bably in imitation of
the watch kept by the Roman soldiers round the tomb of Our Lord, and
with the view of preserving the host from any casualty.

At Rome, the ceremony is anticipated, the wafer being carried in
procession, on the Thursday in Passion Week, from the Sistine to the
Paoline Chapel, and brought back again on the Friday; thus missing
the whole intention of the rite. Dr. Baggs, in his _Ceremonies of Holy
Week at Rome_, says (p. 65.):--

"When the pope reaches the altar (of the Capella Paolina),
the first cardinal deacon receives from his hands the blessed
sacrament, and, preceded by torches, carries it to the upper
part of the _macchina_; M. Sagrista places it within the urn
commonly called the sepulchre, where it is incensed by the
Pope.... M. Sagrista then shuts the sepulchre, and delivers
the key to the Card. Penitentiary, who is to officiate on the
following day."

E.V.

* * * * *

POEM BY SIR EDWARD DYER.

_Dr. Rimbault's 4th Qu._ (No. 19. p. 302.).--"My mind to me a kingdom
is" will be found to be of much earlier date than Nicholas Breton.
Percy partly printed it from William Byrds's _Psalmes, Sonets,
and Songs of Sadnes_ (no date, but 1588 according to Ames), with
some additions and _improvements (?)_ from a B.L. copy in the
Pepysian collection. I have met with it in some early poetical
miscellany--perhaps Tottel, or _England's Helicon_--but cannot just
now refer to either.

The following copy is from a cotemporary MS. containing many of
the poems of Sir Edward Dyer, Edward Earl of Oxford, and their
cotemporaries, several of which have never been published. The
collection appears to have been made by Robert Mills, of Cambridge.
Dr. Rimbault will, no doubt, be glad to compare this text with
Breton's. It is, at least, much more genuine than the _composite_
one given by Bishop Percy.

"My mynde to me a kyngdome is,
Suche preasente joyes therin I fynde,
That it excells all other blisse,
That earth affordes or growes by kynde;
Thoughe muche I wante which moste would have,
Yet still my mynde forbiddes to crave.

"No princely pompe, no wealthy store,
No force to winne the victorye,
No wilye witt to salve a sore,
No shape to feade a loving eye;
To none of these I yielde as thrall,
For why? my mynde dothe serve for all.

"I see howe plenty suffers ofte,
And hasty clymers sone do fall,
I s