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VERSES WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WINDSOR CASTLE.

FROM beauteous Windsor's high and storied halls,
Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing walls,
To my low cot, from ivory beds of state,
Pleased I return, unenvious of the great.
So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes
Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of greens,
Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill,
Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring rill;
Now haunts old hollow'd oaks, deserted cells,
Now seeks the low vale-lily's silver bells ;
Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse bowers,
And tastes the myrtle and the citron flowers;
At length returning to the wonted comb,
Prefers to all his little straw-built home.

AN AMERICAN LOVE ODE.

FROM THE SECOND VOLUME OF MONTAIGNE'S ESSAYS.

STAY, Stay, thou lovely, fearful snake,
Nor hide thee in yon darksome brake:
But let me oft thy charms review,
Thy glittering scales, and golden hue;
From these a chaplet shall be wove,
To grace the youth I dearest love.

Then ages hence, when thou no more
Shalt creep along the sunny shore,
Thy copied beauties shall be seen;
Thy red and azure mix'd with green,
In mimic folds thou shalt display:-
Stay, lovely, fearful adder, stay.

THOMAS SOUTHERNE

[Born, 1659. Died, 1746.]

FROM THE TRAGEDY OF "THE FATAL MARRIAGE."

ACT IV. SCENE II.

Isabella meeting with Biron after her marriage with

Villeroy.

Enter Nurse.

Nurse. MADAM, the gentleman's below.
Isabella. I had forgot; pray let me speak with him.
[Exit Nurse.

This ring was the first present of my love
To Biron, my first husband; I must blush
To think I have a second. Biron died
(Still to my loss) at Candy; there's my hope.
Oh, do I live to hope that he died there?
It must be so he's dead, and this ring left

By his last breath, to some known faithful friend, To bring me back again.

[BIRON introduced-Nurse retires. That's all I have to trust to

My fears were woman's-I have view'd him all : And let me, let me say it to myself,

[* In all debates where critics bear a part, Not one but nods and talks of Jonson's art, Of Shakspeare's nature and of Cowley's wit: How Beaumont's judgment check'd what Fletcher writ; How Shadwell hasty, Wycherley was slow; But for the passions, Southerne sure and Rowe.-Porɛ. Southerne and Rowe possessed these parts with Lee and Otway; they touched the passions and expressed them.]

I live again, and rise but from his tomb.
Biron. Have you forgot me quite ?
Isa. Forgot you!

Bir. Then farewell my disguise, and my misMy Isabella! [fortunes.

[He goes to her; she shrieks, and falls in a swoon. Isa. Ha!

Bir. Oh come again!

Thy Biron summons thee to life and love;
Once I had charms to wake thee:

Thy once-loved, ever-loving husband calls-
Thy Biron speaks to thee.

Isa. My husband! Biron!

Bir. Excess of love and joy, for my return, Has overpower'd her. I was to blame To take thy sex's softness unprepared: But sinking thus, thus dying in my arms, This ecstacy has made my welcome more Than words could say: words may be counterfeit, False-coin'd, and current only from the tongue, Without the mind; but passion 's in the soul, And always speaks the heart. [from me? Isa. Where have I been? Why do you keep him I know his voice: my life upon the wing, Here's the soft lure that brings me back again; 'Tis he himself, my Biron, the dear man! My true-loved husband! Do I hold you fast, Never to part again? Can I believe it? Nothing but you could work so great a change: There's more than life itself in dying here; If I must fall, death's welcome in these arms. Bir. Live ever in these arms! Isa. But pardon me

Excuse the wild disorder of my soul :

The joy, the strange surprising joy, of seeing you,
Of seeing you again, distracted me-

Bir. Thou everlasting goodness!
Isa. Answer me :

What hand of Providence has brought you back
To your own home again? Oh, satisfy
The impatience of my heart! I long to know
The story of your sufferings. You would think
Your pleasures sufferings, so long removed
From Isabella's love. But tell me all,
For every thought confounds me.

Bir. My best life! at leisure, all.

Isa. We thought you dead; kill'd at the siege of
Bir. There I fell among the dead; [Candy-
But hopes of life reviving from my wounds,
I was preserved but to be made a slave:

I often writ to my hard father, but never had
An answer; I writ to thee too-

Isa. What a world of woe

Had been prevented, but in hearing from you! Bir. Alas! thou couldst not help me!

Isa. You do not know how much I could have done;

At least, I'm sure I could have suffer'd all :
I would have sold myself to slavery,
Without redemption; given up my child,
The dearest part of me, to basest wants-
Bir. My little boy!

Isa. My life, but to have heard

You were alive-which now too late I find. [Aside.
Bir. No more, my love. Complaining of the past,
We lose the present joy. 'Tis over price
Of all my pains, that thus we meet again-
I have a thousand things to say to thee-
Isa. Would I were past the hearing!
Bir. How does my child, my boy, my father too!
I hear he's living still.

Isa. Well both, both well;

And may he prove a father to your hopes,
Though we have found him none !

Bir. Come, no more tears.

[Aside.

Isa. Seven long years of sorrow for your loss, Have mourn'd with me

Bir. And all my days behind

Shall be employ'd in a kind recompense
For thy afflictions.-Can't I see my boy?

[you.

Isa. He's gone to bed, I'll have him brought to Bir. To-morrow I shall see him: I want rest Myself, after this weary pilgrimage.

Isa. Alas! what shall I get for you? Bir. Nothing but rest, my love! To-night I would not

Be known, if possible, to your family:

I see my nurse is with you; her welcome
Would be tedious at this time;
To-morrow will do better.

Isa. I'll dispose of her, and order everything As you would have it. [Exit. Bir. Grant me but life, good Heaven, and give the means

To make this wondrous goodness some amends,
And let me then forget her, if I can!
Oh! she deserves of me much more than I
Can lose for her, though I again could venture
A father, and his fortune, for her love!
You wretched fathers, blind as fortune all!
Not to perceive that such a woman's worth
Weighs down the portions you provide your sons;
What is your trash, what all your heaps of gold,
Compared to this my heart-felt happiness?
[Bursts into tears.
What has she, in my absence, undergone!
I must not think of that; it drives me back
Upon myself, the fatal cause of all.

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Prayers have their blessings to reward our hopes,
But I have nothing left to hope for more.
What Heaven could give, I have enjoy'd; but now
The baneful planet rises on my fate,
And what's to come is a long line of woe.
Yet I may shorten it--

I promised him to follow-him!

Is he without a name? Biron, my husband,
To follow him to bed-my husband! ha!
What then is Villeroy? But yesterday
That very bed received him for its lord,
Yet a warm witness of my broken vows.
Oh, Biron, hadst thou come but one day sooner,
I would have follow'd thee through beggary,
Through all the chances of this weary life;
Wander'd the many ways of wretchedness
With thee, to find a hospitable grave;
For that's the only bed that's left me now!

[Weeping. What's to be done?-for something must be done.

Two husbands! yet not one! By both enjoy'd,
And yet a wife to neither! Hold, my brain-
This is to live in common! Very beasts,
That welcome all they meet, make just such wives.
My reputation! Oh, 'twas all was left me!
The virtuous pride of an uncensured life;
Which the dividing tongues of Biron's wrongs,
And Villeroy's resentments, tear asunder,
To gorge the throats of the blaspheming rabble.
This is the best of what can come to-morrow,
Besides old Baldwin's triumph in my ruin :
I cannot bear it-

Therefore no morrow: Ha! a lucky thought
Works the right way to rid me of them all;
All the reproaches, infamies, and scorns,
That every tongue and finger will find for me.
Let the just horror of my apprehensions
But keep me warm-no matter what can come.
'Tis but a blow-yet I will see him first-
Have a last look to heighten my despair,
And then to rest for ever.-

BIRON meets her.

Bir. Despair and rest for ever! Isabella! These words are far from thy condition, And be they ever so! I heard thy voice, And could not bear thy absence: come, my love! You have staid long; there's nothing, nothing sure Now to despair of in succeeding fate.

Isa. I am contented to be miserable, But not this way: I have been too long abused, And can believe no more.

Let me sleep on to be deceived no more.

Bir. Look up, my love! I never did deceive thee, Nor never can; believe thyself, thy eyes, That first inflamed, and lit me to my love; Those stars, that still must guide me to my joysIsa. And me to my undoing; I look round, And find no path, but leading to the grave. Bir. I cannot understand thee. Isa. My good friends above,

I thank them, have at last found out a way

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Isa. You are the only cause.

Bir. Am I the cause the cause of thy misforIsa. The fatal innocent cause of all my woes. Bir. Is this my welcome home! this the reward Of all my miseries, long labours, pains, And pining wants of wretched slavery, Which I have outlived, only in hopes of thee! Am I thus paid at last for deathless love, And call'd the cause of thy misfortunes now? Isa. Inquire no more; 'twill be explain'd too [She is going off.

soon.

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"Twas madness all-Compose thyself, my love!
The fit is past; all may be well again :
Let us to bed.

Isa. To bed! You have raised the storm
Will sever us for ever. Oh, Biron !
While I have life, still I must call you mine
| I know I am, and always was, unworthy

To be the happy partner of your love;

And now must never, never share it more.
But oh! if ever I was dear to you,

As sometimes you have thought me, on my knees
(The last time I shall care to be believed),
I beg you, beg to think me innocent,
Clear of all crimes, that thus can banish me
From this world's comforts, in my losing you.
Bir. Where will this end?

Isa. The rugged hand of fate has got between Our meeting hearts, and thrusts them from their joys. Since we must part

Bir. Nothing shall ever part us.

Isa. Parting's the least that is set down for me: Heaven has decreed, and we must suffer all.

Bir. I know thee innocent: I know myself so: Indeed we both have been unfortunate;

But sure misfortunes ne'er were faults in love.
Isa. Oh! there's a fatal story to be told;
Be deaf to that, as Heaven has been to me!
And rot the tongue that shall reveal my shame:
When thou shalt hear how much thou hast been
wrong'd,

How wilt thou curse thy fond believing heart,
Tear me from the warm bosom of thy love,
And throw me like a poisonous weed away!
Can I bear that? bear to be curst and torn,
And thrown out of thy family and name,
Like a disease? Can I bear this from thee?
I never can: no, all things have their end.
When I am dead, forgive and pity me.
Bir. Stay, my Isabella-

[Exit[me :

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Bir. I know enough: the important question
Of life or death, fearful to be resolved,
Is clear'd to me: I see where it must end,
And need inquire no more-Pray, let me have
Pen, ink and paper. I must write awhile,
And then I'll try to rest-to rest for ever!
[Exit Nurse.

Poor Isabella ! now I know the cause,
The cause of thy distress, and cannot wonder
That it has turn'd thy brain. If I look back
Upon thy loss, it will distract me too.
Oh, any curse but this might be removed!
But 'twas the rancorous malignity

Of all ill stars combined, of heaven and fate-
Hold, hold, my impious tongue-Alas! I rave:
Why do I tax the stars, or heaven or fate?
They are all innocent of driving us

Into despair; they have not urged my doom;
My father and my brother are my fates
That drive me to my ruin. They knew well

I was alive. Too well they knew how dear
My Isabella-Oh, my wife no more!
How dear her love was to me- -Yet they stood,
With a malicious silent joy, stood by,
And saw her give up all my happiness,
The treasure of her beauty, to another;
Stood by, and saw her married to another.
Oh, cruel father! and unnatural brother!
Shall I not tell you that you have undone me!
I have but to accuse you of my wrongs,
And then to fall forgotten-Sleep or death
Sits heavy on me, and benumbs my pains :
Either is welcome; but the hand of death
Works always sure, and best can close my eyes.
[Exit BIRON.

SCENE IL-Draws, shows BIRON asleep on a couch.
Enter ISABELLA.

Isa. Asleep so soon! Oh, happy, happy thou, Who thus can sleep! I never shall sleep more— If then to sleep be to be happy, he

Who sleeps the longest is the happiest :
Death is the longest sleep-Oh, have a care!
Mischief will thrive apace.--Never wake more.
[To BIRON.

If thou didst ever love thy Isabella,
To-morrow must be doomsday to thy peace.
The sight of him disarms even death itself.
The starting transport of new quickening life
Gives just such hopes and pleasure grows again
With looking on him-Let me look my last-
But is a look enough for parting love!
Sure I may take a kiss-Where am I going!
Help, help me, Villeroy! Mountains and seas
Divide your love, never to meet my shame!

[Throws herself upon the floor; after a short pause
she raises herself upon her elbow.
What will this battle of the brain do with me!
This little ball, this ravaged province, long
Cannot maintain-The globe of earth wants room
And food for such a war-I find I am going-
Famine, plagues, and flames,
Wide waste and desolation, do your
Upon the world, and then devour yourselves!
The scene shifts fast-[She rises]-and now 'tis

better with me;

work

Conflicting passions have at last unhinged

The great machine! the soul itself seems changed!
Oh, 'tis a happy revolution here!

The reasoning faculties are all deposed,
Judgment, and understanding, common sense,
Driven out as traitors to the public peace.
Now I am revenged upon my memory!
Her scat dug up, where all the images
Of a long mis-spent life were rising still,
To glare a sad reflection of my crimes,
And stab a conscience through them! You are safe,
You monitors of mischief! What a change!
Better and better still! This is the infant state
Of innocence, before the birth of care.
My thoughts are smooth as the Elysian plains,

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What do I see!

Bir. Isabella, arm'd!

Isa. Against my husband's life!

Who, but the wretch, most reprobate to grace,
Despair e'er harden'd for damnation,
Could think of such a deed-Murder my husband!
Bir. Thou didst not think it.

Isa. Madness has brought me to the gates of hell, And there has left me. Oh, the frightful change Of my distractions! Or is this interval

Of reason but to aggravate my woes,

To drive the horror back with greater force
Upon my soul, and fix me mad for ever?

Bir. Why dost thou fly me so?

Isa. I cannot bear his sight; Distraction, come, Possess me all, and take me to thyself! Shake off thy chains, and hasten to my aid; Thou art my only cure- -Like other friends, He will not come to my necessities; Then I must go to find the tyrant outWhich is the nearest way?

[Running out.

Bir. Poor Isabella! she's not in a condition

To give me any comfort, if she could:

Lost to herself as quickly I shall be

To all the world-Horrors come fast around me;

My mind is overcast-the gathering clouds
Darken the prospect-I approach the brink,
And soon must leap the precipice! Oh, heaven!
While yet my senses are my own, thus kneeling,
Let me implore thy mercies on my wife:
Release her from her pangs; and if my reason,
O'erwhelm'd with miseries, sink before the tempest,
Pardon those crimes despair may bring upon me!
[Rises.

Enter Nurse.

Nurse. Sir, there is somebody at the door must needs speak with you; he will not tell his name. Bir. I come to him. [Exit Nurse.

'Tis Belford, I suppose; he little knows Of what has happen'd here; I wanted him, Must employ his friendship, and then―― [Exit.

SONG.

IN SIR ANTHONY LOVE, OR THE RAMBLING LADY.

PURSUING beauty, men descry

The distant shore, and long to prove Still richer in variety

The treasures of the land of love.

We women, like weak Indians, stand
Inviting from our golden coast
The wand'ring rovers to our land:

But she who trades with them is lost.
With humble vows they first begin,
Stealing unseen into the heart;
But by possession settled in,

They quickly play another part.
For beads and baubles we resign,

In ignorance, our shining store; Discover nature's richest mine,

And yet the tyrants will have more.

Be wise, be wise, and do not try

How he can court, or you be won; For love is but discovery:

When that is made, the pleasure's done.

ROBERT BLAIR.

[Born, 1609. Died, 1746]

ROBERT BLAIR was minister of the parish of Athelstaneford, in East Lothian. His son, who died not many years ago, was a very high legal character in Scotland. The eighteenth century has produced few specimens of blank verse of so powerful and simple a character as that of The Grave. It is a popular poem, not merely because it is religious, but because its language and imagery are free, natural, and picturesque. The latest editor of the poets has, with singularly bad taste, noted some of this author's most nervous and expressive phrases as vulgarisms, among which he reckons that of friendship "the solder

of society." Blair may be a homely and even a gloomy poet in the eye of fastidious criticism; but there is a masculine and pronounced character even in his gloom and homeliness that keeps it most distinctly apart from either dullness or vulgarity. His style pleases us like the powerful expression of a countenance without regular beauty*.

[* Blair was a great favourite with Burns, who quotes from The Grave," very frequently in his letters.

"Blair's Grave," says Southey, "is the only poem I can call to mind which has been composed in imitation of the Night Thoughts." Life of Cowper, vol. ii. p. 143.]

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