that forest lone;

And bounded swifter than the maid,
Who nearly 'scap'd their wrath,
For well she knew that woody glade,
And every hoary path.

Obscur'd by oak and hazel bush,
Where milk-maid's merry song
Had often charm'd her lover's ear,
Who blest her silv'ry tongue.

But Mary miss'd the woodland stile-
The hedge-row was not high;
She gain'd its prickly top, and now
Her murderers were nigh.

A slender tree her fingers caught-
It bent beneath her weight;
'Twas false as love and Mary's fate!
Deceiving as the night!

She fell-and villagers relate

No more of Mary's hour,

But how she rose with deadly might,

And, with a maniac's power,

Fought with her murd'rers till they broke Her slender arms in twain ;

But none could e'er discover where

The maiden's corse was lain.

When wand'ring by that noiseless wood,
Forsaken by the bee,

Each rev'rend chronicler displays
The bent and treach'rous tree.

Pointing the barkless spot to view,
Which Mary's hand embrac'd,
They shake their hoary locks, and say,
"It ne'er can be effac'd!"


Page 46.-Bishop Gheast was not "the principal compiler of the Liturgy of the Church of England now in use," as Ingledew asserts, but he certainly took a very active part in the revision of the Prayer Book in Queen Elizabeth's reign. Strype says, "that Gheast was appointed by Secretary Sir William Cecil, in the room of Archbishop Parker, who was absent some part of the time by reason of sickness. Him the Secretary required diligently to compare both King Edward's (Communion) Prayer Books together, and from them both to frame a book for the use, of the Church of England, by correcting and amending, altering and adding, or taking away, according to his judgment and the ancient Liturgies; which when he had done, and a new service book being finished by him and the others appointed thereto, the said Geste conveyed it to the Secretary pursuant to the settlement of the Liturgy; concluding his letter with these remarkable words, which were literally followed, and which have been from that time to the present gradually and progressively fulfilling : Thus I think I have showed good cause why the service is set forth in such sort as it is. God for his mercy in Christ, cause the Parliament with one voice to enact it, and the realm with true heart to use it.'"

Page 72.-SCROPE METCALFE.--Named Scrope Metcalfe, after his godfather, Emanuel Scrope, 1st Earl of Sunderland, and 11th Lord Scrope, of Bolton Castle. Mentioned in the will of the Earl of Sunderland, as follows: To my godchild, Scroope Metcalfe, the sum of one hundred pounds." The Earl's will is dated 26th May, 1630.


Page 112. The peerage of Viscount Northallerton was created in 1683; merged in the crown in 1727, and became extinct in 1760.


Page 22. "Northallerton burnt by Wallace," should be under date 1274.
Page 24, footnote.-For "overshadow" read "shelter.”

Page 27, second footnote, line 1.-For "Finchley," read "Finchale." Page 31, second line from the bottom.-The Master of the Grammar School is appointed by the Dean and Chapter of Durham.

Page 32.-For correct information as to gift of land to Austin Friars, see page 34 under date 1340.

Page 69, line 28.-After 1576, insert-These two tablets were finally removed during the restoration of the Church Nov. 21st, 1882.

Page 72. line 6.-After "September," read-George Metcalfe's kinsmen of the Lincolnshire branch of the family, seated at Louth Park, also suffered much in the royal cause, as appears from the following extract from the petition of Francis, son of Sir Francis Metcalfe, of Louth Park, dated August, 1661" Has £2,000 arrears due; was plundered in the wars in which his father, Sir Francis Metcalfe, was murdered, and his four brothers all died.”— Vide State Papers.

Page 74, last line.-After "Windermere" insert asterisk, referring to footnote.

.—“Ringing for King Charles's restoration," should be under

Page 115.

date 1660.


Page 127, third footnote, 4th line.-For "marriages of cousins" read cousin-marriage."



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