National opinion. [volume] (Bradford, Vt.) 1865-1874, 1873-09-12
mined unanswered, but wherever

NAMED unanswered, but wherever IIs
noble face and handsome form appeared
abroad, oil felt for him the iiveliest
sympathy, and women's hearts he took
by storm. Still he renamed homesick
and restless, IN exile from all he held
dear.
The unhappy dreamer wandered on
until he at last found refuge in Padua.
The sombre character of the city ac-
corded with his melancholy and pious
monks received him as guest into
their cloister. There, for hours long,
he wonld sit at a window gazing out
into the quiet cloister garden, or listen
ing drealrily to the water of the foun.
tain, as it fell ripping into the broad,
marble basin; or he would lean his
weary forehead against the trailing vines
of the perennial white roses, innaling
their fragrance -afragrance that b rought
membranes.
And so, day after day, he waited for
the message from home. Noise'.ess foot
steps fitted past him footsteps of the
monks, grave, earnest naen with
thoughtful forehea1s and eyes that
spoke Of peace. With tenderest sympa-
thy they gazed into that young, gentle
face, that bore traces of heavy conflicts,
and of wild, passionate k'ngings.
One day a messenger from England
demanded secret audience Of Edward
Courtenay, and when it wits granted,
the stranger handed him title casket
with a golden key. The c,tsket con-
tanned nothing but the secret poems of
Elizabeth and a withered white rose
which turned to dust at the touch Of
her lovers trembling hand. There was
no other message-not a word. The
messenger knew not who had sent the
casket, and he returned literally re-
warded.
In deepest emotion, Edward Courte-
lips-a strange, intoxicating perfume
stole from them. His senses wavered,
but as soon as he came to himself, with
glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, he
rushed to his serious friend. 81 must
return home at once" he said, hastily
my bride calls me. Rejoice with me,
for I shall be happy
Scarce had he spoken these words
when he fell into a swosn. Wild fever
phantases followed and the next
morning the pious monks wept and
prayed by the corpse of him they had
loved so well. For three days the
beautiful dead lay in state, covered
with white roses and, as they bore him
to his grave in the Church of San An
tonius, women and children str we'd
white roses all the way, 30 tn it
almost seemed as if a snow had fai4eh.
Roses followed him into the dark vault,
and the mysterious casket was laid in
his coffin.
A report that Edward Courtenay had !
been poisoned, spread throughout Italy !
and reached England. The messenger |
was never seen or heard of again. And
so ended the life of the most unfortu
nate cousin of two mighty queens.
Elizabeth, when she became Queen
of England, no very long time after
wards, was the bountiful patroness of
poets but that poem in the Tower was
her last. She never wrote star.za
afterwards. In her heart she bore
lifelong sorrow for him who had been
taken from her in so terrible and mys-
terious a way, and persons who had
been i'll the secret of her love were
wont to say that there lay the reason
why she never married.
One morning, to her horror, she had
missed the precious casket, and all
search for it proved unavailing. Whe
ther she afterwards had her suspicious
that its disappearance had anytime to
do with the death of her lover, '7 LOT
known. 1t is certain, however, that her
only verses and her only love sleep in
that coffin at Padua which encloses the
dust of him who was once called "The
White Rose of York"