And round about him watchful stand
The Brethren of that holy band,
Whose pure devoted lives are given
To work the glorious will of Heaven.
And their’s is not a bigot’s zeal,
Whose dear delight is but to heal
The souls that pant for sweet repose,
O’erwhelmed with sin and worldly woes,
To succour in the hour of need
The hearts that ache and inly bleed,
Whose crown of glory is the meed,
That Love upon the soul bestows;
The sweet rejoicing of the heart,
That well performs its mortal part;
And not ingratitude nor slight,
Nor the world’s cold and biting scorn,
Contempt and scoffing hourly borne,
Hath power to dim the holy light
That Love around her votary flings,
For she can wrap them in delight,
And fan them with ambrosial wings,
When death with calm approaches steep
Their senses in eternal sleep.
* * * * * *
“Alas! ’tis not my lowly couch,
Nor Misery’s unkindest touch,
No, nor the world so long forgot,
Although in grief remembered now,
Nor yet my lone and humble lot,
That made me what ye see me now.
She was perchance an erring light,
A beauteous wandering meteor flame,
That on my waking vision came,
To cross my pathway like a blight;
Or else a Heavenly spirit sent
From a diviner element,
Who left some star-lit world that lies
Far off in azure’s seas than this,
To teach my spirit what sweet bliss,
Were in her home beyond the skies.
But yet she passed,—she drooped away,
Like a fair rose untimely blighted,
Like an Hymeneal altar lighted
On a fond bridegroom’s dying day.
There was a flush upon her cheek,
That in my soul a sadness wrought,
A warning voice that used to speak,
The lesson of her life’s decay;
There was a lustre in her eyes,
Like a celestial glory caught,
From some bright meteor of the skies.
There was a music in her tone,
Like the low wind of Autumn makes,
Through the lone woods in sadness sighing,
When the bright leaves and flowers are dying,
As if it sighed for their sweet sakes.
Although I know and feel she died,
Her form and voice are with me now,
These are the hands that from her brow
Were wont so often to divide
The tresses of her golden hair,
When the night winds had wanton’d there.
But when we wandered through the glade,
And heard the night bird on the bough,
Or side by side together prayed,
Is but a fading vision now.”
* * * * * *
Broomholme’s Abbey is old and grey,
And monks are kneeling the live-long day,
From matin time till eve;
Many and sweet are the Aves they say,
And many the souls they shrieve.
At midnight, censors were brightly swinging,
And slowly and sad was the requiem singing,
And masses are singing still,
For him they laid in the willow’s shade,
By the stream on the woodland hill.
CAISTER.
Caister or Caistor, a pleasant village situated upon the coast, about two miles and a half to the northward of Yarmouth, possesses the remains of a Roman station, and the ruins of Caister castle.—A lofty circular tower and a large portion of the north and west walls belonging to the latter are very prominent. This is supposed to be one of the oldest brick mansions in England. It was erected by Sir John Fastolf, who was born here, or at Yarmouth, in 1378. He entered early in life a brilliant military career, and signalized himself by many acts of bravery during a forty years’ campaign under the English Regency in France, and history records, in the course of this period, he was made in the field of battle a Knight Banneret, a Baron of France, Knight of the Garter, Marshal of the Regent’s Household, the King’s Lieutenant in Normandy, and progressively appointed to various public offices. He subsequently returned to Caistor, and his liberality, munificence, and acts of charity were not equalled in the period in which he lived. He became a founder of religious and other edifices, a generous patron of learning, an encourager of piety, and a benefactor to the poor.
A quibble on the name of this truly great and eminent man has been raised by some authors, who supposed him to be the Sir John Falstaff, whom our immortal bard Shakspeare delineated in the humorous but abandoned character as constantly lounging about the court of Prince Henry (afterwards Henry the Vth. of England).—The poetical Falstaff was nearly threescore years of age at the battle of Shrewsbury, A.D. 1403, when the Norfolk hero was not more than twenty-five. The former ended his career soon after Prince Henry ascended the throne—the latter survived Henry the Vth. thirty-seven years, and died at Caistor in 1459.
CROMER.
Cromer, formerly a small market town, is situated nine miles N.N.W. of North Walsham, and on the verge of the German Ocean. At the Doomsday survey Cromer formed part of the lordship and parish of Shipden, a considerable village, which, with its church, dedicated to St. Peter, appears to have been swallowed up by the sea about the time of Henry the 4th. A patent to collect certain dues for the erection of a pier was granted in the 14th of Richard II. At neap tides, in calm weather, are still to be seen, about half a mile distant from the shore, large masses of wall, which are supposed to have belonged to the church alluded to.