Meantime slowly and sadly the maiden of high degree turned her horse's head from the scenes of her childhood. She felt desolate amidst her plenteous fields and domains, whilst the humble friend of her childhood, the village companion, the poor cottager, seamed happy in all the world could bestow worth coveting; and as Clara turned from the cottage, the handsome Anne, unconscious of her near proximity, was intently perusing some verses which Shakespeare had thrown in at her window as he departed,—verses addressed to herself.
I.
"Would ye be taught, ye feather'd throng,
With love's sweet notes to grace your song,
To pierce the heart with thrilling lay,
Listen to mine, Anne Hathaway.
She hath a way to sing so clear,
Ph[oe]bus might, wondering, stop to hear;
To melt the sad, make blithe the gay,
And nature charm, Anne hath a way.
She hath a way,
Anne Hathaway,
To breathe delight, Anne Hathaway.
II.
"When Envy's breath and ranc'rous tooth
Do soil and bite fair worth and truth,
And merit to distress betray,
To soothe the heart, Anne hath a way;
She hath a way to chase despair,
To heal all grief, to cure all care,
Turn foulest night to fairest day,
Thou know'st, fond heart, Anne hath a way.
She hath a way,
Anne Hathaway,
To make grief bliss, Anne hath a way."
CHAPTER XXX.
THE ADVENTURERS.
About three weeks after the departure of Clara de Mowbray, a stout-timbered vessel, built after the peculiar fashion of the time, and yet in something improved in its construction from the unwieldy craft in general use, might have been observed beating up against wind and tide on the Kentish coast. The weather, for the time of the year, was unusually rough, and to a heavy rolling sea was added a driving rain, and a roaring gale of wind. There is considerable danger, too, as the mariner well knows, around him on this part of the coast. His craft has been driven out of its course, and the fearful Goodwins are close at hand; still labours on, however, that gallant barque, manned by stout English adventurers. She is trying, amidst the driving rain and furious winds, to make out the mouth of the Sandwich haven; and, whilst her timbers creak, and the blast whistles amongst her rigging, a delicious strain of melody seems to float around her. The notes of a lute are heard by the sailors accompanied by a voice of ravishing sweetness; and, as it issues from the cabin of the vessel, it sounds as if some angel is trying to soothe the fury of the winds and waves.
Dangerous as is this part of the coast, even in the present time, when its perils are so well marked out to the navigator, at the period of our story, it was, by comparison, almost an unknown sea. No secure harbour was then constructed close opposite the Goodwins. No buoys and revolving lights pointed out the dangerous proximity of rocks and shoals; those dread quicksands, whose depths retain the wrecked treasures of successive ages; sands which