A SIGH FOR THE DAYS OF OLD.

A sigh for the days of old—

For the merry ancient time—

When British hearts were stout and bold
As the tough oak of their clime.
When the Holy Faith was kept,

Before faithless men had chang'd,
And from the way their fathers trod,
Through Error's pastures rang'd.

A sigh for the years gone by-
When every warrior's sword
At the glance of Beauty's eye,
Flash'd, obedient to her word;
When the high-born noble knelt

In the light of maiden's smile,

And maintain'd more fair than foreign dames The Ladies of our Isle.

When oft in the Castle hall

Was the banquet freely spread,

Till the massive table groan'd withal ;—

While the baron graced its head,—

And the vassals sate below,

And the poor men at the gate,

Each feasting on the plenteous cheer
According to his state.

A sigh for the days gone by

For the kindly ancient time,—

When the wanderer heard with joy

The convent's evening chime;

And the doors were open thrown,

And the weary welcom❜d in,

Where the broken-hearted shelter found

From life's tempestuous din.

In the sunset of their day,

That a ruthless hand would tear the wife

From her husband's breast away;

But the labourer worn with toil,

As at length asleep he fell,

Was sooth'd by her whom from lusty youth

He chose and cherish'd well.

Then the cottage maidens sung
At eve round the old elm tree,
Till all the village echoes rung
With the sound of guiltless glee:
And they form'd the rustic dance,
And their mirth was heard afar,
Till home they wended-twos and threes—
Beneath the twilight star.

Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a little while and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty courts.

OSSIAN.

HITHERTO, our steps in Wensleydale have been surrounded by natural and religious beauty; but we have reached a gloomy Day. Although the valley's natural charms will continue, in the inscrutable dispensations of Almighty God, its religious beauty must be overspread

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not exterminated, for there will still remain glorious lineaments, covered, alas, with a thick desolating veil. We have reached that period of destruction and persecution called the Reformation. Of this mournful apostacy, I desire to give no minute history; but as I watch how Wensleydale fell away from the Catholic Faith, I cannot avoid glancing at what passed elsewhere.

Henry VIII. ascended the English throne, April 22, 1509, and at the time of his accession, gave promise of future goodness and piety; expectations which proved illusive, for never, before nor since, did such a monster in human shape pollute the royal seat of the chaste St. Edward. Henry VII. bequeathed his son the largest amount of riches ever accumulated by an English sovereign. £1,800,000, in gold and silver, was found in his coffers, a sum fully equal to twenty millions of our present currency, yet this enormous wealth, joined to his vast yearly revenues, proved all too little to satisfy the Eighth Henry, who, even after he had seized the Church's large revenues, amounting at the lowest computation to £1,600,000 per annum, was continually complaining of poverty, and oppressing his subjects by taxes and imposts.

This king's real character did not manifest itself for some years. The early part of his reign was only marked by moderation and a devout attention to religion, which lasted whilst he was guided by the counsels of Cardinal Wolsey. About the year 1521, when the Lutheran heresy-then spreading over the continent-began to insinuate itself into previously happy England, Henry published a treatise, "Assertio Septem Sacramentorum adversus Martyn Luther," which received so much approbation from Pope Leo X., that his Holiness conferred on the author, the title of "Defender of the Faith." Unhappily these good dispositions did not continue. The king's heart became inflamed with pride and an impure love; in defiance of all laws, divine and human,

his wife, Catharine of Arragon, was put away for Anne Boleyn; and from the date of that adulterous union, the records of Henry's reign form the foulest pages of English History.

The tyrant's religious vagaries are irrelevant here, save as connected with the sad and fatal changes they wrought in Wensleydale; the ill effects of which are felt at the present time. The character of the Wensleydale clergy may be estimated by the report of Henry's own commissioners, who, with scarcely any exception, bear witness that both the parochial and chantry priests were of "honest conversation and qualities," for the most part middle-aged or elderly men, and having no other provision than their very moderate stipend. Nor were there more than just sufficed to say Mass daily, and administer the sacraments to the congregations, for the number of "houselling people," i. e. communicants, in most of the parishes at that time would astonish all moderns-save Catholics. These olden priests seem to have much resembled the beautiful character Chaucer gives of "the pouré Parson of a toune," who, he tells us

could in little thing have suffiance. Wide was his parish, and houses far asunder, But he ne left not for no rain nor thunder,

In sickness and in mischief to visit

The farthest in his parish, much and lite,

Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff.

This noble ensample to his sheep he gaf,

That first he wrought, and afterwards he taught.
Out of the Gospel he the wordés caught,

And this figure he added yet thereto,—

That if gold ruste, what should iron do?"

The chantries were nevertheless suppressed, although founded and endowed in perpetuity by private individuals; and the spoils, great or small—went to the ever grasping king and his courtiers. (1)

(1) Dyverse P'ishes, o't in ye North Riding having Plate belonging to the Chantries founded in them, as followeth. Harl. MSS. 591-fol. 85.