Two young boys wearing white nightdresses kneel together at the foot of a bed. Each child holds an open prayer book in his hands. The illustration is dark except for a single lamp that hangs above the children’s heads, illuminating them. A portrait in an ornately decorated frame hangs on the wall behind the children. Full-page illustration.

A Tale of the Tower. By Douglas Jerrold. “ ——We smother’d The most replenished sweet work of Nature, That from the prime creation ere she fram’d.” Shakspere. “ He shall not faint—who in the Lord Lays up his hope and trust ; Whose staff is still God’s holy word, Whose monitor, the Just. “ He shall not faint—though in his path The wicked lurk alway, And, like a dragon in his wrath, Prepare to rend and slay. “ He shall not faint—though thick as weeds Around him snares are spread ; And ev’ry brake its serpents breeds, To sting the trav’ller dead. “ He shall not faint—though on the deep Beset by rock and sand ; And lightnings blaze, and thunders leap From God’s avenging hand. “ He shall not faint—though made the prey Of slander, badly bold ; For what to man is base allay, To God is purest gold. “ In pilgrimage of weary length ; In battle with the vain ; In bonds of adamantine strength ; In tempest on the main ; “ And, yea, in that most trying hour, When smit by scoffer’s taint, Still, still rejoicing in thy pow’r, Thy servant shall not faint. “ Oh God ! for ever make this thought The music of our minds ; With more delicious sweetness fraught Than India’s sweetest winds. “ Make it our only hope and stay, Our right arm’s only might ; Our counsellor in wakeful day, Our guardian in the night ! “ With thankfulness for mercies shown, With pray’r for joy in store ; We bend before thy awful throne ; Our God, for evermore !” “ Yea, such the strain, the pious words Pour’d forth in solemn hour, By royal children—captive birds In London’s flinty Tow’r. Thus Edward, King of England, pray’d— Thus little York, and then Adown their guiltless heads they laid In bloody Gloster’s den. Adown they lay, and blessed sleep Fell on them—soft and light As dew that stars on flowers weep In summer’s balmy night. Thus innocent, thus nobly meek, —Devoted to the death !— With cheek aye nestling unto cheek, They mingled breath with breath. And Richard’s face was lit with smiles, As beautiful to see As drowsy infant’s laughing wiles, When rock’d on mother’s knee. Oh, Gloster ! is thine angel flown ? Incapable of good, Doth Satan call thee all his own In this dark hour of blood ? Oh ! is thy soul already lost By deeds so fierce and fell, That none of heaven’s warrior-host Will rescue thee from hell ? Will seek thee, where—possess’d by rage As stirs the panther’s kind— Thou tread’st, as in a narrow cage Of bloody thoughts confin’d ? Where thou dost hideous smile and frown As works thy heart’s desire, To take from Murder’s hand a crown— A crown of lasting fire ? Doth Mercy send no spirit there, To spurn the demon thence, With looks so soft, so brightly fair, Of sleeping innocence ? T’ appal thee with two placid brows, Made holy by their years ; By brother’s blood that in them flows, And by the widow’s tears ? Nor Mercy spoke ? Alas ! she knew The tyrant’s tiger sway : And when the dagger Gloster drew, Still Mercy ceas’d to pray. So Murder, do the Hunchback’s hest, And lift him to a throne ; Grim king-maker, with serpent crest, And sullen eye of stone ! The chamber door is open’d wide, And, silent as a shade, Doth slink remorseless Homicide, To do his fiendish trade. See Forrest, with a bloodless face— And ghastly Dighton now— Mark traitor Tyrrell’s coward pace, And sacrilegious brow ! With stiffen’d lips and stinting breath, They pause within the room— As they shall stand, when wak’d from death To hear their burning doom. Brief pause ! The tempting devil, gold, Yet holds them to the track ; As famine to the shepherd’s fold Goads on the wolfish pack. ’Tis done : behold, grim Murder takes His death-inflicting stand ! His face is flint—like writhing snakes The sinews of his hand. Oh God ! how terrible the strife ! Like heaving wave, the bed Now rises, falls—now, big with life, Now silent, spent, and dead ! The shriek is hush’d—the sob—the pray’r- And, breathing not a sound, Like sated tiger in his lair, Each murd’rer looks around ! And now, they fearfully and slow The hellish deed disclose ! E’en now each flow’r did sweetly grow, Now, wither’d is each rose ! And Tyrrell look’d with brassy eye, Nor trembled, blench’d, nor sigh’d But, scoffing murder’d majesty, “ God save King Richard !” cried. “ God save—” cry Forrest, Dighton ; then The stifling tear-drop rolls Adown their cheeks—remorse-smit men !— “ God save—our wretched souls !”