Broken, tattered, despoiled,—gradually crumbling and decaying,—covered also with the dust and neglect of ages, lies what is left of the outward and visible semblance of John Morton, Prince of the Church, Metropolitan of England, and Lord Chancellor to her King. But a close scrutiny through the gloom shews us the stately lines of his vestments, his broken mitre, his shattered staff, and on them the traces of that sparing but rich ornament, that asserts at once the erstwhile dignity of their wearer when in the flesh,—and typifies with true presentment, the glimpses of his grand character, that now comes back to us so vividly, through depth and dimness of the Past. Even his very dust, carried away piecemeal by the thoughtless wayfarer, adds significant tribute to the greatness of his memory; but the six monks, headless and handless, still remain and kneel by his side, patiently waiting amid the desolation and obscurity for the eternal dawn.

EFFIGY OF JOHN MORTON, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY AND CARDINAL
Cathedral—A.D. 1500
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Our steps finally take us back to Britford church, and a last look at the cenotaph of the restless, unscrupulous, short-sighted, ill-fated Buckingham. At the end of the tomb the decaying angels still support the proud escutcheons of Stafford and Widville, names here, in the funeral pomp of the grave, linked in the closest and most loving tie of human relationship, but in the olden life precedent, opposed to each other with a bitterness that death alone could appease. Time has now gathered themselves and all their actions into his lap, the fierceness of their strife is hushed into silence, and all the suspense and agony that haunted their lives and tracked them to its last resting-place, is over; and the wayfarer who contemplates their sadly-incidented story, and seeks to identify the few wrecks left to perpetuate their memory, as he turns away, mutters to himself the prayerful entreaty doubtless once inscribed over their dust, "cujus anime propicietur Deus, Amen."

We linger a moment to catch a glance at the remarkable Saxon doorways still preserved in the nave,—relics coeval with the age when Old Sarum was in its best estate, and centuries before the glorious fane that adorns its new namesake was born or thought of,—and then emerge into the pleasant evening sunlight. How delightfully-reviving the communion with the purity of Nature, after our thoughts have been saddened by a contemplation of the self-sought miseries of her children. We saunter quietly along under the fine trees that overhang our path, loiter awhile to survey an old moated house, and then pass on by a winding path through mead and lane to Salisbury. Before us is the bright, busy little city, and above it is upreared the remarkable feature that has made its reputation world-wide, the glorious spire of its Cathedral. Higher and still more heavenward, its faultless proportion rises at every step, until standing within its shadow, our thoughts are lost in admiration of those men, who, when they had built an earthly home "to the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity," reared this shaft of beauty from its midst, in testimony that their aspirations were not satisfied until they had placed its top-stone as near His heavenly home as human hands could raise it.

SALISBURY SPIRE.

Eyes of the soul,—turn from thought's busy realm,
And dwell awhile on yon height-piercing spire,
The sight is none that all things overwhelm,
But one that bids us rise to all things higher.
Delved from the earth a rude and shapeless thing,
Rended by force from the deep quarry's breast,—
Behold from such, a pure form upward spring,
In beauty's fairest vesture aptly drest.

So may'st thou ravish thought's uncultured mine,
From the rude mass harmonious outlines blend,
Clothe with true beauty all the fair design,
That based on earth shall to the heaven ascend
Like Babel's tower,—but no confusion show,
By one grand purpose raised from all that's low.

UNHORSED AT BOSWORTH.