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Bel. Oh, well regard me; is this voice a strange Consider too, when beggars once pretend A case like mine, no little will content them. Pri. What wouldst thou beg for?

Bel. Pity and forgiveness. [Throws up her veil.
By the kind tender names of child and father,
Hear my complaints, and take me to your love.
Pri. My daughter?
Bel.
Yes, your daughter, by a mother
Virtuous and noble, faithful to your honour,
Obedient to your will, kind to your wishes,
Dear to your arms. By all the joys she gave you,
When in her blooming years she was your treasure,
Look kindly on me; in my face behold

The lineaments of hers you've kiss'd so often,
Pleading the cause of your poor cast-off child.
Pri. Thou art my daughter.
Bel.

Yes-and you've oft told me,
With smiles of love, and chaste paternal kisses,
I'd much resemblance of my mother.
Pri.
Oh !
Hadst thou inherited her matchless virtues,
I had been too bless'd.
Bel.

Nay, do not call to memory My disobedience, but let pity enter Into your heart, and quite deface the impression. For could you think how mine's perplex'd, what sadness,

Fears, and despairs distract the peace within me, Oh! you would take me in your dear, dear arms, Hover with strong compassion o'er your young one, To shelter me with a protecting wing

From the black gather'd storm, that's just, just breaking.

Pri. Don't talk thus. Bel.

Yes, I must, and you must hear too. I have a husband.

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Bel.

Utter it.

[fondness.

Oh my husband, my dear husband Carries a dagger in his once kind bosom, To pierce the heart of your poor Belvidera. Pri. Kill thee !

Bel. Yes, kill me. When he pass'd his faith And covenant against your state and senate, He gave me up as hostage for his truth: With me a dagger, and a dire commission, Whene'er he fail'd, to plunge it through this bosom. I learnt the danger, chose the hour of love T'attempt his heart, and bring it back to honour. Great love prevail'd, and bless'd me with success; He came, confess'd, betray'd his dearest friends, For promised mercy. Now they're doom'd to suffer. Gall'd with remembrance of what then was sworn, If they are lost, he vows to appease the gods With this poor life, and make my blood the atonePri. Heavens ! [ment.

Bel. Think you saw what past at our last parting; Think you beheld him like a raging lion, Pacing the earth, and tearing up his steps, Fate in his eyes, and roaring with the pain Of burning fury; think you saw one hand Fix'd on my throat, whilst the extended other Grasp'd a keen threatening dagger: Oh! 'twas thus We last embraced; when, trembling with revenge, He dragg'd me to the ground, and at my bosom Presented horrid death; cried out, My friends! Where are my friends? swore, wept, raged, threaten'd, loved.

For yet he loved, and that dear love preserved me
To this last trial of a father's pity.

I fear not death, but cannot bear a thought
That that dear hand should do the unfriendly office.
If I was ever then your care, now hear me ;
Fly to the senate, save the promised lives
Of his dear friends, ere mine be made the sacrifice.
Pri. Oh, my heart's comfort!

Bel.

Will you not, my father? Weep not, but answer me.

Pri. By Heaven, I will. Not one of them but what shall be immortal. Canst thou forgive me all my follies past, I'll henceforth be indeed a father; never, Never more thus expose, but cherish thee, Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my life: Dear as these eyes that weep in fondness o'er thee. Peace to thy heart. Farewell.

Bel.

Go, and remember 'Tis Belvidera's life her father pleads for.

[Exeunt severally.

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BEAUTY and Love fell once at odds,
And thus reviled each other:
Quoth Love, I am one of the gods,
And thou wait'st on my mother;
Thou hadst no power on man at all
But what I gave to thee;
Nor are you longer sweet, or fair,
Than men acknowledge me.

Away, fond boy, then Beauty cried,
We know that thou art blind;
And men of nobler parts they can
Our graces better find:
"Twas I begot the mortal snow,

And kindled men's desires
s;

I made thy quiver and thy bow,

And wings to fan thy fires.

Noble-hearted seamen are,
Those that do no labour spare,
Nor no danger shun or fear

To do their country pleasure.
In loyalty they do abound,
Nothing base in them is found;
But they bravely stand their ground
In calm and stormy weather.
In their love and constancy
None above them e'er can be:
As the maidens daily see,

Who are by seamen courted: Nothing for them is too good That is found in land or flood; Nor with better flesh and blood Has any ever sported.

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N. HOOK,

Of Trinity College, Cambridge, published a volume of poems of the date 1685.

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TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

WHY, little charmer of the air,
Dost thou in music spend the morn,
While I thus languish in despair,
Oppress'd by Cynthia's hate and scorn?
Why dost thou sing and hear me cry?
Tell, wanton songster, tell me why.

Great to the ear, though small to sight,
The happy lover's dear delight;
Fly to the bowers where such are laid,
And there bestow thy serenade:
Haste thee from sorrow, haste away,
Alas, there's danger in thy stay,
Lest hearing me so oft complain
Should make thee change thy cheerful
strain.

Then cease, thou charmer of the air,
No more in music spend the morn
With me that languish in despair,
Oppress'd by Cynthia's hate and scorn;
And do not this poor boon deny,
I ask but silence while I die.

ON THE SIGHT OF HIS MISTRESS'S HOUSE. FROM THE SAME.

To view these walls each night I come alone,
And pay my adoration to the stone;
Whence joy and peace are influenced on me,
For 'tis the temple of my deity.

As nights and days an anxious wretch by stealth Creeps out to view the place which hoards his wealth,

So to this house, that keeps from me my heart, I come, look, traverse, weep, and then depart*.

[* N. Hook and Philip Ayres are writers very little known, and scarcely meriting a place in these Selections. In no collection of our poets (and our so called "British Poets" have been made general and mediocre enough), have they ever found a place, in no Biographical Dictionary are their names included, and without Mr. Campbell's resurrection of them they must have slept with "Time and with Tom Hearne." A reader may be allowed to smile at Mr. Campbell's very general love for poetry in its essence, and his endeavours to recover and embalm decayed bodies, at his taste, and his general good-nature. Mr. Campbell's criticisms are everywhere distinguished by a discerning and cultivated mind, his selections at times by a kindness for the dead, and an anxiety to give what Mr. Ellis had not given.]

EDMUND WALLER.

[Born, 1605. Died, 1687.]

OF THE QUEEN.

THE lark, that shuns on lofty boughs to build
Her humble nest, lies silent in the field;
But if (the promise of a cloudless day)
Aurora, smiling, bids her rise and play,

Then straight she shows 'twas not for want of voice
Or power to climb, she made so low a choice:
Singing she mounts; her airy wings are stretch'd
Tow'rds heaven, as if from heaven her note she
fetch'd.

So we, retiring from the busy throng,
Use to restrain th' ambition of our song;
But since the light which now informs our age
Breaks from the court, indulgent to her rage,
Thither my Muse, like bold Prometheus, flies,
To light her torch at Gloriana's eyes.

For Mercy has, could Mercy's self be seen,
No sweeter look than this propitious queen.
Such guard and comfort the distressed find,
From her large power, and from her larger mind,
That whom ill Fate would ruin, it prefers,
For all the miserable are made hers.
So the fair tree whereon the eagle builds,
Poor sheep from tempests, and their shepherds,
The royal bird possesses all the boughs, [shields:
But shade and shelter to the flock allows.

ON MY LADY DOROTHY SYDNEY'S PICTURE.

SUCH was Philoclea, and such Dorus' flame!
The matchless Sydney, that immortal frame
Of perfect beauty, on two pillars placed,
Not his high fancy could one pattern, graced
With such extremes of excellence, compose
Wonders so distant in one face disclose !
Such cheerful modesty, such humble state,
Moves certain love, but with as doubtful fate
As when, beyond our greedy reach, we see
Inviting fruit on too sublime a tree.

All the rich flowers through his Arcadia found,
Amazed we see in this one garland bound.
Had but this copy (which the artist took
From the fair picture of that noble book)
Stood at Kalander's, the brave friends had jarr'd,
And, rivals made, th' ensuing story marr'd.
Just Nature, first instructed by his thought,
In his own house thus practised what he taught.
This glorious piece transcends what he could think,
So much his blood is nobler than his ink!

AT PENSHURST.

HAD Dorothea lived when mortals made
Choice of their deities, this sacred shade
Had held an altar to her power that gave
The peace and glory which these alleys have;
Embroider'd so with flowers where she stood,
That it became a garden of a wood.
Her presence has such more than human grace,
That it can civilise the rudest place;
And beauty too, and order, can impart,
Where Nature ne'er intended it, nor art.
The plants acknowledge this, and her admire,
No less than those of old did Orpheus' lyre.
If she sit down, with tops all tow'rds her bow'd,
They round about her into arbours crowd;
Or if she walk, in even ranks they stand,
Like some well-marshalld and obsequious band.
Amphion so made stones and timber leap
Into fair figures, from a confused heap:
And in the symmetry of her parts is found
A power like that of harmony in sound.

Ye lofty beeches! tell this matchless dame,
That if together ye fed all one flame,
It could not equalise the hundredth part
Of what her eyes have kindled in my heart!—
Go, boy, and carve this passion on the bark
Of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark
Of noble Sydney's birth*; when such benign,
Such more than mortal-making stars did shine,
That there they cannot but for ever prove
The monument and pledge of humble love;
His humble love whose hope shall ne'er rise higher
Than for a pardon that he dares admire.

THE STORY OF PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE
APPLIED t.

THYRSIS, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sacharissa loved, but loved in vain :
Like Phoebus sung the no less am'rous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy!
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues,
With numbers such as Phoebus' self might use !
Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads,
O'er craggy mountains, and through flow'ry meads;
[* That taller tree, which of a nut was set,
At his great birth, where all the Muses met.
BEN JONSON, To Penshurst.]

[t The French claim this as belonging to them. To whomsoever it belongs, the thought is finely turned.— GOLDSMITH.]

Invoked to testify the lover's care,

Or form some image of his cruel fair.
Urged with his fury, like a wounded deer,
O'er these he fled; and now approaching near,
Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay,
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay.
Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain :
All but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his passion, and approve his song.
Like Phoebus, thus acquiring unsought praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.

AT PENSHURST.

WHILE in this park I sing, the list'ning deer
Attend my passion, and forget to fear;
When to the beeches I report my flame,
They bow their heads, as if they felt the same.
To gods appealing, when I reach their bowers
With loud complaints, they answer me in showers.
To thee a wild and cruel soul is given,

More deaf than trees, and prouder than the heaven!

Love's foe profess'd! why dost thou falsely feign
Thyself a Sydney from which noble strain
He sprung, that could so far exalt the name
Of Love, and warm our nation with his flame ;
That all we can of love or high desire,
Seems but the smoke of am'rous Sydney's fire.
Nor call her mother who so well does prove
One breast may hold both chastity and love.
Never can she, that so exceeds the Spring
In joy and bounty, be supposed to bring
One so destructive. To no human stock
We owe this fierce unkindness, but the rock,
That cloven rock produced thee, by whose side
Nature, to recompense the fatal pride

Of such stern beauty, placed those healing springs
Which not more help than that destruction brings.
Thy heart no ruder than the rugged stone,
I might, like Orpheus, with my numerous moan
Melt to compassion: now my trait'rous song
With thee conspires to do the singer wrong;
While thus I suffer not myself to lose
The memory of what augments my woes;
But with my own breath still foment the fire,
Which flames as high as fancy can aspire!

This last complaint th' indulgent ears did pierce
Of just Apollo, president of verse;
Highly concerned that the Muse should bring
Damage to one whom he had taught to sing:
Thus he advised me : " on yon aged tree
Hang up my lute, and hie thee to the sea,
That there with wonders thy diverted mind
Some truce, at least, may with this passion find."
Ah, cruel nymph! from whom her humble swain
Flies for relief into the raging main,

And from the winds and tempests does expect
A milder fate than from her cold neglect !

Yet there he'll pray that the unkind may prove Bless'd in her choice; and vows this endless love 'Springs from no hope of what she can confer, But from those gifts which heaven has heap'd on her.

OF LOVE.

ANGER, in hasty words or blows,
Itself discharges on our foes;
And sorrow too finds some relief
In tears, which wait upon our grief :
So ev'ry passion but fond love
Unto its own redress does move;
But that alone the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs;
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,
Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep;
Postures which render him despised,
Where he endeavours to be prized.
For women (born to be controll'd),
Stoop to the forward and the bold;
Affect the haughty and the proud,
The gay, the frolic, and the loud.
Who first the gen'rous steed opprest
Not kneeling did salute the beast,
But with high courage, life, and force,
Approaching, tamed th' unruly horse.

Unwisely we the wiser East

Pity, supposing them opprest
With tyrants' force, whose law is will,
By which they govern, spoil, and kill:
Each nymph, but moderately fair,
Commands with no less rigour here.
Should some brave Turk, that walks among
His twenty lasses, bright and young,
And beckons to the willing dame,
Preferr'd to quench his present flame,
Behold as many gallants here,
With modest guise and silent fear,
All to one female idol bend,

While her high pride does scarce descend
To mark their follies, he would swear
That these her guard of eunuchs were,
And that a more majestic queen,
Or humbler slaves, he had not seen.
All this with indignation spoke,
In vain I struggled with the yoke
Of mighty Love: that conqu'ring look,
When next beheld, like lightning strook
My blasted soul, and made me bow
Lower than those I pitied now.

So the tall stag, upon the brink

Of some smooth stream about to drink,
Surveying there his armed head,
With shame remembers that he fled
The scorned dogs, resolves to try
The combat next; but if their cry
Invades again his trembling ear,
He straight resumes his wonted care,
Leaves the untasted spring behind,
And, wing'd with fear, outflies the wind.

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