Forty miles distant was she sent,
Unto his brother's, with intent
That she should there so long remain,
Till she had chang'd her mind again.

Hereat this young man sadly griev'd,
But knew not how to be reliev'd;
He sigh❜d and sobb'd continually,
That his true love he could not see.

She by no means could to him send,
Who was her heart's espoused friend;
He sigh'd, he, griev'd, but all in vain,
For she confin'd must still remain.

He mourn'd so much, that doctor's art.
Could give no ease unto his heart,
Who was so strangely terrify'd,
That in short time for love he dy'd.

She that from him was sent away
Knew nothing of his dying-day,
But constant still she did remain,
And lov'd the dead, altho' in vain.

After he had in grave been laid
A month or more, unto this maid
He came in middle of the night,
Who joy'd to see her heart's delight.

Her father's horse, which well she knew,
Her mother's hood and safe-guard too,
He brought with him, to testify
Her parent's order he came by.

Which when her uncle understood,
He hop'd it would be for her good,
And gave consent to her straightway,
That with him she should come away.

When she was got her love behind,
They pass'd as swift as any wind,
That in two hours, or little more,
He brought her to her father's door.

But as they did this great haste make,
He did complain his head did ache;
Her handkerchief she then took out,
And ty'd the same his head about:

And unto him she thus did say,
Thou art as cold as any clay;

When we come home a fire we'll have;
But little dream'd he went to grave.

Soon were they at her father's door,
And after she ne'er saw him more:
I'll set the horse up, then he said,
And there he left this harmless maid.

She knock'd, and straight a man he cry'd, Who's there? "Tis I, she then reply'd; Who wonder'd much her voice to hear, And was possess'd with dread and fear.

Her father he did tell, and then
He star'd like an affrighted man ;

Down stairs he ran, and when he see her,

Cry'd out, my child, how cam'st thou here.

Pray sir, did you not send for me,
By such a messenger, said she?
Which made his hair stare on his head,
As knowing well that he was dead.

Where is he? then to her he said,
He's in the stable, quoth the maid;
Go in, said he, and go to bed,
I'll see the horse well littered.

He star'd about, and there could he
No shape of any mankind see;
But found his horse all on a sweat,
Which made him in a deadly fret.

His daughter he said nothing to,
Nor none else, tho' full well they knew
That he was dead a month before,
For fear of grieving her full sore.

Her father to the father went
Of the deceas'd, with full intent
To tell him what his daughter said,
So both came back unto this maid.

They ask'd her, and she still did say,
"Twas he that then brought her away;
Which when they heard, they were amaz'd,
And on each other strangely gaz'd.

A handkerchief she said she ty'd
About his head; and that they try'd,
The sexton they did speak unto,
That he the grave would then undo:

Affrighted, then they did behold
His body turning into mould;

And though he had a month been dead,
This handkerchief was 'bout his head.

This thing unto her then they told,
And the whole truth they did unfold;
She was thereat so terrify'd

And grieved, that she quickly dyed.

Part not true love, you rich men then,
But if they be right honest men

Your daughters love, give them their way,
For force oft breeds their lives decay.

ABBOT REEVE'S LAMENT:

BY MRS. J. Cobbold, of HOLY WELLS, IPSWICH.

John Reeve, alias Melford, was the last, who presided over the rich and noble Abbey of Bury St. Edmund. He was a native of Melford, and was elected Abbot in 1514. Of his life but few particulars are known. In 1522, a commission was directed to him to ascertain the bounds of Ipswich, a jury impanneled, and their return filed in chancery. At the grand funereal solemnity of Abbot Islip of Westminster, in 1532, he was the principal assistant. On Nov. 4th, 1539, after having in vain endeavoured to avert the

fatal blow by several most humiliating concessions, he was compelled to surrender his splendid and wealthy monastery into the rapacious hands of Henry the VIIIth. An annual pension of 500 marks was assign ed him; and he retired from the splendor and magnificence of the abbatial palace and dignity to a private station, in a large house at the south-west corner of Crown Street, which was the Exchequer Room belonging to the Abbey, and which has undergone less alteration than any other of the same age in the town; and where, in 1768, his arms were still to be seen in one of the windows, with a scroll beneath, inscribed

Dominus Johannes Melford Abbas,

He appears, however, to have fallen a victim to the severity of the change; as he very soon sunk under the weight of disappointment and sorrow, occasioned by the havoc and devastation made in his church and abbey, the overthrow of that religion to which he was so firmly attached, and the degrading necessity he was under of resigning his honors and his dignity. These causes operated so strongly upon his mind, as to produce that chagrin and vexation, which shortened his life, and brought him to the grave on the 31st of March following, after having survived the degradation of his order, and the loss of his abbey, for the short space only of four months.

Amongst the numerous monuments and ancient gravestones in the church of St. Mary, was that of this pious and learned man. He was interred in the middle of the chancel, and over his grave was originally placed a very large flat-stone of grey marble, embellished at the four corners with the arms of the abbey, impaling those of his own family, and also his effigy in brass, in full pontificals, with a mitre on his head, and a crosier in his hand. But this ancient stone was most indecently broken and removed in 1717, by some Goths of the 18th century, to make room for a new one to cover the remains of a Mr. Sutton, who was buried in the very grave of the Ex-Abbot. On the stone was the following inscription: