Have they no place but here, beneath th' o'ershadowing tomb? Crown'st thou but the daughters Of our tearful race? Heaven's own purest waters Well might wear the trace Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace! Will that clime enfold thee With immortal air? Shall we not behold thee Bright and deathless there, In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendantly more fair? Yes, my fancy sees thee In that light disclose, And its dream thus frees thee From the mist of woes, Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal, royal Rose! THE SILVER ARROW: A TALE OF THE ARCHERY GROUND. BY MISS MITFORD, AUTHOR OF OUR VILLAGE," OUR RECTOR," &c. ARCHERY meetings are the order of the - day. Not to go back to those olden times, when the bow was the general weapon of the land, when the battles of Cressy and of Poictiers were won by the stout English archers, and the king's deer slain in his forests by the bold outlaws, Robin Hood and Little John, and the mad priest, Friar Tuck, when battles were won and ships taken not by dint of rockets and cannon-balls, but by the broad arrow, or when (to come back to more domestic and therefore more interesting illustrations) William of Cloudesley, the English William Tell, saved his forfeited life by shoot |