that he was appointed Prefect of the English College there.

In 1584 he was priested; and having an ardent desire to devote himself to the spiritual benefit of his country, the almost certain martyrdom that sooner or later seemed to await him, in no degree abated his desire to be sent on the home mission. Permission was accorded him, and in the year 1586 he was appointed, with Henry Garnet, the subsequent martyr, with whom he had left Rome in the month of May, arriving in England on the 7th of July. On their first arrival they were received by William, third Lord Vaux, of Harrowden (Hackney); and when Lady Arundel's confessor died, Southwell was made her chaplain and confessor in his place.

The following extracts are taken from a letter of his written shortly before his own sufferings:

"... As yet we are alive and well, being unworthy, it seems, of prisons.

"As many of ours as are in chains rejoice, and are comforted in their prisons; and they that are at liberty set not their hearts upon it, nor expect it to be of long continuance. All, by the great goodness and mercy of God, arm themselves to suffer anything that can come, how hard it soever may be, as it shall please the Lord; for whose greater glory, and the salvation of souls, they are more concerned than for any temporal losses.

A little while ago they apprehended two priests

who have suffered such cruel usage in the prison of Bridewell as can scarcely be believed.

"What was given them to eat was so little in quantity, and withal so filthy and nauseous, that the very sight of it was enough to turn their stomachs. The labours to which they obliged them were continual and immoderate, and no less in sickness than in health; for with hard blows and stripes they forced them to accomplish their task, how weak soever they were. Their beds were dirty straw, and their prison most filthy.

"Some were hung up whole days by the hands, in such manner that they can but just touch the ground with the tops of their toes. . . . This purgatory we are looking for every hour, in which Topcliffe and Young, the two executioners of the Catholics, exercise all kinds of torments. But come what pleaseth God, we hope we shall be able to bear all in Him that strengthens us." . . . "We have sung the canticles of the Lord in a strange land, and in this desert we have sucked honey from the rock, and oil from the hard stone."

And now, before giving the account of this holy man's trial, which came in due time, we must transcribe a few of his poems, to enable the reader to enter into his spirit and character. They have been published with his "Memoirs," from which we chiefly quote, and were probably written, for the most part, during the six years he was chaplain to Lady Arundel.

LIFE'S DEATH, LOVE'S LIFE.

Who lives in love, loves least to live,
And long delays doth rue;

If Him we love, by whom we live,
To whom all love is due,

Who for our love did choose to live,

And was content to die,

Who loved our love more than His life,
And love with life did buy,-

Let us in life, yea, with our life,
Requite His living love;

For best we live, when best we love,
If love our life remove.

Where love is hot, life hateful is,
Their grounds do not agree;

Love where it loves, life where it lives,
Desireth most to be.

And sith love is not where it lives,
Nor liveth where it loves,

Love hateth life that holds it back,
And death it most approves.

For seldom is he won in life
Whom love doth most desire,
If won in love, yet not enjoyed
Till mortal life expire.

Life out of earth hath no abode,
In earth love hath no place;
Love settled hath her joys in heaven,
In earth life all her grace.

Mourn, therefore, no true lover's death;

Life only him annoys ;

And when he taketh leave of life,

Then love begins his joys.

E

SCORN NOT THE LEAST.

Where words are weak, and foes encountering strong, Where mightier do assault than do defend,

The feebler part puts up enforced wrong,

And silent sees that speech could not amend.
Yet higher powers most think, though they repine ;
When sun is set, the little stars shine out.

While pike doth range the silly tench doth fly,
And crouch in privy creeks with smaller fish ;
Yet pikes are caught, when little fish go by ;
These fleet afloat, while those do fill the dish.
There is a time e'en for the worms to creep,
And suck the dew, when all their foes do sleep.

The martin cannot ever soar on high,

Nor greedy greyhound still pursue the chase;
The tender lark will find a time to fly,

And fearful hare to run a quiet race.
He that the growth on cedars did bestow,
Gave also lowly mushrooms leave to grow.
In Aman's pomp poor Mardocheus wept,

Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe;
The Lazar pined while Dives' feast was kept,
Yet he to heaven, to hell did Dives go.
We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May;
Yet grass is green, when flowers do fade away.

EXTRACT FROM "ST PETER'S COMPLAINT.”

I feared with life to die, by death to live;

I left my Guide,-now left, and leaving God To breathe in bliss, I feared my breath to give ; I feared, for heavenly sign, an earthly rod; These fears I feared, fears feeling no mishaps, Oh fond, oh faint, oh false, oh faulty lapse!

How can I live, that thus my life denied?
What can I hope, that lost my hope in fear?
What trust in one, that truth itself defied?

What good in him that did his God forswear?
O sin of sins! of ills the very worst;

O matchless wretch! O caitiff most accurst!

Vain in my vaunts, I vowed, if friends had failed,
Alone Christ's hardest fortunes to abide ;
Giant in talk, like dwarf in trial quail,

Excelling none, but in untruth and pride.
Such distance is between high words, and deeds!
In proof the greatest vaunter seldom speeds.

The born-blind beggar, for receivèd sight,

Fast in his faith and love to Christ remained;

He stoopèd to no fear, he feared no might,

No change his choice, no threats his truth distained One wonder wrought him in his duty sure,

I, after thousands, did my Lord abjure.

O tongue! that didst His praise and Godhead sound, How wert thou stained with such detesting words, That every word was to His heart a wound,

And lanced Him deeper than a thousand swords? What rage of man, yea, what infernal sprite, Could have disgorged more loathsome dregs of spite?

Yet love was loath part, fear loath to die;

Stay danger, life did counterplead their causes;
I, favouring stay and life, bade danger fly,
But danger did except against these clauses;
Yet, stay and live I would, and danger shun,
And lost myself, while I my verdict won.

I stayed, yet did my staying farthest part;
I lived, but so, that saving life I lost it;
Danger I shunned, but to my sorer smart,

I gained nought, but deeper danger crossed it.
What danger, distance, death is worse than this,
That runs from God, and spoils his soul of bliss.

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