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. 1, 1863.] erected by Richard de Stowe; Waltham, by Roger de Crundale and Dymenge de Leger; while Cheap was commenced by Michael de Canterbury, and completed by Roger de Crundale. The ornamental portions of the various structures appear to have been principally finished in London; the graceful effigies of the queen, or at least a portion of them, which ornamented the crosses being the work of William de Ireland.

The crosses at Waltham and Northampton have at times been repaired, and a fierce controversy has taken place between Mr. Roberts, of the British Archæological Association, and several local archæologians and architects of eminence, with respect to an assertion made by the former gentleman, to the effect that the Northampton cross had been restored in a manner at variance with its original appearance; but, whatever may be the merits or demerits of the issue thus raised, there can be no question as to the fact that the cross at Geddington displays to this day, excepting the discolorations effected by the hand of time, the same appearance presented by it during the lifetime of Edward. The top is supposed to have been surmounted with a cross, or by a statue of the Virgin and Child. These are gone, but every other detail remains in a perfect state of preservation. The steps surrounding the base have been renewed at various periods; and the last time at the cost of the Duke of Buccleuch. The structure itself is very simple in design, being of triangular shape, with figures at the angles instead of the sides. This arrangement certainly mars the beauty of the cross when beheld from certain points of view, and hides much of the graceful and classical appearance of the statues; but, at the same time, it has undoubtedly conduced to preserve them from the mutilations and disfigurements which became the fate of many of their contemporaries. Those who have seen the effigy of the queen in Westminster Abbey, and compared it with those belonging to the Northampton and Geddington crosses, can scarcely have failed to observe the similarity of features which pervades them all. It is stated that Flaxman was of opinion that the statue of Eleanor in Westminster Abbey partook of the characteristics which distinguished the school of Pisano; and Mr. Hartshorne considers it not at all unlikely that the various statues at Northampton and Geddington are the work of several of Pisano’s numerous scholars, he states that “The Executorial Rolls, printed by Mr. Botfield bear out this conjecture, as they state that the designer of the effigies at Westminster and Lincoln was William Torel, a goldsmith.” The queen’s statue was modelled in wax, and there is an entry for bringing 726 lb. from the house of Torel. This may serve to account for the resemblance existing in the countenances of the statues yet preserved.

It may seem strange that a little country village like Geddington should have been selected as a locality for the erection of one of these tasteful and elegant structures, in an age when the study of architecture was followed more from an innate love of the art itself, than from the desire of reaping pecuniary profit; but Geddington formerly contained a royal palace, to which the early English monarchs were wont to resort, and where they often pursued the deer in the neighbouring chase. No vestiges of the regal building are now discoverable: everything has disappeared except the church, and the silent memorial of an English monarch’s affection for one of the worthiest queens that ever graced an English throne.

the sea-shore at Cyprus stood A little shelter’d rustic altar, Where those whom Venus loved could come And pious prayers and praises falter. ’Twas humble, yet the Golden Age Ere tyrants were, had kept it guarded, And centuries long that little fane A sheltering plane had greenly warded.

Up to its marble steps the waves Came creeping, courtier-like, in whispers The Zephyrs spoke among the boughs, Like lovers, or like infant-lispers; Dark violets purpled all the turf Beneath that plane-tree’s soft green shadow, Nowhere the amaranth grew so fair As just within that sea-side meadow.

Phædon, a sculptor, Lemnian born, Had toil’d for years to deck that altar With his best art; no lust for gold Or bad men’s scorn could make him falter; So he had carved his dead love’s face As Clytè—praying still in anguish That for one hour she might return

’Tis done!” one eve the sculptor cried, And knelt in prayer to Aphroditè. His dream stood petrified at last, That marble nymph—his gentle Clytè. The goddess heard him as he knelt, And smiled from rosy clouds, consenting; The maid was ferried back to earth, Pluto for one short hour relenting.

That swelling breast—the lover’s pillow— Was now of Parian crystal whiteness; Those Juno arms, that Jove might fold, Were of a smooth and radiant lightness; Her hair in rippling wave on wave Crown’d a fair head so sweetly mournful, The eyes were full of tender grief, The full-lipp’d mouth was witching scornful.

The room was dark where Phædon knelt, But as he prayed the moonbeams entered, And, like a crown of glory pure, Upon the brow of Clytè centred; Then down her face they gently stole, With silver all her raiment sheathing. His prayer was answered; Phædon cried, “She lives! she lives! I hear her breathing!”

Like one who, rousing from a trance, Reluctant wakes, and half in sorrow, Clytè stepp’d from that pedestal— Death had been vanquish’d till the morrow. She kiss’d her lover’s burning brow, Her soft white arms around him lacing; Venus had sent her from the dead To soothe him with her sweet embracing.