" This was thy home then, gentle Jane, 



This thy green solitude ; and here 

 At evening, from thy gleaming pane, 



Thine eye oft watch'd the dappled deer, 

 While the soft sun was in its wane, 



Browsing beneath the brooklet clear ; 

 The brook runs still, the sun sets now, 



The trees wave still ; but where art thou ? " 



A rocky bank, with scattered sheep, are objects on which 

 the mind loves to rest. Such is the back-ground of 

 Bradgate ruin, the birth-place of the beautiful Jane 

 Grey, the illustrious and ill-fated scion of the house of 

 Suffolk, concerning whom it was related by one who had 

 seen and loved her, that even in her eighteenth year she 

 had the innocence of childhood, the beauty of youth, the 

 solidity of middle, and the gravity of old age ; the life of 

 a saint, and yet the death of a malefactor. On that 

 rocky bank she had often gazed, for though man passes 

 from his inheritance, and noble dwellings crumble to the 

 dust, nature changes not. Rude eminences extend 



