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"But how will my Lady Lucy gain admittance to the Queen's presence ?" asked old Amy, who had been a weeping spectator of this interesting scene.

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I will write a letter to my friend, the Lady Clarendon, requesting her to accomplish the matter," said Lord Preston. He then wrote a few hasty lines, which he gave to his daughter, telling her that she was to go to the palace, the next day, properly attended, and give the letter to Lady Clarendon, who was there, waiting upon the Queen. He then kissed his child tenderly, and bade her farewell. Though Lucy wept as she parted from her father, yet she left the Tower with a far more quiet mind than she had entered it; for she had formed her resolution, and her young heart was full of hope. The next morning, the little Lady Lucy was up before the lark, dressed in a suit of deep mourning; and as she passed through the hall, leaning on her nurse's arm, and attended by her father's confidential secretary and the old butler, all the servants shed tears, and prayed that God would bless and prosper her. Lady Lucy was introduced to Lady Clarendon's apartments before she had left her bed; and having told her artless story with great earnestness, presented her father's letter.

Lady Clarendon was very kind to little Lucy, but told her plainly that she did not dare ask her father's life, because her husband was already suspected of holding secret correspondence with his brotherin-law, King James. Oh," said Lucy, "if I could only see the Queen myself, I would not wish any one to speak for me, I would plead so earnestly, that she could not refuse, I am sure."

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"Poor child! What could you say to the Queen ?" "God will direct me what to say," replied Lucy.

"Well, my love, you shall have the opportunity; but much I fear your little heart will fail when you see the Queen face to face."

66

The countess hastened to rise and dress, and conducted Lucy into the picture gallery, where the Queen usually passed an hour in walking early in the morning. While they were waiting for the Queen, Lady Clarendon tried to amuse little Lucy, by showing her the pictures which hung on the wall. I know that gentleman well," said Lucy, pointing to a full-length portrait of James II. "That is a portrait of Queen Mary's father," said the countess. here comes the Queen with her ladies. Now, Lucy, is the time; I will step into the recess yonder; but you must remain alone, standing where you are. When the Queen approaches, kneel and present

"But hark!

your father's petition. She who walks before the other ladies is the Queen. Be of good courage."

Lady Clarendon then made a hasty retreat. Lucy's heart beat violently when she found herself alone; but her resolution did not fail her. She stood with folded hands, pale but composed, and motionless as a statue, awaiting the Queen's approach; and when the Queen came near, she advanced a step forward, dropped on her knees, and presented the petition.

The extreme beauty of the child, her deep mourning, the touching sadness of her look and manner, and above all, the streaming tears that bedewed her cheek, excited the Queen's attention and interest. She paused, spoke kindly to her, and took the offered paper; but when she saw the name of Lord Preston, her colour rose, she frowned, cast the petition from her, and would have passed on; but Lucy, who had watched her countenance with an anxiety which almost amounted to agony, losing all awe for royalty in her fears for her father, put forth her hand, and grasping the Queen's robe, cried in an imploring tone, "Spare my father! my dear, dear father, royal lady!"

Lucy had meant to say many persuasive things; but in her sore distress she forgot them all, and could only repeat, "Save my father, gracious Queen!" till her feelings choked her voice, and throwing her arms round the Queen's knees, she leaned her head against her person, and sobbed aloud. Queen Mary pitied the distress of her young petitioner; but she considered the death of Lord Preston a measure of political necessity, because he was a ringleader in a conspiracy to overturn the government, and bring back King James, her father, to the throne. She therefore told Lucy mildly, but firmly, that she could not grant her request.

"But he is good and kind to every one," said Lucy, raising her blue eyes, which were swimming in tears, to the face of the Queen.

66 He may be so to you, child," returned the Queen, "but he has broken the laws of his country, and therefore he must die."

"But you can pardon him," replied Lucy, "and I have learned that God has said, 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.'"

"It does not become a little child like. you to attempt to instruct me," replied the Queen gravely; "I am acquainted with my duty. It is my place to administer justice impartially; and it is not possible for me to pardon your father, however painful it may be to deny so dutiful a child.”

Lucy did not reply, only raised her eyes with an appealing look to the Queen, and then turned them expressively on the portrait of King James.

This excited the Queen's curiosity, and she inquired of Lucy, why she gazed so intently upon that picture. "I was thinking," replied Lucy, "how very strange it is, that you should wish to kill my father, only because he loved yours so faithfully."

This wise and artless reproof from so young a child went to the very heart of the Queen. She raised her eyes to that once dear and honored parent, who had ever been a tender father to her; and when she thought of him as an exile in a foreign land, relying upon the bounty of strangers for his daily bread, while she was invested with the royalty of which he had been deprived, the contrast between herself and the pious and dutiful child before her, afflicted her heart, and she burst into tears. 66 Rise, dear child," said she; "I cannot make thee an orphan. Thou hast prevailed; thy father shall not die. Thy filial love has saved him!"

EDWIN AND ANGELINA.

A BALLAD.

GOLDSMITH,

The immortal author of the "Vicar of Wakefield," born 1731, died
1774, after a life of alternate success and difficulty, the latter,
unhappily, the result of imprudence and irregularity. He was an
intimate friend of Dr. Johnson, and other great wits of his time.

"TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,

To where yon taper cheers the vale,
With hospitable ray.

"For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow,
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go."

"Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries,
"To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies,
To lure thee to thy doom.

"Here to the houseless child of want, My door is open still;

And, though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.

"Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.

"No flocks that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn,

Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them:

"But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.

"Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong;
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from Heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell:
The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay;

A refuge to the neighbouring poor
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest:

D

And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily press'd, and smiled,
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.

Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling fagot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the Hermit spied,
With answering care opprest:

"And whence, unhappy youth," he cried,

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The sorrows of thy breast?

"From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove;
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling, and decay;

And those who prize the paltry things
More trifling still than they.

"And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;

A shade that follows wealth or fame,.
And leaves the wretch to weep?

"And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair-one's jest:

On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.

"For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,

And spurn the sex," he said:

But while he spoke, a rising blush

His love-lorn guest betray'd.

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