The Bijou Literary Annual of 1828

Poetess Archive: Collections

The Bijou Annual, 1828     



The Bijou; or Annual of Literature and the Arts
compiled by William Fraser
1828

Frontispiece and Figure 1
Frontispiece and Figure 1

Title Page
Title Page

Contents

[Preface ....................................................................... {v}
LIST OF EMBELLISHMENTS.................................... xii

                                                                               PAGE
The Child and Flowers.  By Mrs. Hemans ........................ 1
Ballad from the Norman French.  By J.G. Lockhart, Esq... 4
Sonnets.  By Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart. ......................... 11
The City of the Dead.  By L. E. L. ..................................13
Night and Death.  By the Rev. Joseph Blanco White ........16
The Wanderings of Cain.  By S. T. Coleridge, Esq. ......... 17
Verses for an Album.  By Charles Lamb, Esq. ................ 24
Lines written in the Vale of Zoar ..................................... 25
An aged Widow's own Words   By James Hogg, the
         Ettrick Shepherd.................................................... 26
From the Italian .............................................................. 27
Work without Hope.  By S. T. Coleridge, Esq. ............... 28
The Poet-Warrior.  By Allan Cunningham ....................... 29
The Rose.  By Sir Thomas E. Croft, Bart. ....................... 31
To my Child.  By B. C. .................................................. 32
Letter from Sir Walter Scott, Bart. ................................. 33
The Night before the Battle of Montiel.  From the
         Spanish of Don Juan Algalaba ............................... 39
Jessy of Kibe's Farm.  By Miss M. R. Mitford ............... 65
Song.  By T. K. Hervey, Esq. ........................................ 76
Sans Souci.  By. L. E. L. ............................................... 77
A Lament for the Decline of Chivalry.  By T. Hood,
        Esq. Author of "Whims and Oddities" .................... 75
The Purple Evening.  By the author of 'Stray Leaves' ...... 80
Scotland.  By Robert Southey, Esq. Poet Laureat .......... 81
To a Friend.  By Lady Caroline Lambe .......................... 89
On his Majesty's Return to Windsor Castle.  By the
       Rev. W. Lisle Bowles ............................................ 91
The Hellweathers.  By N. T. Carrington, Esq. Author
        of "Dartmoor" ....................................................... 92
Imitation from the Persian.  By Dr. Southey ................... 98
The Suitors Rejected.  By Miss Emma Roberts, Author
         of "Memoirs of the Houses of York and Lancaster." 99
Ane Waefu' Scots Pastoral.  By James Hogg, the
         Ettrick Shepherd ................................................. 108

xiv                               CONTENTS.                    PAGE
Anacreontic. By T. K. Hervey, Esq............................... 112
The Ritter Von Reichenstein ......................................... 114
A familiar Epistle to Sir Thomas Lawrence. By Barry
        Cornwall .............................................................. 139
Youth and Age. By S. T. Coleridge, Esq........................144
A Day Dream. By S. T. Coleridge, Esq........................ .146
Marie's Grave. By the Author of "The Subaltern"............148
The National Norwegian Song. By W. H. Leeds, Esq.....173
An Address to the Lost Wig of John Bell, Esq. By a
        Tyro......................................................................176
A Simile, on a Lady's Portrait. By James Montgo-
        mery, Esq..............................................................181
The Epistle of Servius Sulpicius to Marcus Tullius
        Cicero. Translated by his Majesty..........................183
The Epistle of Marcus Tullius Cicero to Servius Sul-
        picius. Translated by his late Royal Highness
        the Duke of York ..................................................188
The Lover's Invocation. By Miss Mitford....................... 191
Inscription for a Grotto. By Horace Smith, Esq...............193
The Infant Shakespeare..................................................195
On a Little Girl. By W. Fraser........................................ 198
Canzonet. By John Bird, Esq..........................................200
The Two Founts. By S. T. Coleridge, Esq.......................202
Halloran the Pedlar. By the writer of the "Diary
        of an Ennuyée" ......................................................205
Morning. By D. L. Richardson, Esq................................240
The Oriental Love-Letter. By Mrs. Pickersgill, Author
        of the "Tales of the Harem" ....................................241
Mount Carmel. By H. Neele, Esq.................................. 234
Sketch from Life ............................................................242
Beau Leverton ...............................................................261
Essex and the Maid of Honour. By Horace Smith, Esq... 285
Humble Love. By William Fraser....................................312
Haddon Hall. By H. B....................................................315
My Native Land. By Delta, of Blackwood's Magazine....319
[Index of Embellishments]
[Index of Authors] [Notes]

List of Embellishments

I.  THE CHILD AND FLOWERS.  -- By Sir Thomas Lawrence,
        P.R.A.   Engraved by Mr. W. Humphreys.        Frontisp.

II.  SIR WALTER SCOTT AND FAMILY.  --   By David Wilkie,
         Esq. R.A.   Engraved by Mr. W.H. Worthington.       33

III.  THE WARRIORS.      (Head Piece)     Painted by Thomas
        Stothard, Esq. R. A.             Engraved by Mr. Augustus
        Fox.                                                                      75

IV.  SANS SOUCI.     --     Painted by T. Stothard, Esq.  R. A.
          Engraved by Mr. Brandard.                                    77

V. SUITORS REJECTED. --  Painted by Mr. W. H. Worthing-
         ton.  Engraved by Mr. A. Wright.                            99

VI.  THE BOY AND DOG.--Painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence,
          P.R.A.--Engraved by Mr. W. Humphreys.             139

VII.  A VILLAGE FESTIVAL.--(Head Piece)            Painted by
         T. Stothard, Esq.  R.A.        Engraved by Mr. Augustus
         Fox.                                                                   148

VIII.  A PORTRAIT OF A LADY.   --   Painted by Sir Thomas
         Lawrence, P.R.A.   --    Engraved by Mr. W.H. Worth-
         ington.                                                                181

IX. THE POET'S INVOCATION.--(Head Piece)     Painted by
         T. Stothard, Esq.  R.A.       Engraved by Mr. Augustus
         Fox.                                                                   193

X.  THE DREAMS OF THE INFANT SHAKESPEARE.-- Painted
        by Richard Westall, Esq.  R.A.             Engraved by Mr.
        Augustus Fox.                                                      195
 

xii               LIST OF EMBELLISHMENTS.

XI.  THE ORIENTAL LOVE-LETTER.  --  Painted   by   H. W.
         Pickersgill, Esq.  R.A.           Engraved by Mr. Edward
         Finden.                                                               241

XII.  QUEEN   ELIZABETH,  ESSEX,  AND  SHAKESPEARE.--
        Painted  by  Thomas  Stothard, Esq. R.A.  Engraved by
        Mr. W. Ensom.                                                    285

XIII.  THE HUMBLE LOVERS.--(Head Piece)        Painted by
        Thomas   Stothard,   Esq.    R.A.        Engraved by Mr.
        Augustus Fox.                                                     312

XIV.  HADDON HALL.--Painted   by   R.  R.   Reinagle,  Esq.
         R.A.   Engraved by Mr. R. Wallis.                        315

XV.  THE VIGNETTE TITLE.--Cupid in a Wreath, by Thomas
         Stothard, Esq.    R. A.    Engraved  by  Mr.  W.  Hum-
         phreys.                                                Frontispiece
 

                                      _______

Preface [by William Frasier]


[v]

1     The few observations which are necessary to be prefixed to this volume, will contain little more than acknowledgements to the distinguished literary characters, and eminent artists whose respective productions adorn its pages; as it is on those productions the Publisher rests his hopes that it will be deemed entitled to an elevated station among the Annual publications, not of this country only, but of Europe.  Far from wishing, however, to institute invidious comparisons, he only assets for it an equal claim to the notice and patronage of the public; for whether with respect to its graphic illustrations, or its literary merits, he feels assured that it will not be found inferior to any, even if it does not excel most, of its contemporaries.

2     To describe the Editor's obligations to this various friends in adequate terms would require space infinitely beyond that to which a preface is necessarily limited; but in briefly expressing his gratitude to the celebrated characters who have cheerfully afforded him the assistance of their talents, he will not only perform a grateful duty, but at the same time tacitly urge the pretensions which he considers "THE BIJOU" to possess to public favor.


[vi]

3     To sir Walter Scott the proprietors and himself are indebted for the interesting letter explanatory of the picture of his family, with an engraving of which, through the liberality of its possessor Sir Adam Ferguson, and the painter Mr. Wilkie, they have been able to enrich the Work.  Nor is it too much to expect that if every other recommendation were wanting, that plate, and still more the description by which it is accompanied would prove irresistable attractions to the world; for who can be indifferent to so pleasing a memorial of a writer to whose merits England, Europe, nay, the whole civilized world, has offered its homage and its praise.  Conspicuous as that letter is among the literary beauties of these sheets,--and to it may be attributed an interest as unfading as the reputation of its writer—almost all the popular authors of the day have contributed one or more scintillations of their genius; and it is with feelings of pride, admiration, and gratitude, that the Editor and Proprietors offer their warmest acknowledgements to John Gibson Lockhart, Esq.,1 Mrs. Hemans, Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart.; Sir Thomas Elmsley Croft, Bart.; the Rev. Blanco White; Barry Cornwall;

[vii]

L. E. L.; Miss Mitford;  Mrs. Pickersgill; Miss Roberts; the writer of the “Diary of an Ennuyée;” R. P. Gillies, Esq.;2 J. Montgomery, Esq.; the Rev. W. Lisle Bowles; the author of “The Subaltern;” Delta; Horace Smith, Esq.; Charles Lamb, Esq.; the Ettrick Shepherd; Allan Cunningham, Esq.; N. T. Carrington,Esq [sic]; and to the other contributors.

4     In expressing the Editor's thanks in a separate paragraph to S. T. Coleridge, Esq.' It must not be supposed that his obligations are the less  important to those whose names have just been mentioned; but where a favor has been conferred in a peculiar manner, it at least demands that it should be peculiarly acknowledged.  Mr. Coleridge, in the most liberal manner, permitted the Editor to select what he pleased from all his unpublished MSS., and it will be seen from the “Wanderings of Cain,” though unfinished, and the other pieces bearing that Gentleman's name, that whenever he may favour the world with a perfect collection of his writings he will adduce new and powerful claims upon its respect.

5     In another, but no less important department of talent, the Proprietors have yet to pay their debt of gratitude.  From the invaluable favours he has conferred upon the work, the first among those claimants is he, who is the first in professional reputation, in liberality, and in all which characterises a Gentle-

[viii]

man, Sir Thomas Lawrence, the President of the Royal Academy, who has bestowed on it three of his unrivalled productions; and which, it is needless to say, are of themselves sufficient to place "THE BIJOU" in the foremost rank of the embellished publications of Europe.

6     To H. W. Pickersgill, Esq. R. A. the Proprietors are deeply indebted for the gratuitous use of his beautiful picture “The Oriental Love-Letter,” in the Council Room of the Royal Academy; and which derives considerable interest from the elegant illustration by which it is accompanied from the pen of his accomplished wife.  To Mr. W. H. Worthington the Proprietors are grateful for the loan of his painting "The Suitors Rejected."

7     In consequence of a resemblance between the principal incident in the Tale of HALLORAN THE PEDLAR and the catastrophe described in a recent publication of deserved popularity, both evidently referring to the same historical fact, it is necessary, in order to prevent the suspicion of plagiarism, to state that the Tale of Halloran was written, and in the hands of the publisher, long previously to the appearance of the Novel where a similar circumstance is related.  Many most valuable papers, nearly sufficient to form another volume, remain in the Editor's possession; for the obvious reason of superabundance of matter, it was impossible to insert them in the present work.

8     Amidst other literary curiosities, two will be found which derive their chief attraction from the illustrious rank and eminent virtues of their authors:  these are, a translation of the celebrated Epistle of Servius Sulpicius to M. T. Cicero, by his present Majesty; and of Cicero's Epistle to Servius Sulpicius, by the lamented Duke of York, both written as exercises at a very early age.

9     The selection of Graphic Illustrations was made by Mr. Robert Balmanno, Secretary of the Artists' Fund, and the Publisher.

10     Whether THE BIJOU be worthy of its name, and how far the proprietors have redeemed the claim pledged in their prospectus, must be left to the public to determine.  It has been their unceasing endeavour to concentrate specimens of the varied talent, both in literature and art, for which this country is renowned; to allow the powers of the pencil, and the connotations of the mind, mutually to relieve and and adorn each other, where

                              "Each lends to each a double charm,
                              Like pearls upon an Ethiop's arm;"

11     And as no trouble has been considered too laborious, no expense too great to accomplish this object, they submit the result of their exertions with confidence unalloyed by presumption, but not unmixed with hope.

12      W. F.



Figure 1: The Child and Flowers


painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, engraved by W. Humphreys



The Child and Flowers By Mrs. Hemans


[1]

All good and guiltless thou art.
Some transient griefs will touch thy heart,
Griefs that along thy altered face
Will breathe a more subduing grace,
Than even those looks of joy that lie
On the soft cheek of infancy.
WILSON To a Sleeping Child
          HAST thou been in the woods with the honey-bee?
          Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free?
          With the hare through to copses and the dingles wild?
          With the butterfly over the heath, fair child?
          Yes: the light fall of thy bounding feet5
          Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat;
          Yet hast thou ranged the green forest-dells,
          And brought back a treasure of buds and bells.

          Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song
          Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng;10
          The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim,
          The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim:

[2]

          These are old words, that have made each grove
          A dreary haunt for romance and love;
          Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie15
          A place for the gushings of Poesy.

          Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy lore
          Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er;
          Enough for thee are the dews that sleep
          Like hidden gems in the flower-urns deep;20
          Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell
          Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell;
          And the by the blossoming sweet-briars shed,
          And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's head.

          Oh! Happy child in thy fawn-like glee!25
          What is remembrance or thought to thee?
          Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring,
          O'er thy green pathway their colours fling;
          Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon--
          What if to droop and to perish soon?30
          Nature hath mines of such wealth--and thou
          Never wilt prize its delights as now!

          For a day is coming to quell the tone
          That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one!
          And to dim thy brow with a touch of care.35
          Under the gloss of its clustering hair;

[3]

          And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes
          Into the stillness of autumn skies;
          And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part,
          Midst the hidden things of each human heart!40

          Yet shall we mourn, gentle child! for this?
          Life hath enough of yet holier bliss!
          Such be thy portion!--the bliss to look
          With a reverent spirit, through nature's book;
          By fount, by forest, by river's line,45
          To track the paths of a love divine;
          To read its deep meanings--to see and hear
          God in earth's garden--and not to fear.


Ballad from the Norman French By J.G. Lockhart Esq.


[4]

Here beginneth a song which made in the Wood of Bel-Regard by a Good Companion,
who put himself there to eschew the horrible Creature of Justices Trail-Baston.
          IN rhyme I clothe derision, my fancy takes thereto
          So scorn I this provision, provided here of new;
          The thing whereof my geste I frame I wish 'twere yet to do,
          An guard not God and Holy Dame, 'tis war that must ensue.

          I mean the articles abhorred of this their Trail-baston;5
          Except the king himself our lord, God send his malison
          On the devisers of the same: cursed be they everyone,
          For full they be of sinful blame, and reason have they none.


[5]

          Sir, if my boy offended me now, and I my hand but lift
          To teach him by a cuff or two what's governance and thrift:10
          This rascal vile his bill doth file, attaches me of wrong;
          Forsooth, find bail, or lie in gaol, and rot the rogues among.

          'Tis forty pennies that they ask, a ransom fine for me;
          And twenty more ('tis but a score) for my Lord Sheriff's fee:
          Else of his deepest dungeon the darkness I must dree;15
          Is this of justice, masters?-- Behold my case and see.

          Away, then, to the greenwood! to the pleasant shade away!
          There evil none of law doth wonne, nor harmful perjury.
          I'll to the wood of Bel-regard, where freely flies the jay,
          And without fail the nightingale is chaunting of her lay.20

          But for that cursed dozen,God [sic] shew them small pitie!
          Among their lying voices, they have indicted me
          Of wicked thefts and robberies and other felonie,
          That I dare no more, as heretofore, among my friends to be.


[6]

          In peace and war my service my lord the king hath ta'en,25
          In Flanders, and in Scotland, and in Gascoyne his domain;
          But now I'll never, while I wis, be mounted man again,
          To pleasure such a man as this I've spent much time in vain.

          But if these cursed jurors do not amend them so
          That I to my own country may freely ride and go,30
          The head that I can come at shall jump when I've my blow;
          Their menacings, and all such things, them to the winds I throw.

          The Martin and the Neville are worthy folk indeed;
          Their prayers are sure, albeit we're poor-- salvation be their meed!
          But for Belflour and Spigurnel, they are a cruel seed;35
          God send them in my keeping-- ha! They should not soon be freed!

          I'd teach them well this noble game of Trail-baston to know;
          On every chine I'd stamp the same, and every nape also;

[7]

          O'er every inch in all their frame I'd make my cudgel go;
          To lop their tongues I'd think no shame, nor yet their lips to sew.40

          The man that did begin it first, without redemption
          He is for evermore accurst-- he never can atone:
          Great sin is his, I tell ye true, for many an honest man
          For fear hath joined the outlaw's crew, since these new laws began.

          There's many a wildwood thief this hour was peaceful man whil'ere,45
          The fear of prison hath such power even guiltless breast to scare:
          'Tis this which maketh many a one to sleep beneath the tree;
          And he that these new laws begun, the curse of God take he!

          Ye merchants and ye wandering freres, ye may well curse with me,
          For ye are painful travellers, while laws like this shall be;50
          The king's broad letter in your hand but little can bestead,
          For he perforce must bid men stand, that hath nor home nor bread.


[8]

          All ye who are indicted! I pray you come to me
          To the greenwood, the pleasant wood, where's niether suit nor plea,
          But only the wild creatures and many a spreading tree55
          For there's little in common law but doubt and misery.

          If at your need you've skill to read, you're summon'd ne'er the less
          To shew your lore the Bench before, and great is your redress;
          Clerk the most clerkly though you be, expect the same penance:
          'Tis true a Bishop turns the key: God grant deliverance.60

          In honesty I speak--for me, I'd rather sleep beneath
          The canopy of the green tree, yea, on the naked heath,
          Than lie even in a Bishop's vault for many a weary day;
          And he that 'twixt such choice would halt, he is a fool I say.

          I had a name that none could blame, but that is lost and gone,65
          For lawyer-tricks have made me mix with people that have none.

[9]

          I dare not shew my face no mo among my friends and kin:
          The poor man now is sold I trow, whate'er the rich, may win.

          To risk I cannot fancy much, what, lost, is ne'er repaid
          To put my life within their clutch in truth I'm sore afraid;70
          This is no question about gold that might be won again,
          If once they had me in their hold 'tis death they'd make my pain.

          Some one perchance my friend will be, such hope not yet I lack;
          The men that speak this ill of me, they speak behind my back;
          I know it would their hearts delight, if they my blood could spill,75
          But God, in all the devil's spite, can save me if he will.

          There's one can save me life and limb, the blessed Mary's child,
          And I can broadly pray to him; my soul is undefiled:
          The innocent he'll not despise, by envious tongues undone.
          God curse the smiling enemies that I have leaned upon!80


[10]

          If meeting a companion I shew my archerie,
          My neighbour will be saying, "He's of some companie,
          He goes to cage him in the wood, and worke his old foleye,"
          Thus men do hunt me like the boar, and life's no life for me.

          But if I seem more cunning about the law than they,85
          "Ha! ha! Some old conspirator well trained in tricks," they'll say;
          O wheresoe'er doth ride the Eyre, I must keep well away:--
          Such neighbourhood I hold not good; shame fall on such I pray.

          I pray you, all good people, to say for me a prayer,
          That I in peace may once again to mine own land repair:90
          I never was a homicide--not within my will--I swear,
          Nor robber, christian folk to spoil, that on their way did fare.

          This rhyme was made within the wood, beneath a broad bay tree;
          There singeth merle and nightingale, and falcon hovers free:
          I wrote this skin, because within was much more sore memory,95
          And here I lay it by the way--that found my rhyme may be.


Sonnets By Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart


[11]

          I.
          WHEN dead is all the vigour of the frame,
           And the dull heart beats languid, notes of praise
           May issue the desponding sprite to raise:
          But weekly strikes the voice of slow-sent fame;5
          Empty we deem the echo of a name:
           Inward we turn; we list no fairy lays;
           Nor seek on golden palaces to gaze;
           Nor wreaths from groups of smiling fair to claim!
          Thus strange is fate:-- we meet the hollow cheer,10
          When struck by age the cold insensate ear
          No more with trembling extasy can hear,
          But yet one thought a lasting a joy can give
          That we, as not for self alone we live,
          To others bore the boon, we would from them receive!15


[12]

          II.
          TEXTURE of the mightiest splendor, force and art,
           Wove in the fine loom of the subtlest brain,
           The brilliance of thy colours shines in vain,
          If steeped not in the fountains of the heart!20
          If those pure waves no added strength impart,
           If thence the web no new attraction gain,
           Sure is the test, no genuine muse would deign
          Her inspiration on the work to dart!
          High intellect, magnific though thou be,25
           Yet if thou hast not power to raise the glow
          Of grand and deep emotions, which to thee
           Backward its own o'ershadowing hues may throw;
          Vapid thy fruits are; barren is thy ray;
          And worthless shall thy splendour die away!30


The City of the Dead By L.E.L.


[13]

          'Twas dark with cypresses and yews which cast
          Drear shadows on the fairer trees and flowers--
          Affections latest signs. * * *
          Dark portal of another world-- the grave--
          I do not fear thy shadow; and methinks,5
          If I may make my own heart oracle,--
          The many long to enter thee, for thou
          Alone canst reunite the loved and lost
          With those who pine for them. I fear thee not;
          I only fear mine own unworthiness,10
          Lest it prove barrier to my hope, and make
          Another parting in another world.

          *************************************************************************

          1.
          LAUREL! Oh fling thy green boughs on air,15
          There is dew on thy branches, what doth it do there?
          Thou art worn on the conquerors shield,
          When his country receives him from glory's red field;
          Thou that art wreathed round the lyre of the bard,
          When the song of its sweetness has won its reward.20
          Earth's changeless and sacred-- thou proud laurel tree!
          The ears of the midnight, why hang they on thee?


[14]

          2.
          Rose of the morning, the blushing and bright,
          Thou whose whole life is noe breath of delight;25
          Beloved of the maiden, the chosen to bind
          Her dark tresses' wealth from the wild summer wind.
          Fair tablet, still vowed to the thoughts of the lover,
          Whose rich leaves with sweet secrets are written all over;
          Fragrant as blooming-- thou lovely rose tree!30
          The tears of the midnight, why hang they on thee?

          3.
          Dark cypress I see thee-- thou art my reply,
          Why the tears of the night on thy comrade trees lie;
          That laurel it wreathed the red brow of the brave,35
          Yet thy shadow lies black on the warriors grave.
          That rose was less bright than the lip which it prest,
          Yet thy sad branches sweep o'er the maiden's last rest:
          The brave and the lovely alike they are sleeping,
          I marvel no more rose and laurel are weeping.40

          4.
          Yet sunbeam of heaven thou fall'st on the tomb--
          Why pausest thou by such dwelling of doom?
          Before thee the grove and the garden are spread;
          Why lingerest thou round the place of the dead?45

[15]

          Thou art from another, a lovelier sphere,
          Unknown to the sorrows that darken us here.
          Thou art as a herald of hope from above:--
          Weep mourner no more o'er thy grief and thy love;
          Still thy heart in its beating, be glad of such rest,50
          Though it call from thy bosom its dearest and best.
          Weep no more that affection thus loosens its tie,
          Weep no more the the loved and the loving must die
          Weep no more o'er the cold dust that lies at your feet,
          But gaze on yon starry world-- there ye shall meet.55

          5.
          O heart of mine! Is there not One dwelling there
          To whom thy love clings in its hope and its prayer?
          For whose sake thou numberest each hour of the day,
          As a link in the fetters that keep me away;60
          When I think of the glad and the beautiful home,
          Which oft in my dreams to my spirit hath come;
          That when our last sleep on my eyelids hath prest;
          That I may be with thee at home and at rest:
          When wanderer no longer on life's weary shore,65
          I may kneel at thy feet, and part from thee no more;
          While death holds such hope forth to soothe and to save,
          Oh sumbeam of heaven thou mayest will light the grave.


Night and Death By the Rev. Joseph Blanco White


[16]

Dedicated to S.T. Coleridge, Esq. By his sincere friend, Joseph Blanco White.
               MYSTERIOUS night, when the first man but knew
          Thee by report, unseen, and heard they name,
          Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
          This glorious canopy of light and blue?

               Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew5
          Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
          Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came,
          And lo! creation widened on his view!
               Who could have thought what darkness lay concealed
          Within thy beams, oh Sun? Or who could find,10
               Whil'st fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,
          That to such endless orbs thou mad'st us blind?
          Weak man! Why to shun death, this anxious strife?
          If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?


The Wanderings of Cain: A Fragment. By S.T. Coleridge, Esq.


[17]

1     "A LITTLE further, O my father, yet a little farther, and we shall come into the open moonlight!" Their road was through a forest of fir- trees; at its entrance the trees stood at distances from each other, and the path was broad, and the moonlight, and the moonlight shadows reposed upon it, and appeared quietly to inhabit that solitude. But soon the path winded and became narrow; the sun at high noon sometimes speckled, but never illumined it, and now it was dark as a cavern.

2     "It is dark, O my father!" said Enos, "but the path under our feet is mooth and soft, and we shall soon come out into the open moonlight. Ah, why dost thou groan so deeply?"

3     "Lead on my child," said Cain, "guide me, little child." And the innocent little child clasped a finger of the hand which had murdered the righteous Abel, and he guided his father. "The fir branches drip upon thee my son." -- "Yea, pleasantly, father, for I ran fast and eagerly to bring thee the pitcher and the

[18]

cake, and my body is not yet cool. How happy the squirrels are that feed on these fir trees! they leap from bough to bough, and the old squirrels play round their young ones in the nest. I clomb a tree yesterday at noon, O my father, that I might play with them, but they leapt away from the branches, even to the slender twigs did they leap, and in amoment I beheld them on antoher tree. Why, O my fahter, would they not play with me? Is it because we are not so happy as they? Is it because I groan sometimes even as thou groanest?" Then Cain stopped and stifling his groans, he sank to the earth, and the child Enos stood in the darkness beside him; and Cain lifted up his voice, and cried bitterly, and said, "The Mighty One that persecuteth me is on this side and on that; he pursueth my soul like the wind, like the sand- blast he passeth through me; he is around me even as the air, O that I might be utterly no more! I desire to die -- yea, the things that never had life, neither move they upon the earth -- behold they seem precious to mine eyes. O that a man might live without the breath of his nostrils, so I might abide in darkness and blackness, and an empty space! Yea, I would lie down, I would not rise, neither would I stir my limbs till I became as the rock in the den of the lion, on which the young lion resteth his head whilst he sleepeth. For the torrent that roareth far off hath a voice; and the clouds in heaven look terribly on me; the mighty one who is against me speaketh in

[19]

the wind of the cedar grove; and in silence I am dried up." Then Enos spake to his father, "Arise my father, arise, we are but a little way from the place where I found the cake and the pitcher;" and Cain said, "How knowest thou?" and the child answered -- "Behold, the bare rocks are a few of they strides distant from the forest; and while even now thou wert lifting up thy voice, I heard the echo." Then the child took hold of his father, as if he would raise him, and Cain being faint and feeble rose slowly on his knees and pressed himself against the trunk of a fir, and stood upright and followed the child. The path was dark till within three strides' length of its termination when it turned suddenly; the thick black trees formed a low arch, and the moonlight appeared for a moment like a dazzling portal. Enos ran before and stood in the open air; and when Cain, his father, emerged from the darkness the child was affrighted, for the mighty limbs of Cain were wasted as by fire; his hair was black, and matted into loathly curls, and his countenance was dark and wild, and told in a strange and terrible language of agonies that had been, and were, and were still to continue to be.

4     The scene around was desolate; as far as the eye could reach, it was desolate; the bare rocks faced each other, and left a long and wide interval of their white sand. You might wander on and look round and round, and peep into the crevices of the rocks, and discover nothing that acknowledged the in-

[20]

fluence of the seasons. There was no spring, no summer, no autumn, and the winter's snow that would have been lovely, fell not on these hot rocks and scorching sands. Never morning lark had poised himself over this desert; but the huge serpent often hissed there beneath the talons of the vulture, and the vulture screamed, his wings imprisoned within the coilds of the serpent. The pointed and shattered summits of the ridges of the rocks made a rude mimicry of human concerns, and seemed to prophecy mutely of things that then were not; steeples, and battlements, and ships with naked masts. As far from the wood as a boy might sling a pebble of the brook, there was one rock by itself at a small distance from the main ridge. It had been precipitated there perhaps by the terrible groan the earth gave when our first father fell. Before you approached, it appeared to lie flat on the ground, but its base slanted from its point, and between its points and the sands a tall man might stand upright. It was here that Enos had found the pitcher and cake, and to this place he led his father. But ere they arrived there they beheld a human shape; his back was towards them, and they were coming up unperceived when they heard him smite his breast and cry aloud, "Wo, is me! wo, is me! I must never die again, and yet I am perishing with thirst and hunger."

5     The face of Cain turned pale; but Enos said, "Ere yet I could speak, I am sure, O my father, that

[21]

I heard that voice. Have not I often said that I remembered a sweet voice. O my father! this is it;" and Cain trembled exceedingly. The voice was sweet indeed, but it was thin and querulous like that of a feeble slave in misery, who despairs altogether, yet can not refrain himself from weeping and lamentation. Enos crept softly round the base of the rock, and stood before the stranger, and looked up into his face. And the Shape shrieked, and turned round, and Cain beheld him, that his limbs and his face were those of his brother Abel whom he had killed; and Cain stood like one who struggles in his sleep because of the exceeding terribleness of a dream; and ere he had recovered himself from the tumult of his agitation, the Shape fell at this feet, and embraced his knees, and cried out with a bitter outcry, "Thou eldest born of Adam, whom Eve, my mother, brought forth, cease to torment me! I was feeding my flocks in green pastures by the side of quiet rivers, and thou killedst me; and now I am in misery." Then Cain closed his eyes, and hid them with his hands -- and again he opened his eyes, and looked around him, and said to Enos "What beholdest thou? Didst thou hear a voice, my son?" "Yes, my father, I beheld a man in unclean garments, and he uttered a sweet voice, full of lamentation." Then Cain raised up the shape that was like Abel, and said, "The creator of our father, who had

[22]

respect unto thee, and unto thy offering, wherefore hath he forsaken thee?" Then the Shape shrieked a second time, and rent his garment, and his naked skin was like the white sands beneath their feet; and he shrieked yet a third time, and threw himself on his face upon the sand that was black with the shadow of the rock, and Cain and Enos sate beside him; the child by his right hand, and Cain by his left. They were all three under the rock, and within the shadow. The Shape that was like Abel raised himself up, and spake to the child; "I know where the cold , waters are, but I may not drink, wherefore didst thou then take away my pitcher?" but Cain said, "Didst thou not find favour in the sight of the Lord thy god?" The Shape answered, "The Lord is God of the living only, the dead have another god." Then the child Enos lifted up his eyes and prayed; but Cain rejoiced secretly in his heart. "Wretched shall they be all the days of their mortal life," exclaimed the Shape, "who sacrifice worthy and acceptable sacrifices to the God of the dead; but after death their toil ceaseth. Woe is me, for I was well beloved by the God of the living, and cruel wert thou, O my brother, who didst snatch me away from his power and his dominion." Having uttered these words, he rose suddenly, and fled over the sands, and Cain said in his heart, "The curse of the lords is on me -- but who is the God of the dead?" and he ran after the shape, and the Shape fled

[23]

shrieking over the sands, and the sands rose like white mists behind the steps of Cain, but the feet of him that was not like Abel disturbed not the sands. He greatly outrun Cain, and turning short, he wheeled round, and came again to the rock where they had been sitting, and where Enos still stood; and the child caught hold of his garment as he passed by, and that theman had fallen upon the ground; and Cain stopped, and beholding him not, said, "he has passed into the dark woods," and walked slowly back to the rocks, and when he reached it the child told him that he had caught hold of his garment as he passed by, and that the man had fallen upon the ground; and Cain once more sat beside him, and said -- "Abel, my brother, I would lament for thee, but that the spirit within me is withered, and burnt up with extreme agony. Now, I pray thee, by thy flocks and by thy pastures, and by the quiet rivers which thou lovest, that thou tell me all that thou knowest. Who is the God of the dead? where doth he make his dwelling? what sacrifices are acceptable unto him? for I have offered, but have not been received; I have prayed, and have not been heard; and how can I be afflicted more than I already am?" The Shape arose and answered -- "O that thou hadst had pity on me as I will have pity on thee. Follow me, son of Adam! and bring thy child with thee:" and they three passed over the white sands between the rocks, silent as their shadows.



Verses for an Album By Charles Lamb, Esq.


[24]

          FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white,
          A young probationer of light,
          Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright.

          A spotless leaf; but thought, and care --
          And friends and foes, in foul or fair,5
          Have "written strange defeature" there.

          And time, with heaviest hand of all,
          Like that fierce writing on the wall,
          Hath stamp'd sad dates -- he can't recall.

          And error, gilding worst designs -- 10
          Like speckled snake that strays and shines --
          Betrays his path by crooked lines.

          And vice hath left his ugly blot --
          And good resolves, a moment hot,
          Fairly began -- but finished not.15

          A fruitless late remorse doth trace --
          Like Hebrew lore, a backward pace --
          Her irrecoverable race.


[25]

          Disjointed numbers -- sense unknit --
          Huge reams of folly -- shreds of wit -- 20
          Compose the mingled mass of it.

          My scalded eyes no longer brook,
          Upon this ink- blurr'd thing to look.
          Go -- shut the leaves -- and clasp the book! --


Lines Written in the Vale of Zoar, Coast of Arabia By Charles Lamb, Esq.


[25]

          A SCENE of Araby! -- but not the blest; --
          Behold a multitude of mountains wild
          And bare and cloudless to the skies up- piled
          In forky peaks, and shapes uncouth, possest
          Of grandeur stern indeed, but beauty none;5
          Their sterile sides, by herb, or blade undrest,
          Burning and whitening in the ardent sun.
          Amid the crags -- her undisputed reign --
          Pale Desolation sits, and sadly smiles,
          And half the horror of her state beguiles,10
          To see her empire spreading to the plain;
          For there even wandering Arabs seldom stray,
          Or, coming, do but eye the drear domain,
          And haste, as from the vale of Death, away!


An Aged Widow's Own Words By James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd


[26]

          O IS he gane my good auld man?
          And am I left forlorn?
          And is that manly heart at rest,,
          The kindest e'ver was born?

          We've sojourned here through hope and fear5
          For fifty years and three,
          And ne'er in all that happy time,
          Said he harsh word to me.

          And mony a braw and boardly son
          And daughters in their prime,10
          His tremling hand laid in the grave;
          Lang, lang afore the time.

          I dinna greet the day to see
          That he to them has gane,
          But O 'tis feafu' thus to be15
          Left in a world alane.

          Wi' a poor worn and broken heart,
          Whose race of joy is run,.
          And scarce has little opening left,
          For aught aneath the sun.20

          My life nor death I winna crave,
          Nor fret for yet despond,
          But a' my hope is in the grave
          And the dear hame beyond.


From the Italian By Unknown


[27]

          MY LILLA gave me yester morn
          A rose methinks in Eden born,
          And as she gave it, little elf,
          Blushed like another rose herself
          Then said I, full of tenderness,5
          "Since this sweet rose I owe to you,
          "Dear girl, why may I not possess
          "The lovelier rose that gave it too?"


Work Without Hope. Lines Composed on a Day in February By S.T. Coleridge, Esq.


[28]

          ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair --
          The bees are stirring -- birds are on the wing --

          And WINTER slumbering in the open air,
          Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
          And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,5
          Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

          Yet well I ken the banks where Amaranths blow,
          Have traced the forest whence streams of nectar flow.
          Bloom, O ye Amaranths! Bloom for whom ye may --
          For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!10
          With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:
          And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
          WORK WITHOUT HOPE draws nectar in a sieve,
          And HOPE without an OBJECT cannot live.


The Poet Warrior By Allan Cunningham


[29]

          1.
          STAYED is the war- horse in his strength,
           Broke is the barbed arrow,
          The spell has conquered on Nithside,
           Which won of yore on Yarrow.5
          O did he bear a charmed sword
           That for no mail would tarry,
          And on his youthful head a helm
           Was forged in land of fairy.
          Did Saxon shaft and war axe dint10
          Fall on charm's mail and elfin flint?

          2.
          His spell was valour, and he came
           When warrior's hearts were coldest,
          And poured his fire through peasant's souls,15
           And led and ruled the boldest.
          He with flushed brow, and flashing eyes,
           And right arm bare and gory,

[30]

          Rushed reeking o'er the lives of men,
           And turned our shame to glory.20
          A hero's soul was his, and higher
          The minstrel's love, and poet's fire.

          3.
          Seek for a dark and down cast eye,
          A glance 'mongst men the mildest,25
          Seek for a bearing haught and high
          Can daunt and awe the wildest.
          Seek one whose soul is tenderness
          Is steeped -- who to the lyre
          Can pour out song as fast and bright30
          As heaven can pour its fire.
          Seek him, and when thou find'st him, kneel,
          Though thou hadst gold spurs on thy heel.


The Rose By Sir Thomas E. Croft, Bart.


[31]

          La rose que ta main chérie
           Hier a sauvé de la mort,
          Est aujourd'hui pâle et flétrie; --
           Tel est des fleurs le triste sort.
          Reconnaissante de ta peine,5
           En mourant cette aimable fleur,
           Légue a tes joues sa rougeur,
          Son doux parfum à ton haleine.

          The rose, alas! Thy guardian hand
           Sav'd yesterday from dying,10
          Pale, wan, and wither'd from its stem,
           Is now in ruins lying:
          But the fond flower, to shew she still
           Was grateful, e'en in death,
          Her blushes to thy cheek bequeathed,15
           Her perfume to thy breath.


To My Child By B.C.


[32]

          CHILD of my heart! My sweet, belov'd first-bórn!
          Thou dove, who tidings bring'st of calmer hours!
          Thou rainbow, who dost come when all the showers
           Are past, -- or passing! Rose which hath no thorn, --
          No pain, no blemish, -- pure and unforlorn,5
          Untouched -- untainted -- O, my flower of flowers!
           More welcome than to bees are summer bowers, --
          To seamen stranded life-assuring morn.
          Welcome! a thousand welcomes! Care, who clings
          Round all, seems loosening now her snake-like fold!10
          New hope springs upwards, and the bright world seems
           Cast back into her youth of endless springs! --
          -- Sweet mother, is it so? -- or grow I old,
           Bewildered in divine Elysian dreams?


Figure 2: Sir Walter Scott and Family


painted by David Wilkie, Esq., engraved by W. H. Worthington



Letter from Sir Walter Scott, Bart. By Sir Walter Scott, Bart.


[33]

1     LETTER FROM SIR WALTER SCOTT TO SIR ADAM FERGUSON, DESCRIPTIVE OF A PICTURE PAINTED AT ABBOTSFORD BY DAVID WILKIE, ESQ. R. A., AND EXHIBITED AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY IN 1818.


2     MY DEAR ADAM -- The picture you mention has something in it of rather a domestic character, as the personages are represented in a sort of masquerade, such being the pleasure of the accomplished painter. Nevertheless, if you, the proprietor, incline to have it engraved, I do not see that I am entitled to make any objection.

3     But Mr. * * * mentions besides, a desire to have anecdotes of my private and domestic life, or, as he expresses himslef, a portrait of the author in his nightgown and slippers; -- and this form you, who, I dare say, could furnish some anecdotes of our younger days which might now seem ludicrous enough. Even as to my night gown and slippers, I believe the time has been when the articles of my wardrobe were as familiar to your memory as Poins's

[34]

to Prince Henry, but that period has been for some years past, and I cannot think it would be interesting to the public to learn that I had changed my old robe-de-chambre for a handsome douillette, when I was last at Paris.

4     The truth is, that a man of ordinary sense cannot be supposed delighted with the species of gossip which, in the dearth of other news, recurs to such a quiet individual as myself; and though, like a well-behaved lion of twenty years standing, I am not inclined to vex myself about what I cannot help, I will not, in any case in which I can prevent it, be acessary to these follies. There is no man known at all in literature who may not have more to tell of his private life than I have: I have surmounted no difficulties either of birth or education, nor have I been favored by any particular advantages, and my life has been as void of incidents of importance, as that of the "weary knife-grinder."

5     "Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, Sir."

6     The follies of youth ought long since to have passed away; and if the prejudices and absurdities of age have come in their place, I will keep them, as Beau Tibbs did his prospect, for the amusement of my domestic friends. A mere enumeration of the persons in the sketch is all which I can possible permit to be published respecting myself and my

[35]

family; and, as must be the lot of humanity when we look back seven or eight years, even what follows cannot be drawn up without some very painful recollections.

7     The idea which our inimitable Wilkie adopted ws to represent our family group in the garb of south-country peasants, supposed to be concerting a merry-making, for which some of the preparations are seen. The place is the terrace near Kayside, commanding an extensive view toward the Eildon-hills. 1. The sitting figure, in the dress of a miller, I believe, represents Sir Walter Scott, author of a few scores of volumes, and proprietor of Abbotsford, in the County of Roxburgh. 2. In front, and presenting, we may suppose, a country wag somewhat addicted to poaching, stands sir Adam Ferguson, Knight, Keeper of the Regalia of Scotland. 3. In the background is a very handsome old man, upwards of eighty-four years old at the time, painted in his own character of a shepherd. He also belonged to numerous clan of Scott. He used to claim credit for three things unusual among the southland shepherds: first, that he had never been fou in the course of his life; secondly, that he never had struck a man in anger; thirdly, that though entrusted with the the management of large sales of stock, he had never lost a penny for his master by a bad debt. He died soon aterwards at Abbotsford. 4, 5, 6. Of the three female figures

[36]

the elder is the late regretted mother of the family represented. 5. The young person most forward in the group is Miss Sophia Charlotte Scott, now Mrs. John Gibson Lockhart; and 6, her younger sister, Miss ann Scott. Both are represented as ewe-milkers, with their leglins, or milk-pails. 7. On the left hand of the shepherd, the young man holding a fowling-piece is the eldest son of Sir Walter, now Captain in King's Hussars. 8. The boy is the youngest of the family, Charles Scott, now of Brazen Nose College, Oxford. The two dogs were distinguished favorites of the family; the large one was a stag-hound of the old Highland breed, called Maida, and one of the hansomest dogs that could be found; it was a present to me from the chief of Glengary, and was highly valued, both on account of his beauty, his fidelity, and the great rarity of the breed. The other is little Highland terrier, called Ourisk (goblin), of a particualr kind, bred in Kintail. It was a present from the honorable Mrs. Stuart Mackenzie, and is a valuable specimen of race which is now also scarce. Maida, like Bran, Lerath, and other dogs of distinction, slumbers "beneath his stone," distinguished by an epitaph, which to the honour of Scottish scholarship be it spoken, has only one false quantity in two lines.

8     Maidae marmorea dormis sub imagine Maida

9     Ad januam domini sit tibi terra levis.


[37]

10     Ourisk still survives, but like some other personages in the picture, with talents and temper rather the worse for wear. She has become what Dr. Rutty, the Quaker, records himself in his journal as having sometimes been -- sinfully dogged and snappish.

11     If it should suit Mr. * * *'s purpose to adopt the above illustrations, he is heartily welcome to them, but I make it my especial bargain that nothing more is said upon such a meagre subject.

12     It strikes me, however, that there is a story about old Thomas Scott, the shepherd, which is characteristic, and which I will make your friend welcome to. Tom was, both as a trusted servant, and as a rich fellow in his line, a person of considerable importance among his class in the neighbourhood, and used to stickle a good deal to keep his place in public opinion. Now, he suffered, in his own idea at least, from the consequence assumed by a country neighbour, who, though neither so well reputed for wealth or sagacity as Thomas Scott, had yet an advantage over him, from having seen the late King, and used to take precedence upon all occasions when they chanced to meet. Thomas suffered under this superiority. But after this sketch was finished, and exhibited in London, the newspapers made it known that his present majesty had condescended to take some notice of it. Delighted with the circumstance, Thomas Scott set out on a most oppressively hot day, to walk five miles to Bowden,

[38]

where his rival resided. He had no sooner entered the cottage when he called out in his broad forest dialect -- "Andro', man, did ye anes sey (see) the King?" "In troth did I, Tam," answered Andro'; "sit down, and I'll tell ye a' about it: -- ye sey I was at Lonon, in a place they ca' the park, that is, no like a hained hog-fence, or like the four-nooked parks in this country -- " "Hout awa," said Thomas, "I have heard a' that before: I only came ower the know now to tell you, that, if you have seen the king, the king has seen mey" (me). And so he returned with a jocund heart, assuring his friends "it had done him muckle gude to settle accounts with Andro'."

13     Jocere haec -- as the old Laird of Restalrig writes to the Earl of Gowrie -- farewell my old, tried, and dear friend of forty long years. Our enjoyments must now be of a character less vivid than those we have shared together,

14     But still at our lot it were vain to repine, Youth cannot return, or the days of Lang Syne.

15     Your's Affectionately,

16     Walter Scott.

17     Abbotsford, 2d August, 1827.



The Night before the Battle of Montiel: A Dramatic Sketch From the Spanish of Don Juan Algalaba


[39]

[The battle of Montiel was that which determined the fate of Pedro the Cruel. Just ten years before it took place he and Edward the Black Prince had utterly defeated at Nejara Henry (called of Transtamara) Pedro's natural brother, the competitor for the throne of Castile: But in the interval Pedro's cruelties had alienated the affection of his subjects, and the murder of his wife Blanche of Bourbon, sister to the King of France, had stirred up an enemy whom, being deserted by the English Prince, he had no longer any sufficient means to resist.

Pedro's famous mistress, Maria de Padilla, was in the castle of Montiel when the battle was fought, and after her lover was slain received the body and was permitted to bury it.

The French army was commanded by the illustrous Bertrand du Guesclin -- in whose memoirs the highly picturesque details of the conflict, the subsequent meeting of the brothers, and the death of Pedro, may be found. Le Begue was the French knight who stabbed Pedro.]

SCENE I.

SCENE I -- The Camp of Henry.

ALAIN DE LA HOUSSAYE AND LE BEGUE.

HOUSSAYE.
I do remember even on such a sky
Kind Pedro's banner flaunted, even so calm
And heavy hung yon selfsame royal blazon
Upon the air, as the slow sun went down
The night before Nejara.5

[40]

LE BEGUE.
                              ‘Twas in Paris,
I heard the tidings of that filed; -- I knew not
That my old friend rode in Prince Henry's host
Else had I not rejoiced.
HOUSSAYE.
Rejoiced? 10
LE BEGUE.
                    Yes, Alain -- --
I had heard many things against Don Pedro,
Yet, truth to speak, it seemed to me foul scorn,
That one whose mother never had been married,
Should put his hand forth -- clutching at the crown.15
HOUSSAYE.
I hope we'll have no thoughts like these to-morrow.
LE BEGUE.
Not I, the fleurdelys will be i'the van.
HOUSSAYE.
My thoughts shall be upon the Lady Blanche.
LE BEGUE.
                     Aye, well they may --
That bloody Jewess -- is it known if she20
Be still with Pedro? Follows she the camp?
HOUSSAYE.
They say she doth -- but see! Lord Onis comes,
And he can tell us further.
LE BEGUE.
                              The old lord
Walks very solemnly methinks to-night,25
His pace is sober as a hooded priest.
HOUSSAYE.
Aye, and I'll warrant ye his thoughts more sober,
Than oft lie hid beneath the gown and cowl.
LE BEGUE.
                               In the hot hour

[41]

The chance is equal! be we French or Spaniard -- 30
But if the day go darkly, and Don Henry
Find on Montiel the fortune of Nejara, --
No ransom for a traitor.
HOUSSAYE.
                               Look upon him!
There sits no selfish fear on Onis' brow;35
He is a Spaniard, and we war in Spain.
The rival chiefs are brothers -- and the swords
That glow even now in many a strenuous hand
As they receive the polish and the point,
Must gleam ere long before the eyes of kindred.40
Where'er may fall the chance of victory,
Yon stream, amidst to-morrow's noontide brightness,
Will be more purple with Castilian blood,
Than now the broad sun sinking paints its face.
LE BEGUE.
He passes on -- he takes no note of us.45
HOUSSAYE.
We greet you well, Lord Onis!
ONIS.
                               Ha! fair Sirs!
I crave your pardon. Whither be ye bound?
HOUSSAYE.
Du Guesclin's trumpet hath not sounded yet?
ONIS.
They are together in the royal tent.50
Anon we shall be summoned.
LE BEGUE.
                               Doth the prince,
(I crave your grace, the king) doth he to-morrow
Charge on the centre of his brother's battle?
ONIS.
I would it were not so; but, if I know him,55
It would be heavy tiding for his ear,

[42]

That any sword but his had found its sheath
Within the breast of Pedro.
HOUSSAYE.
Don Pedro's cuirass hath turned swords ere now --
And wielded by as ready hands as Henry's.60
ONIS.
You speak the truth, Sir Alain de la Houssaye,
LE BEGUE.
You look for stubborn work, my Lord of Onis.
ONIS.
Sir Alain Houssaye has seen Pedro's plume
Rising and falling like a falcon's wing,
As far i'the front as e'er Plantagenet65
Shewed his black crest.
LE BEGUE.
                               And yet the old adage
Hangs cruelty and cowardice together.
ONIS.
The man that coined the phrase had known no Pedro.
The old ancestral sense of dignity70
Exalts our excellence if we be good,
And even if we be vicious, that high pride
Is not more inborn than inalienable;
At least ‘tis so with Pedro. ‘Twas the same
When Pedro stood no higher than his hilt,75
A most imperious boy. God he defies,
And man he never feared.
LE HOUSSAYE.
                               This nobleness
Of kingly nature props e'en now a cause
That, had he been in aught a vulgar villain80

[43]

Had been as bare of man's aid as of God's; --
But hark! The trumpet.
LE BEGUE.
                               Let us to the tent.

[Exeunt Houssaye and Le Begue.

ONIS.
Beautiful Valley! What a golden light
Is on thy bosom. Ha! the bells are ringing85
In the church towers along yon green hill side
The vesper chaunt! Alas! What dreary knells
Must shake, next sunset, their gray pinnacles!

[Exit.

SCENE II.

The Tent of Henry of Transtamara.

HENRY -- DU GUESCLIN -- BISHOP PEREZ -- ONIS -- HOUSSAYE -- LE BEGUE.

HENRY.
Sit, gentlemen. Onis, we waited for thee.
DU GUESCLIN.
There is no need we should be long together;
We may do better service in our quarters:
My humble mind it was, most certainly,
That you, sir king, should take the right to-morrow,5
Where, if our scouts bring true intelligence,
Don Pedro plants his Moors ---
HENRY.
                               Noble Du Guesclin,
We fight on Spanish ground, and I have here
Three thousand true men of Castile and Leon10
Who serve me as their king -- the which I am

[44]

By the free choice of nobility
In open Cortes, aiding right of blood,
My brother having forfeited all title
By bloody acts of murder and oppression15
Not to be counted -- some of them ye know --
The which dissolved all claim to our allegiance,
And left us free (I mean the Lords of Spain)
To choose another wearer for the crown
Of old Pelayo; -- of Pelayo's line20
Am I, and justly now I wear that crown,
Though once there was a baton on my shield,
That stain being erased and nullified
By the decree I spake of --- Now their hearts
Would scarcely brook to see the post of honour25
Filled by a stranger, howsoever noble
In blood, and whatsoever pennon rearing,
When I their king am present. Other reasons
I have already to your private ear
Sufficiently expounded. Is there need30
That I recount them also?
DU GUESCLIN.
                               Since his highness
Is so resolved in this, my Lord of Onis,
I yield the matter -- for myself I speak:
What says La Houssaye?35
HOUSSAYE.
                     May it please the king,
Although your courtesy, noble Du Guesclin,
Hath brought me to the council, I am here
Not to oppose my voice to voice of yours --

[45]

But having learned your pleasure and my part,40
To tender, if need be, humble suggestion
Touching what falls to me -- and crave your guidance --
Ride we then on the right?
DU GUESCLIN.
                     You and Le Begue,
Be there with Burgundy and Picardy,45
Ye'll have the Moors to deal withal. Myself
Will set my light-limbed Bretons on the left;
Perchance, while that King Henry from our centre
Bears with his Spaniards on the bridge, the old ford
May serve our need as well. I think ‘tis certain,50
Don Pedro, with his own Castilian spears,
Will bide your highness' onset—Spain to Spain!
HENRY.
Ay, and for Spain.
BISHOP.
Now God protect King Henry!
The Lord of Hosts will battle for the right.55
LE BEGUE.
We all shall do our best, my good Lord Bishop.
ONIS.

[Aside to La Houssaye.]

'Twere vain you see for anyone to fight
Against the king's determination.
HOUSSAYE.
‘Tis a most wild one! Heaven defend the issue.
HENRY.
What says La Houssaye?60
LE BEGUE.
He prays heaven, my lord,
To send fair issue of to-morrow's field.

[46]

HENRY.
'Tis well; and now brave gentlemen of France
Good e'en be with you all. Let the dawn find us
Each at his post.65
DU GUESCLIN.
My word shall be—QUEEN BLANCHE!
HENRY.
And mine—KING HENRY!
DU GUESCLIN.
They'll do well together.

[The lords rise from their seats; a Trumpet is heard.

HENRY.
What means this trumpet? thrice, too?

[The Enter a Castilian Herald in his tabard, attended by Officers &c.

HERALD.
                               By my mouth70
Thus to King Sancho's baseborn son, Don Henry
Of Transtamara, speaks his rightful liege
The King, Don Pedro of Castille. Bold bastard,
That darest, not remembering the black curse
Which lies upon the memory of Count Julian,75
To ape his ancient treason, and become
The guide of foreign spears into the heart
Of the fair Spanish land -- I, born thy prince,
The lawful son and heir of thy dead father,
Whose erring love begot thee of a slave,80
Bearded by thee within mine heritage,
Thee and the Bourbon's vassals whom thou guidest,
I full of scorn and wrath, as well I may be,
Have pity on all of those their fair allegiance

[47]

Due to the Majesty of France hath led85
Thus far within my realm -- albeit their swords
Are girded on their thighs to serve the cause
Of my most sinful rebel; nor against
Even those, my own born liegemen, whom thy cunning
Hath led astray, so that forgetting oath90
And fealty and solemn plight of homage,
They stand with thee against their sovereign's banner,
Am I entirely steeled. Therefore, in presence
Of brave Du Guesclin and his captains and
The Spaniards that are with them, I make offer95
Of truce from this time till to-morrow's sunset,
Within which space -- at the cool dawn ‘twere best --
Let lists be set upon the open field
Between these camps; and let the Lord Du Guesclin,
Upon the part of Henry Transtamara,100
And the most noble Castro upon mine,
Be umpires of the day -- and man to man,
And horse to horse -- with lance, sword, mace, and knife --
Let two, whose hostile banners bear one sign,
Appeal to the unseen eye of God for judgment105
On their conflicting titles; let the winner
Be undisputed king; unfearing love
Rest between him, whoever he may be,

[48]

And all that are this day encamped here,
Moor, Frenchman, Spaniard; and let him who loses110
Have death or exile; so shall knightly blood
Keep knightly veins, and wives' and mothers' eyes
On either side the rugged Pyrenees
Retain their tears unwept; so France in honour,
And Spain in peace, sweep from all memory115
The traces of this tumult. I, the king,
Speak so: -- Don Henry, called of Transtamara,

[Flings down his gauntlet.

Liftest thou King Pedro's glove?
ONIS.
                               Now heaven defend!--
That voice! --120
HENRY.

[Stepping forward.]

Right willingly ----
DU GUESCLIN.

[rising, and laying his own hand on Henry's arm.]

Forbear, rash king!
Herald! go back in safety as thou camest,
And tell thy master that the King Don Henry
Would willingly have lifted up the glove125
Thy had flung down -- but that Du Guesclin stayed him.
HENRY.
French Lord, I do command thee, let me pass.
DU GUESCLIN.
Nay, nay King Henry -- thou art not my king.
HENRY.
Thou art the vassal of my brother of France,

[49]

And thou art here because my quarrel's his.130
DU GUESCLIN.
Yes; but his quarrel is not thine, Lord King ----
Nor, when he kissed my baton at the Louvre
Did he command me to entrust the vengeance,
For which dead Blanche's blood doth cry to heaven
And him, the royal brother of her blood,135
To any Spanish hand -- prince's or king's.
We, De la Houssaye, and Le Begue, and I,
And ten good score of noblemen besides,
With all the spears that love or chivalry
Has clustered at our backs -- must we stand by140
And let the murderer of the Lady Blanche,
The sister of our king, conquer or fall,
According as one Spaniard or another
Couches his lance the firmest, in our sight --
Had Henry of Transtamara ne'er been crowned --145
Aye, had ne'er been born, thinkest thou my king
Would have sat still upon his father's throne,
And bid his priests sing masses for the soul
Of unrevenged Blanche.
                               I lift this glove;150
I place it in the front of this my basnet,
Which here, for lack of worthier, represents
The coronetted helmet of King Philip.
Do as ye will, thou, and the Lord of Onis,
This bishop, and as many Spaniards more155
As are encamped with us -- I speak for France,

[50]

And I will have a field, an open field,
A bloody field for Blanche!
HERALD.
                               A bloody field!
So be it—I shall know my glove again.160
DU GUESCLIN.
Thy glove?
HERALD.
King Pedro's glove. I speak for him.
DU GUESCLIN.
Thou speakest in safety whatsoe'er thou speakest.
HERALD.

[taking of his cap.]

I speak in safety since Du Guesclin says so,
I am King Pedro! Doth Henry know me? Kneel slave!165
HENRY.

[starting back, and drawing his sword.]

Thou murderer! hast no sword?
DU GUESCLIN.
If he had fifty none were drawn to-night.
This sacred garb which God and man respect,
And mine own words do save thee. Go in peace.
PEDRO.
I came not hither to make speeches, nor170
See I fit judge to sit and hold the balance
Between my breath and thine. Therefore, Du Guesclin,
Farewell. We meet to-morrow. Ynigo Onis
Thou hadst a playmate once. Ha! Father Joseph,
Who drew that bare scalp from a monkery,175
And clapped a mitre on't? Sweet lords, good night.

[Exit Pedro.


[51]

DU GUESCLIN.
Le Begue, attend the Herald to the barrier.

[Exit Le Begue.

Bold, dark, and haughty soul. I knew him not.
ONIS.
There was something in the voice -- and yet
I could not think but that I dreamed. ----180
HENRY.
                              Ten years
Have changed my brother much. His brow is wrinkled,
His hairs are grey.
LA HOUSSAYE.
His fierce eye is the same.
HENRY.
Once more, kind gentlemen, farewell.185

[Exeunt Du Guesclin, &c.]

Lord Bishop.
Do thou remain with some little space.

[Aside.]

stage>I've seen my brother -- something whispers me
That one more meeting, and no more shall be.

SCENE III.

The French Camp.

[Enter Pedro, Le Begue, & a crowd of soldiers.

FIRST SOLDIER.
I warrant ye lie has worn both plate and mail,
His stuffed tabard sits like a shirt upon him.
SECOND SOLDIER.
                               And fifty lances!
I never heard of herald so attended.
FIRST SOLDIER.
He is some noble gentleman, besure,5

[52]

The Lord Le Begue, you see, is squiring him.
THIRD SOLDIER.
Faith! and I think he walks a-foot behind him.
PEDRO.
Le Begue de Villaines? Ha! a noble name!
A very noble race of Burgundy;
I've heard of them ere now. My Lord Le Begue10
You've had a hasty march from Salamanca,
Some fifteen days, I think. I have been near you,
Almost as near as now within that time.
LE BEGUE.
An' please your Highness, had we known thereof,
We should, as now, have tendered ye our escort.15
PEDRO.
I doubt it not. You've chosen your quarters shrewdly.
I know the spot of old. There is a well
Beside yon oak that ye may slake your thirst in,
If ye were thrice as many as I count ye.
A very pleasant fountain, --20
LE BEGUE.
I have not drunk thereof.
PEDRO.
A true Burgundian! -- Well, Sir, blood flows out
And wine flows in -- such is the soldier's course.
I wish I had ye in Montiel this night. --
Your lads, I see, have lips of the same savour,25
By Jove they seem right merry underneath
These old trees -- there's no lack of skins among them.
Well, drink to-night. If some of these red lips

[53]

Be white enough, and dry withal ere long,
The blood ye might have kept, and the good wine30
Ye might have drunk—I shall be blamed for neither.
Captain, are these your soldiers?
LE BEGUE.
                               Some of them?
PEDRO.
Yon tall black fellow, leaning on his spear,
Is he not Spanish?35
LE BEGUE.
                     Is his leathern doublet?
I know him not -- his face is new to me.
PEDRO.
But not to me -- Rodrigo Perez! Look ye
Sir knight, how the slave bends. His Spanish blood
Is not all washed from out his veins. --40
LE BEGUE.
                               An' please you, Sir,
I can permit no talk -- the barrier's near,
I'll see you safe among your followers.
PEDRO.
What? stop a Herald's mouth! well well, pass on,

[throwing money to the soldiers.]

Drink all men's friend, the Herald, when he's gone.45

[Exit Pedro.]


[54]

FIRST SOLDIER.
Thanks for the largess! Fill a cup to him.

[drinks.]

SECOND SOLDIER.
Aye, sure; a noble generous gentleman.

[drinks.]

OLD SPEARMAN.
Why do ye not pledge the toast?
He is your countryman. ----
RODRIGO PEREZ.
                              If ye knew his face50
As well as I, ye would not fill so cheerily.
FIRST SOLDIER.
You've seen him heretofore? how runs his name?
A don I'll warrant ye, and then some dozen
Of fine high sounding long words after it.
You've half an ell of names yourself, I'll swear.55
PEREZ.
A short one serves him. --
FIRST SOLDIER.
Speak it out.
PEREZ.
Your pardon -----
FIRST SOLDIER.
Old man you stare as if this lordly Herald
Had been your father's ghost. Come, speak, who is he?60
He spoke to you; he called you by your name.
SECOND SOLDIER.
                               By our Lady,
It seems as if this Pedro's coat of arms
Painted upon a fool's coat, were enough
To frighten some that must expect to see65
His floating banner and his dancing crest,
Ere long -- if, as they say, we fight to-morrow.
PEREZ.
Talk on, young men: to-morrow's not far off.
THIRD SOLDIER.
No, and for that cause my most sober comrade,
It is my mind that we should drink to-night,70
To-morrow we'll have neither shade nor wine.
PEREZ.
Nor thirst it may be --

[Exit.

FIRST SOLDIER.

[sings.]

To-morrow when the sun is high

[55]

Up in the glowing burning sky,
When trumpets sound, and pennons fly,75
                    And lances gleam.
No resting on the spear
To drain the wine cup clear:
Of jollity and cheer
                    I shall not dream.80
SECOND SOLDIER.
To-morrow when the sun is low,
For some a jovial cup may flow,
But who can tell, and who can know
                     For me? -- for whom?
A cold earth bed perchance,85
Beside a broken lance,
Far, far from merry France,
                     May be my doom.
THE TWO SOLDIERS.
To-night yon sun goes down in gold,
His purple clouds around him rolled,90
What eyes his next descent behold,
                     May none reveal.
Fill, fill your goblets high,
Bright as yon glorious sky,
Wine will not make us die95
                     On hot Montiel.
THIRD SOLDIER.
Pass round the cup -- I think our dry old Spaniard
Has moved himself.

[56]

FOURTH SOLDIER.
                     Now saw ye e'er a man
Look wilder when yon Herald as he passed100
Fixed his black eye, and named him?
FOURTH SOLDIER.
Quite aghast!

SCENE IV.

Another part of the camp.

RODRIGO PEREZ.

[alone.]

It was but yesterday this King and Onis
Stood by while I was digging here i the ditch,
And looked upon me for some minutes' space,
I did not work less lustitly because
There eyes were on me -- by my troth I watered5
The clay with my best sweat -- but never a word --
"Rodrigo Perez, hot work, old Rodrigo ----"
To say so much had been no mighty matter,
"The ditch will do." "The barrier will be good,"
Good! good! good barrier! nothing of good soldier.10
Well, ‘tis all one.

Enter GIL FRASSO.

GIL.
Perez, comrade Perez,
Hast heard this story?
PEREZ.
Story! I've heard none --
What is't?15
GIL.
I scarcely can believe 'tis true --
The old king -- black Don Pedro, man, -- Yon Herald
Whose trumpet we all heard -- they say ‘twas he --

[57]

'Twas he himself -- and that he came disguised
In those gay trappings to fling down his glove,20
And challenge Henry face to face to the combat --
The single combat -- but Du Guesclin barred it.
PEREZ.
                               Where hast thou heard this news?
GIL.
                               Why, but this moment
I left a knot of our companions gathered25
Beneath the big oak, close beside the well,
And this was all their talk.
PEREZ.
                               The single combat!
By Saint Iago, in my humble mind,
Du Guesclin did Don Henry a good turn.30
GIL.
Hush! do not say so. Dost thou then believe it?
PEREZ.
Why not, Gil Frasso? Pedro's worst of foes
Will scarce deny that give them equal chance
Of wind and sun, within a guarded ring,
The old King mounted as we all have seen him,35
Might raise a clatter on the new King's helm
In spite of the fair coronet that girds it.
GIL.
Faith! Pedro always had a heavy hand.
But can ye credit it that he came here?
PEREZ.
Why that I scarce can doubt. I saw him Frasso,40
I saw him, man, with mine own eyes.
GIL.
                               And knew him?
PEREZ.
Aye, Gil—what's stranger, may be, he knew me.

[58]

GIL.
Nay, nay, old Perez, I can scarce go with you --
But come let's hear the story.45
PEREZ.
                               Look'ye, Gil,
It was down yonder, where those gay French sparks
Are drinking and carousing in the shade;
I stood beside them leaning on my spear,
To see the Herald passing to the barrier;50
Well, up he came, the Lord Le Begue came with him,
And as they passed us, suddenly the Herald
(We had ta'en notice of his lordly step,)
Halted, and said "are these your soldiers, Sir?"
And then he pointed with his finger thus,55
"My Lord Le Begue," quoth he, "there stands a Spaniard,"
And then he loooked more sternly yet, and waved
His hand, and named my name "Rodrigo Perez."
These were his words -- they're ringing in my ears.
Rodrigo Perez! -- Well, say what they will,60
It is no shame I think, even for a King,
To know an old man that has shed his blood
Beneath his banner. -- 'Twill be just ten years
Next Thursday (if we see it) since Nejara --
GIL.
It was a noble day -- a glorious day!65
RODRIGO.
Say that within the hearing of Lord Onis --
GIL.
No 'faith -- but yet it was a glorious field.
RODRIGO.
Aye, and the morrow after, I remember

[59]

I wakened stiff enough -- this arm was bandaged,
And this leg too -- I woke and sat upright,70
And looked about me, in the crowded place
All full of comrades shattered like myself,
Some worse, some better, and there stood the King,
Aye there he stood himself among the leeches
And priests (they all were busy), and he said --75
It seems as if all had passed but yestereven, --
"Lie down good fellow, rest a day or two,
And ye'll be well again."
GIL.
I would he had not slain the Lady Blanche.
RODRIGO.
She was a pretty lady -- so say all --80
But French -- why seek they wives from France? -- I love not
The men -- no nor the women of that land.
GIL.
No more did Pedro. -- He should have not killed her
And for a Jewess too!
RODRIGO.
                     We hear black tales:85
Who knows what may have been before she died?
GIL.
In faith I know not, Perez.
RODRIGO.
So we had at Nejara: There Don Henry
Was beat -- aye, man, like chaff, before black Wales

[60]

And the old king. He wants those English spears,90
None better ever thrust, but as men speak,
There are some thousands of the Moorish horse
Within Montiel to-night. Our gay French comrades
May find the scimitar's as good's the sword.
And old De Castro is with Pedro still.95
GIL.
God knows the issue. Would the day were over.
RODRIGO.
Aye, would it were. If riding in the front
Among the Bishop's men it so fall out,
That we come near the king -- I mean King Pedro, --
And I behold him charging on the French --100
I know not. --
GIL.
Comrade. --
RODRIGO.
                               He's but a bastard,
We may get easily beyond the barrier --
Down yon Green Lane -- your hand: -- The true old king105
Will let us in, I warrant him, right kindly.
Why, Gil, I think it would have chilled our bloods,
And made our arms like withs, if we had seen
King Pedro's plume at work, and heard his voice
High above all the meacute;leacute;e as of yore,110
And we old followers, Nejara-men,
Been there against him.
GIL.
                               That oath to the bishop
Sticks in my gizzard.
RODRIGO.
                               So, man, gulp it down115

[61]

While yet he was but plain old Father Joseph --
And Henry -- my Lord Bastard ---
I had ta'en oaths enough to serve Don Pedro.
Hark to yon Frenchmen how they boose and sing.
GIL.
Come -- we'll have cups of welcome from the king.120

Exeunt.

SCENE V.

A chamber in the Castle of Montiel.

MARIA DE PADILLA, her SON, and SARAH, seated by a window.

MARIA.
Your father will come home anon, my love.
SARAH.
The sun's gone down, and if it please my lady
I'll see him to his chamber.
BOY.
                               Let me stay
Until my father be come home again,5
I will not sleep till he has said good night,
And kissed me.
MARIA.
                               Kiss me darling --
So, -- you shall stay and get the other too.
Speak truly, Sarah -- they're the king's own eyes.10
SARAH.
In part 'tis so; the long lids are the same --
'Tis a sweet mixture -- fair and gentle boy!
MARIA.
Aye, fair and gentle now -- gentle and fair!

[62]

But look beneath the shadow of the oak,
And see how delicate the nursling plant15
Fruit of some late chance-scattered acorn shews
Its smooth slim stem, its tiny trembling shoots --
Its little glossy leaves—one scarce could dream,
That in the course of nature these must be
Transformed into the rough wide girdled trunk20
Scornful of tempests, and the giant boughs,
Whose massive umbrage darkens noon below them --
And yet 'tis so -- when the stout parent tree
Has mouldered into age's dust, or yielded
Perchance to the dread flash of heavenly fire --25
Aye, or been battered down before its day,
By common woodman's axe -- that little budling
Shall be the pride of all the grove around. --
One down -- another rises -- this smooth chin
Will ere men think that many years have flown,30
Be rough and back enow -- this ivory forehead
Plaited with wrinkled lines, the legacy
Of sorrows, it may be -- most certainly
Of cares -- the wind, the sun, foul weather
Will all have done their work to tan this cheek,35
And this white shoulder, (now it hath a dimple,
The prettiest bride in all Castile might envy),
Will be deep ploughed with trace of buckled mail,
And clasped plate -- Pedro will be a man --
I hope a noble soldier like his father.40
SARAH.
Aye, and a prince as once his father was

[63]

And in God's time a king as he is now.
MARIA.
I hope my god will hear my nightly voice,
And let me sleep in dust before that day --
For my fair child -- come Pedro to my knee --45
My sinless child, or ere thou close thine eyes
This night, be sure thou kneel – alone -- for I
Must not be with thee then, and pray to God
To send down victory on thy father's sword --
Pray strongly for thy father: -- simple child,50
See, Sarah, how he stares with his black eyes!
SARAH.
Now, prithee, cease my lady,
You'll send us all a weeping to our beds
If you look thus. I met the Lord de Castro
But now as I was coming through the court,55
He smiled upon me courteously and gaily:
I'm sure he thinks 'twill all go well to-morrow.
MARIA.
The old soldier will not let shis eye betray him.
His counsel and his prudence are my hope
Next to the strong arm of my fearless king.60
As for these Moors --
I cannot trust them -- Yon old crafty Zagal,
Although his words be of the readiest
I doubt he he'll pause before he sheds much blood
Of faithful Mussulmen in this debate: --65
SARAH.
If you suspect him, speak it to the king.
MARIA.
I would the king were here -- he tarries long.

[64]

SARAH.
He hath rode something further than he thought for
In reconnaissance -- he will soon be here;
De Castro, Zagal, and the other lords70
Are but assembling in the hall as yet.
MARIA.
Sleepy, my boy? Well, Sarah, carry him
Up to his chamber: when the king returns
We both will come together -- soon I hope.
SARAH.
Come, darling, you have watched too long already.75

[Exit with the boy.

MARIA.
And now 'tis dark all over -- hot and dark --
The heavens must be relieved from this oppression --
We from this doubting which is worse than death.
What matters it whether the thunder growl
Once or a thousand times? If it light here --80
The spirit of one must be unclad -- a king
Or nothing ---- I -- what must I be? -- no matter --
At least if things go darkly I can share
His gloomier destiny -- have my full half
Of all that brings -- and be at least his equal85
As well as bedfellow within the grave.
The grave! Dead Blanche I fear thee --
And yet God gives to kings the arbitrement
Of life and death -- and Pedro is a king --
She knew that I had lain on Pedro's breast,90
And yet she couched her curls there: -- my sweet boy
On thee she had no pity, nor thy mother --

[Scene closes.



Jessy of Kibe's Farm By Miss M.R. Mitford


[65]

1     ABOUT the centre of a deep winding and woody lane, in the secluded village of Aberleigh, stands an old farm-house, whose stables, out-buildings, and ample yard, have a peculiarly forlorn and deserted appearance; they can, in fact, scarcely be said to be occupied, the person who rents the land preferring to live at a large farm about a mile distant, leaving this lonely house to the care of a labourer and his wife, who reside in one end, and have the charge of a few colts and heifers that run in the orchard and an adjoining meadow, whilst the vacant rooms are tenanted by a widow in humble circumstances and her young family.

2     The house is beautifully situated; deep, as I have said, in a narrow woody lane, which winds between high banks, now feathered with hazel, now thickly studded with pollards and forest trees, until opposite Kibe's farm it widens sufficiently to admit a large clear pond, round which the hedge, closely and regularly set with a row of tall elms, sweeps in a graceful curve, forming for that bright mirror, a rich leafy

[66]

frame. A little way farther on the lane again widens, and makes an abrupter winding, as it is crossed by a broad shallow stream, a branch of the Loddon, which comes meandering along from a chain of beautiful meadows; then turns in a narrower channel by the side of the road, and finally spreads itself into a large piece of water, almost a lakelet, amidst the rushes and the willows of Hartley Moor. A foot-bridge is flung over the stream, where it crosses the lane, which, with a giant oak growing on the bank, and throwing its broad branches far on the opposite side, forms in every season a pretty rural picture.

3     Kibe's farm is as picturesque as its situation; very old, very irregular, with gable ends, clustered chimneys, casement windows, a large porch, and a sort of square wing jutting out even with the porch, and covered with a luxuriant vine, which has quite the effect, especially when seen by moonlight, of an ivy-mantled tower. One side extends the ample but disused farm buildings; on the other the old orchard, whose trees are so wild, so hoary and so huge, as to convey the idea of a fruit forest. Behind the house is an ample kitchen-garden, and before a neat flower court, the exclusive demesne of Mrs. Lucas and family, to whom indeed the labourer, John Miles, and his good wife Dinah, served in some sort as domestics.

4     Mrs. Lucas had known far better days. Her

[67]

husband had been an officer, and died fighting bravely in one of the last battles of the Peninsular war, leaving her with three children, one lovely boy and two delicate girls, to struggle through the world as best she might. She was an accomplished woman, and at first, settled in great town, and endeavoured to improve her small income by teaching music and languages. But she was country bred; her children too had been born in the country, amidst the sweetest recesses of the New Forest, and pining herself for liberty, and solitude, and green fields, and fresh air, she soon began to fancy that her children were visibly deteriorating in health and appearance and pining for them also; and finding that her old servant Dinah Miles was settled with her husband in this deserted farm-house, she applied to his master to rent for a few months the untenanted apartments, came to Aberleigh, and fixed there apparently for life.

5     We lived in different parishes, and she declined company, so that I seldom met Mrs. Lucas, and had lost sight of her for some years, retaining merely a general recollection of the mild, placid, elegant mother, surrounded by three rosy, romping bright-eyed children, when the arrival of an intimate friend at Aberleigh rectory caused me frequently to pass the lonely farm-house, and threw this interesting family again under my observation.

6     The first time that I saw them was on a bright

[68]

summer evening, when the nightingale was yet in the coppice, the briar rose blossoming in the hedge, and the sweet scent of the bean fields perfuming the air. Mrs. Lucas, still lovely and elegant, though somewhat faded and careworn, was walking pensively up and down the grass path of the pretty flower court; her eldest daughter, a rosy bright brunette, with her dark hair floating in all directions, was darting about like bird; now tying up the pinks, now watering the geraniums, now collecting the fallen rose leaves into the straw bonnet which dangled from her arm; and now feeding a brood of bantams from a little barley measure, which that sagacious and active colony seemed to recognise as if by instinct, coming long before she called them at their swiftest pace, between a run and a fly, to await with their usual noisy and bustling patience the showers of grain which she flung to them across the paling. It was a beautiful picture of youth, and health, and happiness; and her clear gay voice, and brilliant smile, accorded well with a shape and motion as light as a butterfly, and as wild as the wind. A beautiful picture was that rosy lass of fifteen in her unconscious loveliness, and I might have continued gazing on her longer, had I not been attracted by an object no less charming, although in a very different way.

7     It was a slight elegant girl, apparently about a year younger than the pretty romp of the flower

[69]

garden, not unlike her in form and feature, but totally distinct in colouring and expression.

8     She sate in the old porch, wreathed with jessamine and honeysuckle, with the western sun floating around her like a glory, and displaying the singular beauty of her chesnut hair, brown with a golden light, and the exceeding delicacy of ther smooth and finely grained complexion, so pale, and yet so healthful. Her whole face and form had a bending and statue-like grace, encreased by the adjustment of her splendid hair, which was parted on her white forehead, and gathered up behind in a large knot -- a natural coronet. Her eyebrows and long eyelashes were a few shades darker than her hair, and singularly rich and beautiful. She was plaiting straw rapidly and skilfully, and bent over her work with a mild and placid attention, a sedate pensiveness that did not belong to her age, and which contrasted strangely and sadly with the gaiety of her laughing and brilliant sister, who at this moment darted up to her with a handful of pinks and some groundsel. Jessy received them with a smile -- such a smile! -- spoke a few sweet words in a sweet sighing voice; put the flowers in her bosom, and the groundsel in the cage of a linnet that hung near her; and then resumed her seat and her work, imitating better than I have ever heard them imitated, the various notes of a

[70]

nightingale who was singing in the opposite hedge; whilst I, ashamed of loitering longer, passed on.

9     The next time I saw her, my interest in this lovely creature was increased tenfold -- for I then knew that Jessy was blind -- a misfortune always so touching, especially in early youth, and in her case rendered peculiarly affecting by the personal character of the individual. We soon became acquainted, and even intimate under the benign auspices of the kind mistress of the rectory; and every interview served to encrease the interest excited by the whole family, and most of all by the sweet blind girl.

10     Never was any human being more gentle generous, and grateful, or more unfeignedly resigned to her great calamity. The pensiveness that marked her character arose as I soon perceived from a different source. Her blindness had been of recent occurrence, arising from inflammation unskilfully treated, and was pronounced incurable; but from coming on so lately, it admitted of several alleviations, of which she was accustomed to speak with a devout and tender gratitude. "She could work," she said, "as well as ever; and cut out, and write, and dress herself, and keep the keys, and run errands in the house she knew so well without making any mistake or confusion. Reading, to be sure, she had been forced to give up, and drawing:

[71]

and some day or other she would shew me, only that it seemed so vain, some verses which her dear brother William had written upon a groupe of wild flowers, which she had begun before her misfortune. Oh, it was almost worth while to be blind to be the subject of such verse, and the object of such affection! Her dear mamma was very good to her, and so was Emma; but William -- oh she wished that I knew William! No one could be so kind as he! It was impossible! He read to her; he talked to her; he walked with her; he taught her to feel confidence in walking alone; he had made for her use the wooden steps up the high bank which led into Kibe's meadow; he had put the hand-rail on the old bridge, so that now she could get across without danger, even when the brook was flooded. He had tamed her linnet; he had constructed the wooden frame, by the aid of which she could write so comfortable and evenly; could write letters to him, and say her own self all that she felt of love and gratitude. And that," she continued with a deep sigh, "was her chief comfort now; for William was gone, and they should never meet again -- never alive -- that she was sure of -- she knew it." "But why, Jessy?" "Oh, because William was so much too good for this world: there was nobody like William! And he was gone for a soldier. Old General Lucas, her father's uncle, had sent for him abroad;

[72]

had given him a commission in his regiment; and he would never come home -- at least they should never meet again -- of that she was sure -- she knew it."

11     This persuasion was evidently the master-grief of poor Jessy's life, the cause that far more than her blindness faded her cheek, and saddened her spirit. How it had arisen no one knew; partly, perhaps, from some lurking superstition, some idle word, or idler omen which had taken root in her mind, nourished by the calamity which in other respects she bore so calmly, but which left her so often in darkness and loneliness to brood over her own gloomy forebodings; partly from her trembling sensibility, and partly from the delicacy of frame and of habit which had always characterised the object of her love -- a slender youth, whose ardent spirit was but too apt to overtask his body.

12     However it found admittance, there the presentiment was, hanging like a dark cloud over the sunshine of Jessy's young life. Reasoning was useless. They know little of the passions who seek to argue with that most intractable of them all, the fear that is born of love; so Mrs. Lucas and Emma tried to amuse away those sad thoughts, trusting to time, to William's letters, and above all, to William's return to eradicate the evil.

13     The letters came punctually and gaily; letters

[73]

that might have quieted the heart of any sister in England, except the fluttering heart of Jessy Lucas. William spoke of improved health, of increased strength, of actual promotion, and expected recal. At last he even announced his return under auspices the most gratifying to his mother, and the most beneficial to her family. The regiment was ordered home, and the old and wealthy relation, under whose protection he had already risen so rapidly, had expressed his intention to accompany him to Kibe's farm, to be introduced to his nephew's widow and daughters, especially Jessy, for whom he expressed himself greatly interested. A letter from General Lucas himself, which arrived by the same post, was still more explicit: it adduced the son's admirable character and exemplary conduct as reasons for befriending the mother, and avowed his design of providing for each of his young relatives, and of making William his heir.

14     For half an hour after the first hearing of these letters, Jessy was happy -- till the peril of a Winter voyage (for it was deep January) crossed her imagination, and checked her joy. At length, long before they were expected, another epistle arrived, dated Portsmouth. They had sailed by the next vessel to that which conveyed their previous dispatches, and might be expected hourly at Kibe's farm. The voyage was past, safely past, and the weight seemed

[74]

now really taken from Jessy's heart. She raised her sweet face and smiled; yet still it was a fearful and a trembling joy, and somewhat of fear was mingled even with the very intensity of her hope. It had been a time of rain and wind; and the Loddon, the beautiful Loddon, always so affluent of water, had overflowed its boundaries, and swelled the smaller streams which it fed into torrents. The brook which crossed Kibe's lane had washed away part of the foot-bridge, destroying poor William's railing, and was still foaming and dashing like a cataract. Now that was the nearest way; and if William should insist on coming that way! To be sure, the carriage road was round by Grazely Green, but to cross the brook would save half a mile; and William, dear William, would never think of danger to get to those whom he loved. These were Jessy's thoughts: the fear seemed impossible, for no postillion would think of breasting that roaring stream; but the fond sister's heart was fluttering like a new caught bird, and she feared she knew not what.

15     All day she paced the little court, and stopped and listened, and listened and stopped. About sunset, with the nice sense of sound which seemed to come with her fearful calamity, and that fine sense, quickened by anxiety, expectation, and love, she heard, she thought she heard, she was sure she heard the sound of a carriage rapidly advancing on the

[75]

other side of the stream. "It is only the noise of the rushing waters," cried Emma. "I hear a carriage, the horses, the wheels!" replied Jessy; and darted off at once, with the double purpose of meeting William, and of warning the postillion of crossing the stream. Emma and her mother followed, fast! fast! But what speed could vie with Jessy's, when the object was William? They called, but she neither heard nor answered. Before they had to won to the bend in the lane she had reached the brook; and, long before either of her pursuers had gained the bridge, her foot had slipt from the wet and tottering plank, and she was borne resistlessly down the stream. Assistance was immediately procured; men, and ropes, and boats; for the sweet blind girl was beloved of all, and many a poor man perilled his life in a fruitless endeavor to save Jessy Lucas; and William, too, was there, for Jessy's quickened sense had not deceived her. William was there, struggling with all the strength of love and agony to rescue that dear and helpless creature; but every effort -- although he persevered until he too was taken out senseless -- every effort was vain. The fair corse was recovered, but life was extinct. Poor Jessy's prediction was verified to the letter; and the brother and his favourite sister never met again.



Song By T.K. Hervey, Esq.


[76]

          COME, touch the harp, my gentle one!
          And let the notes be sad and low,
          Such as may breathe, in every tone,
          The soul of long ago!
          That smile of thine is all too bright5
          For aching hearts, and lovely years,
          And, dearly as I love its light,
          To- day I would have tears!

          Yet weep not thus, my gentle girl!
          No smile of thine has lost its spells;10
          By heaven! I love thy lightest curl,
          Oh! more than fondly well!
          Then touch the lyre, and let it wile
          All thought of grief and gloom away,
          While thou art by, with harp and smile,15
          I will not weep, to- day!


Figure 3: Sans Souci


painted by Thomas Stothard, Esq., engraved by Mr. Brandard



Sans Souci By L.E.L.


[77]

          COME ye forth to our revel by moonlight,
          With your lutes and your spirits in tune;
          The dew falls to- night like an odour,
          Stars weep o'er our last day in June.
          Come maids leave the loom and its purple,5
          Though the robe of a monarch were there;
          Seek your mirror, I know 'tis your dearest,
          And be it to- night your sole care.

          Braid ye your curls in their thousands,
          Whether dark as the raven's dark wing,10
          Or bright as that clear summer colour,
          When sunshine lights every ring.
          On each snow ankle lace silken sandal,
          Don the robes like the neck they hide white;
          Then come forth like planets from darkness,15
          Or like lilies at day- break's first light.


[78]

          Is there one who half regal in beauty,
          Would be regal in pearl and in gem;
          Let her wreath her a crown of red roses,
          No rubies are equal to them.20
          Is there one who sits languid and lonely,
          With her fair face bowed down on her hand,
          With a pale cheek and glittering eyelash,
          And careless locks 'scaped from their band.

          For a lover not worth that eye's tear- drop,25
          Not worth that sweet mouth's rosy kiss,
          Nor that cheek though 'tis faded to paleness;
          I know not the lover that is.
          Let her bind up her beautiful tresses;
          Call her wandering rose back again;30
          And for one prisoner 'scaping her bondage,
          A hundred shall carry her chain.

          Come, gallants, the gay and the graceful,
          With hearts like the light plumes ye wear;
          Eyes all but divine light our revel,35
          Like the stars in whose beauty they share.
          Come ye, for the wine cups are mantling,
          Some clear as the morning's first light;
          Others touched with the evening's last crimson,
          Or the blush that may meet ye to night.40


[79]

          There are plenty of sorrows to chill us,
          And troubles last on to the grave;
          But the coldest glacier has its rose- tint,
          And froth rides the stormiest wave.
          Oh! Hope will spring up from its ashes,45
          With plumage as bright as before;
          And pleasures like lamps in a palace,
          If extinct, you need only light more.

          When one vein of silver's exhausted,
          'Tis easy another to try;50
          There are fountains enough in the desert,
          Though that by your palm- tree be dry:
          When an India of gems is around you,
          Why ask for the one you have not?
          Though the roc in your hall may be wanting,55
          Be contented with what you have got.

          Come to- night, for the white blossomed myrtle
          Is flinging its love- sighs around;
          And beneath like the veiled eastern beauties,
          The violets peep from the ground.60
          Seek ye for gold and for silver,
          There are both on these bright orange- trees;
          And never in Persia the moonlight
          Wept o'er roses more blushing than these.


[80]

          There are fireflies sparkling by myriads,65
          The fountain wave dances in light;
          Hark! the mandolin's first notes are waking,
          And soft steps break the sleeping of the night.
          Then come all the young and the graceful,
          Come gay as the lovely should be,70
          'Tis much in this world's toil and trouble,
          To let one midnight pass Sans Souci.


Figure 4: The Warriors


painted by Thomas Stothard, Esq., engraved by Mr. Augustus Fox



A Lament for the Decline of Chivalry By Thomas Hood, Esq.


[75b]

          Well hast thou cried, departed Burke,
          All chivalrous romantic work,
          Is ended now and past! --
          That iron age -- which some have thought
          Of mettle rather overwrought -- 5
          Is now all over- cast!

          Aye, -- where are those heroic knights
          Of old -- those armadillos wights
          Who wore the plated vest, --
          Great Charlemagne, and all his peers10
          Are cold -- enjoying with their spears
          An everlasting rest! --

          The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound,
          So sleep his knights who gave that Round

[76b]

          Old Table such eclat!15
          Oh Time has pluck'd the plumy brow!
          And none engage at turneys now
          But those who go to law!

          No Percy branch now perserveres
          Like those of old in breaking spears -- 20
          The name is now a lie! --
          Surgeons, alone, by any chance,
          Are all that ever couch a lance
          To couch a body's eye!

          Alas! for Lion- Hearted Dick,25
          That cut the Moslems to the quick,
          His weapon lies in peace, --
          Oh, it would warm them in a trice,
          If they could only have a spice
          Of his old mace in Greece!30

          The fam'd Rinaldo lies a- cold,
          And Tancred too, and Godfrey bold,

[77b]

          That scal'd the holy wall!
          No Saracen meets Paladin,
          We hear of no great Saladin,35
          But only grow the small!

          Our Cressy's too have dwindled since
          To penny things -- at our Black Prince
          Historic pens would scoff --
          The only one we moderns had40
          Was nothing but a Sandwich lad,
          And measles took him off! --

          Where are those old and feudal clans,
          Their pikes, and bills, and partizans
          Their hauberks -- jerkins -- buffs?45
          A battle was a battle then,
          A breathing piece of work -- but men
          Fight now -- with powder puffs!

          The curtal- axe is out of date!
          The good old cross- bow bends -- to Fate,50
          'Tis gone -- the archer's craft!
          No tough arm bends the springing yew,
          And jolly draymen ride, in lieu
          Of Death, upon the shaft. --

          The spear -- the gallant tilter's pride55
          The rusty spear is laid aside,

[78b]

          Oh spits now domineer! --
          The coar of mail is left alone, --
          And where is chain- armour gone?
          Go ask at Brighton Pier.60

          We fight in ropes and not in lists,
          Bestowing hand- cuffs with our fists,
          A low and vulgar art! --
          No man is overthrown --
          A tilt! -- It is a thing unknown -- 65
          Except upon a cart.

          The spear -- the gallant tilter's pride
          The rusty spear is laid aside,
          Oh spits now domineer! --
          The coar of mail is left alone, -- 70
          And where is chain- armour gone?
          Go ask at Brighton Pier.

          Mehtinks I see the bounding barb,
          Clad like his Chief in steely garb,
          For warding steel's appliance! -- 75
          Methinks I hear the trumpet stir!
          'Tis but the guard to Exeter,
          That bugles the "Defiance!"

          In cavils when will cavaliers
          Set ringing helmets by the ears,80
          And scatter plumes about?
          Or blood -- if they are in the vein?
          That tap will never run again --
          Alas the Casque is out!

          No iron- crackling now is scor'd85
          By dint of battle- axe or sword,

[79b]

          To find a vital place --
          Though certain Doctors still pretend
          Awhile, before they kill a friend,
          To labout through his case.90

          Farewell, then, ancient men of might!
          Crusader! errant squire, and knoght!
          Our coats and customs soften, --
          To rise would only make ye weep --
          Sleep on, in rusty iron sleep.95
          As in a safety- coffin!


The Purple Evening: Imitated From the German By the Author of "Stray Leaves"


[80b]

          THOU lovely, smiling, evening ray,
          How calm thou sink'st in peace away!
          So martyrs smile amid the fire,
          So thus is extasy [sic] expire!
          How glow the hills, so softly bright!5
          The woods reflect a dewy light;
          The day- star smiles on evening's grave --
          The swan glides o'er the purple wave.
          O Sun, fair image of our God!
          Far onwards, to our last abode,10
          Thou lov'st to guide the wanderer's course
          Till rapt he greet thy goldern source,
          How brighter then, at thy departing,
          Than when o'er hill and valley starting!


Scotland: an Ode, Written after the King's Visit to that Country By Robert Southey, Esq. Poet Laureat


[81]

          1.
          AT length hath Scotland seen
          The presence long desired;
          The pomp of royalty
          Hath gladdened once again5
          Her ancient palace, desolate how long!
          From all parts far and near,
          Highland and lowland, glen and fertile carse,
          The silent mountain lake, the busy port,
          Her populous cities and her pastoral hills,10
          In generous joy convened
          By the free impulse of the loyal heart
          Her sons have gathered, and beheld their King.

          2.
          Land of the loyal, as in happy hour15
          Revisited, so was thy regal seat
          In happy hour for thee
          Forsaken, under favouring stars, when James

[82]

          His valediction gave,
          And great Eliza's throne20
          Received its rightful heir,
          The Peaceful and the Just.

          3.
          A more auspicious union never Earth
          From eldest days had seen,25
          Than when, their mutual wrongs forgiven,
          And gallant enmity renounced
          With honour, as in honour fostered long,
          The ancient kingdoms formed
          Their everlasting league.30

          4.
          Slowly by time matured
          A happier order then for Scotland rose;
          And where inhuman force,
          And rapine unrestrained35
          Had lorded o'er the land,
          Peace came, and polity,
          And quiet industry, and frugal wealth;
          And there the household virtues fixed
          Their sojourn undisturbed.40

          5.
          Such blessings for her dowry Scotland drew
          From that benignant union; nor less large
          The portion that she brought.

[83]

          She brought security and strength,45
          True hearts, and strenuous hands, and noble minds.
          Say Ocean, from the shores of Camperdown,
          What Caledonia brought! Say thou,
          Egypt! Let India tell!
          And let tell Victory50
          From her Brabantine field,
          The proudest field of fame!

          6.
          Speak ye too, works of peace;
          For ye too have a voice55
          Which shall be heard by ages! The proud bridge,
          Through whose broad arches, worthy of their name
          And place, his rising and his refluent tide
          Majestic Thames, the royal river rolls!
          And that which high in air,60
          A bending line suspended, shall o'erhang
          Menai's straits, as if
          By Merlin's mighty magic there sustain'd!
          And Pont-Cyssylte, not less wonderous work;
          Where on gigantic columns raised65
          Aloft, a dizzying height,
          The laden barge pursues its even way,
          While o'er his rocky channel the dark Dee
          Hurries below, a raging stream, scarce heard!
          And that huge mole, whose deep foundations, firm70
          As if by Nature laid,

[84]

          Repel the assailing billows, and protect
          The British fleet, securely riding there,
          Though southern storms possess the sea and sky,
          And from its depths commoved,75
          Infuriate ocean raves.
          Ye stately monuments of Britain's power,
          Bear record ye what Scottish minds
          Have planned and perfected!
          With grateful wonder shall posterity80
          See the stupendous works, and Rennie's name,
          And Telford's shall survive, till time
          Leave not a wreck of sublunary things..

          7.
          Him too may I attest for Scotland's praise,85
          Who seized and wielded first
          The mightiest element
          That lies within the scope of man's control;
          Of evil and of good,
          Prolific spring, and dimly yet discern'd90
          The immeasurable results.
          The mariner no longer seeks
          Wings from the wind; creating now the power
          Wherewith he wins his way,
          Right on, across the ocean-flood, he steers95
          Against opposing skies;
          And reaching now the inmost continent,
          Up rapid streams, innavigable else,
          Ascends with steady progress, self-propell'd.


[85]

          8.100
          Nor hath the sister kingdon borne
          In science and in arms
          Alone, her noble part;
          There is an empire which survives
          The wreck of thrones, the overthrow of realms,105
          The downfall, and decay, and death
          Of nations. Such an empire in the mind
          Of intellectual man
          Rome yet maintains, and elder Greece; and such
          By indefeasable right110
          Hath Britain made her own.
          How fair a part doth Caledonia claim
          In that fair conquest! Whereso'er
          The British tongue may spread,
          (A goodly tree, whose leaf115
          No winter e'er shall nip;)
          Earthly immortals, there, her sons of fame,
          Will have their heritage;
          In eastern and in occidental Ind;
          The new antarctic world, where sable swans120
          Glide upon waters, call'd by British names,
          And plough'd by British keels;
          In vast America, through all its length
          And breadth, from Massachusett's populous coast
          To western Oregan;125

[86]

          And from the southern gulph,
          Where the great river with his turbid flood
          Stains the green ocean, to the polar sea.

          9.
          There nations yet unborn shall trace130
          In Hume's perspicuous page,
          How Britain rose, and through what storms attain'd
          Her eminence of power.
          In other climates, youths and maidens there
          Shall learn from Thomson's verse in what attire135
          The various seasons, bringing in their change
          Variety of good,
          Revisit their beloved English ground.
          There Beattie! in thy sweet and soothing strain
          Shall youthful poets read140
          Their own emotions. There too, old and young,
          Gentle and simple, by Sir Walter's tales
          Spell-bound, shall feel
          Imaginary hopes and fears
          Strong as realities,145
          And waking from the dream, regret its close.

          10.
          These Scotland are thy glories; and thy praise
          Is England's, even as her power
          And opulence of fame are thine.150

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          So hath our happy union made
          Each in the other's weal participant,
          Enriching, strengthening, glorifying both.

          11.
          O House of Stuart, to thy memory still155
          For this best Senefit
          Should British hearts in gratitude be bound!
          A deeper tragedy
          Than thine unhappy tale hath never fill'd
          The historic page, nor given160
          Poet or moralist his mournful theme!
          O House severely tried,
          And in prosperity alone
          Found wanting, Time hath closed
          Thy tragic story now!165
          Errors and virtues fatally betrayed,
          Magnanimous suffering, vice,
          Weakness, and head-strong zeal, sincere tho'blind,
          Wrongs, calumnies, heart-wounds,
          Religious resignation, earthly hopes170
          Fears and affections, these have had their course,
          And over them in peace
          The all-engulphing stream of years hath closed.
          But this good work endures,
          'Stablish'd and perfected by length of days,175
          The indissoluble union stands.


[88]

          12.
          Nor hath the sceptre from that line
          Departed, though the name hath lost
          Its regal honours. Trunk and root have failed:180
          A scion from the stock
          Liveth and flourisheth. It is the Tree
          Beneath whose sacred shade,
          In majesty and peaceful power serene,
          The Island Queen of Ocean hath her seat;185
          Whose branches far and near
          Extend their sure protection; whose strong roots
          Are with the isle's foundations interknit;
          Whose stately summit when the storm careers
          Below, abides unmoved,190
          Safe in the sunshine and the peace of Heaven!


To a Friend, On Sending a Fancy Drawing, After Promising Her Own Picture in the Character of a Gypsey By Lady Caroline Lamb


[89]

          THE glowing tints beneath thy care
          Have traced a form divinely fair,
          Have given it charms and beauties rare,
          And shown the power of art;
          But in the ideal head I trace,5
          No features of the gypsey's face,
          The living smile, the nameless grace,
          That nature doth impart.

          Here roving looks, and eyes of fire,
          Awake the soul of young desire; -- 10
          The spells -- which Beauty may inspire,
          By thee are well exprest.
          But soon the varying tints will fade,
          And time with leaden hand shall shade,
          The colours that once vivid played15
          In thy bright eye and breast!


[90]

          So hope that paints our morning sky,
          When viewed with youth's unclouded eye;
          So pleasures airy dreams must fly
          O'erpowered with care and gloom.20
          For life's a fearful passing dream,
          And those that gay and thoughtless seem,
          Alike sail down its swelling stream
          To meet the general doom.


On His Majety's Return to Windsor Castle By the Rev. W. Lisle Bowles


[91]

          NOT that thy name, illustrious dome, recalls
          The pomp of chivalry in banner'd halls,
          The blaze of beauty, and the gorgeous sights
          Of heralds, trophies, steeds, and crested knights;
          Not that young Surrey there beguil'd the hour5
          With "eyes upturn'd unto the maiden's tower;"
          Oh! not for these, the muse officious brings
          Her gratulations to the best of Kings;
          But that from cities and from crowds withdrawn,
          Calm peace may meet him on the twilight lawn -- 10
          That here, among these grey primeval trees,
          He may inhale health's animating breeze --
          That these old oaks, which far their shadow cast,
          May sooth him, while they whisper of the past;
          And when from that proud Terrace he surveys15
          Slow Thames devolving his majestic maze,
          (Now lost on the horizon's verge, now seen
          Winding through lawns, and woods, and pastures green)
          May he reflect upon the waves that roll,
          Bearing a nation's wealth from pole to pole,20
          And own (ambition's proudest boast above)
          A King's best glory is his country's Love.


The Hellweathers By N.T. Carrington, Author of "Dartmoor"


[92]

[Sir Cloudesley Shovel's ship, the Association, struck upon the Gilstone, off Sicilly, with so much violence, that in about two minutes the vessel went down, and every soul on board, but one, perished. This man saved himself on a piece of timber, which floated to a rock called the Hellweathers, where he was compelled to remain some days before he could receive any assistance. Besides the Association, the Eagle, of 70, and the Romney, of 50 guns, perished, with all their crews. The Firebrand, fireship, was also lost, but most of her men were saved. Many persons of rank, and about 2000 seamen perished on this occasion.

DREW'S HISTORY OF CORNWALL.]
          THE blue wave roll'd away before the breeze
          Of evening, and that gallant fleet was seen
          Darting across the waters; ship on ship
          Following in eager rivalry, for home
          Lay on the welcome lee. The sun went down5
          Amid a thousand glorious hues that liv'd
          But in his presence; and the giant clouds
          Mov'd on in beauty and in power before
          The day- god's burning throne. But soon was o'er
          The pomp celestial, and the gold-fring'd cloud10

[93]

          Grew dark and darker, and the Elysian tints
          Evanish'd swift; the clear, bright azure chang'd
          To blackness, and with twilight came the shriek
          Of the pursuing winds. Anon on high,
          Seen dimly through the shadowy eve, the Chief15
          Threw out the wary signal, and they paus'd
          Awhile upon the deep 3. Again they gave
          Their sails to the fresh gale -- again the surge
          Swept foaming by, and every daring prow
          Pointed to England; -- England! that should greet20
          With her green hills, and long- lost vales, their eyes
          On the sweet morrow. Beautiful is morn,
          But, oh, how beautiful the morn that breaks
          On the returning wanderer, doom'd no more
          To live on fancy's visions of that spot25
          Beyond all others lov'd; -- that very spot
          Now rising from the broad, blue waters, dear
          To him as Heav'n.
          With fatal speed they flew
          Through the wide- parting foam. Again the deck30
          Slop'd to the billow, and the groaning mast
          Bent to the rising gale; yet on that night
          The voice of the loud ocean rose to them
          In music, for the winds that hurry'd by

[94]

          So fierce and swift, but heralded the way35
          To the lov'd island- strand. The jaws of death
          Were round them, and they knew it not, until
          Chilling the life- blood of the bravest, burst
          The everlasting cry of waves and rocks
          From stern Cornubia's isles. Alas, to them -- 40
          The lost, there blaz'd no friendly Pharos' fire,
          No star gleam'd from the heav'n. The sailor heard
          The roar of the huge cliff, and on his brow
          Fell the cold dew of horror. On they came --
          Those gallant barks, fate driv'n -- on they came -- 45
          Borne on the wings of the wild wind, to rush
          In darkness on the black and bellowing reef
          Where human help avails not. There they struck
          And sank; -- the hopes, the fears, the wishes all
          Of myriads o'er, at once. Each fated ship50
          One moment sat in all her pride, and pomp,
          And beauty, on the main; -- the next, she plung'd
          Into the "hell" of waves, and from her deck
          Thrill'd the loud death scream -- stifled as it rose
          By the dark sea; -- one blow -- one shriek -- the grave!55

          And all was silent -- save the startling voice
          Of the Atlantic, rising from that shore
          In anger ever! Terribly its surge
          Clos'd o'er them, and they perish'd in that gulf
          Where the dead lie innumerous, and the depths60
          Are rife with monstrous shapes, and rest is none

[95]

          Amid the infuriate war of waters hurl'd
          In endless, horrible commotion. Heard
          Alone, between the pausings of the gale,
          Was one faint, human wail. Where thousands sank65
          One rode the vengeful wave, preserv'd to be,
          As seem'd, the sport of the mad billows: now
          Upflung upon the mountain ridges -- now
          Swift sinking in abysses vast that yawn'd
          Almost to Ocean's bed. Yet life fled not,70
          Nor hope, though in the tempest's giant coil
          He gasp'd for breath, and often writhed beneath
          The suffocating waters!
          Morning came
          In vain, though on the island rock the sea75
          Had flung the hapless mariner. Around
          Howl'd the remorseless surge; -- above, the cloud
          Swept, terror- wing'd; -- the lightening o'er the day
          Shed an unnatural glare, and near him broke
          The thunder with its peal of doom. No aid80
          Came through the long, long day, yet on the cliffs
          Floated the cheering signal; -- from the strand
          Came voices animating; -- men were there
          Impatient as the bounding greyhound held
          Within the straining leash -- a gallant band85
          Nurs'd in the western storm, familiar long
          With danger, and with -- death, but might not brave
          The monster, now. And thus the victim hung
          Upon eternity's dread verge, and gaz'd

[96]

          Appall'd upon its gulf; -- then backwards shrunk90
          Convulsively to life, and hope renew'd
          Unfroze his blood, and o'er his features threw
          A light that could not last. For evening came,
          And the great sun descended to the main,
          While oft the beautiful, beloved orb95
          The seaman watch'd, and sigh'd to see it sink
          Beneath the wave; but as the twilight grew
          Deeper and deeper, and the darkness clos'd
          Upon him, and the hungry, howling surge
          Was heard below, loud clamouring for its prey,100
          He wept -- the lone man wept!
          Again it came,
          The unchang'd, unchanging morning, rising wild
          Upon a joyless world; yet did his eye
          Glisten to see the dawn, though it awoke105
          In tempest; and that day flew by, and night
          Once more fell on him, and another morn
          Broke, and the sufferer liv'd! The hand of death
          Was on him, yet delay'd the fatal grasp;
          And round the agonized victim look'd,110
          But succour came not! On the rugged rock
          Crash'd the torn wreck in thunder, and the sea
          Disgorg'd the dead -- within the black recoil
          Of waters dash'd the dead; and on the brave,
          The lov'd, he gaz'd, and at his Despair115
          Now sat, and pointed on the abyss!

          ***************
          ***************


[97]

          A shout
          Comes from the cliffs -- a shout of joy! Awake,120
          Thou lonely one from death's fast- coming sleep! --
          Arise, the strand is thronging with brave men --
          A thousand eyes are on thee, and a bark
          Bursts o'er the breaching foam! The shifting cloud
          Flies westward, and away the storm, repell'd125
          Relunctant sails: the winds have backward flung
          The billows of the Atlantic! See, -- they come, --
          They come -- a dauntless island- band -- and now
          A cheer is heard&mdash and hark the dash of oars
          Among the reefs! His eye with instant hope130
          Brightens, and all the ebbing tides of life
          Rush with returning vigour! Now the spray
          Flies o'er the advancing pinnace, for the wave
          Though half subdued is mighty; yet her prow
          Victorious parts the surges, -- nearer roll135
          The cheers of that bold crew -- the welcome sounds
          Thrill on his ear -- the deep'ning plunge of oars
          Foams round the desert rock -- 'tis won! 'tis won!
          And -- he is sav'd!


Imitation from the Persian By Dr. Southey


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          LORD! who art merciful as well as just,
          Incline thine ear to me, a child of dust!
          Not what I would, O Lord! I offer thee,
          Alas! but what I can.
          Father Almighty, who hast made me man,5
          And bade me look to Heaven, for thou art there,
          Accept my sacrifice and humble prayer.
          Four things which are not in thy treasury,
          I lay before thee, Lord, with this petition: --
          My nothingness, my wants,10
          My sins, and my contrition!


Figure 5: Suitors Rejected


painted by Mr. W. H. Worthington, engraved by Mr. A. Wright



The Suitors Rejected By Miss Emma Roberts, Author of "The History of the Red and White Roses."


[99]

1     "UPON what knave's errand art thou sent, my dainty page thus early?" exclaimed Leonora, "had I not been afoot with the lark to gather May- dew before the sun had drank the moisture from these flowers, thou mightest have gone bootless home again, for my lady the countess, and Victorine and Eugenie still press their pillows: dreaming perchance of thy master and his gallant esquire; dost think boy, that sallow-visaged melancholy baron, sighing after the wreck of the fortune which he lacks the wit to mend, or the doughty hero, Roland, who would fain prompt him, if his dull brain could compass the matter, to some dexterous shift or stirring enterprise; or those goodly trencher men, Dugarde and Montresor, are like to haunt a lady's slumbers?"

2     "Faith, Leonora," replied the page, "it passes my poor judgment to decide what it may please the fancy of thy lady and her maids to dream about; the place is solitary thou knowest -- there are no other cavaliers of any mark or likelihood within a dozen

[100]

miles, they wear feathers in their caps and deck their legs in silken hose, things which women wondrously affect to look upon, and perchance in default of more ruffling gallants, they may be endured."

3     "Now out upon thee, for a saucy varlet," cried Leonora, "hie thee hence, sire page, or thou shalt taste the discipline of the scullion's broom, and be sent roaring home again."

4     "An' thou dost not bid me stay, fair mistress, I'll get me gone, and speedily, but I'll carry that away which to possess thou wouldst give -- aye, the lovelock Roland begged so earnestly last night, which thou sworest should go with thee to thy grave -- a secret, Leonora."

5     "A secret -- nay, purse not up thy pretty mouth, thou paragon of pages, but tell it quickly; come, thou art a sprightly lad, and wilt make a better knight than thy master."

6     "And dost thou think to beguile me with sugared words; no, no, something better, lady, or I'm gone."

7     "Thou shalt have an eyas, one that the master falconer engages shall prove a tarsel gentle; I'll broider thee thy glove myself, and its jesses shall be of silver: methinks thou only wantest a bird upon thy fist to brave it with the best."

8     "Wilt thou give me a kiss, Madonna?"

9     "Aye, manikin, twenty; dost think that I should blush to press the smooth lip of such a beard-

[101]

less urchin? go to, I'll give thee something better than a kiss, take this fair chain of gold, a metal wondrous scant at yonder castle, if report speak true; every link will buy thee some rich gawd; thou shalt have horse to ride, a good sword girded at thy side, and still wear half its length about thy neck."

10     "Methinks I could carry a hawk as fair, and manage a steed, and wield a rapier as well as the favourite page of King Charles himself, but though I prize a horse and a falcon, and thy massy chain, and thy sweet kisses, pretty Leonora, I'll not sell my secret for aught a-kin to lucre; thou shalt have it without fee or guerdon, because I desire to merit the gilded spurs I mean to win, and I deem it to be rank cowardice for men to set their wit against the weaker sex."

11     "Aye, marry, these are dainty scruples, malapert conceited minion, keep thy council to aid thy master and his sapient friends, and leave us to countervail their plots. This must needs be some device of Roland's, for the baron has thought of nothing better than to sigh under the garden wall, while his trusty squire clears his hoarse throat and trolls some dismal ditty; and Dugarde and Montresor being kept fasting, groan in concert, and cast tender glances at Victorine and Eugenie, or at the shields of brawn which the servitors carry into the buttery, it were hard to say which."


[102]

12     "Farewell, mistress Leonora, I meant to do thy lady a service; for not to speak it disparagingly, her broad lands rather than her beauty have tempted my master, whose revenues are, as thou sayest, somewhat slack, to play false to his plighted bride; and thy glittering carkanets, Leonora, and the pearl studs, and the diamond bodkins in which the silly hearts of thy fair companions so much delight, are the grand attraction with his needy followers. I dare not hint that Roland is drawn hither by any brighter object than thine eyes, but Montresor and Dugarde see butts of malvoisin, haunches of the red deer, hawks, Damascus blades, and Barbary coursers in every gem."

13     "I guessed as much," exclaimed Leonora, "an' thy secret be upon a par with thy news, 'twere scarcely worth while to rise so early with it, but for once, though thou deserv'st it not, I'll humour thee; I see thou art burning to tell this marvellous tale, so out with it -- from sheer compassion I'll lend thee mine ear."

14     "Take me then to thy bower, Leonora," replied the page, "for we have idled the time until the morning solitude is broken, and stragglers haunt the glade."

15     "Willingly, my fair boy, and I'll break thy fast with a manchet of wheaten bread, and a platter of potted lampreys, cates I trow not common in the

[103]

baron's hall, and thou shalt wash down both with a cup of sack."

16     The page and the lady passed into the fair chateau of the young Countess de Normanville, laughing as they threw the dew-besprinkled flowers in sport at each other, but the frolic mood of the maiden was changed, as after the lapse of an hour she shewed the boy out of a little postern gate, and charged him to be faithful. Flying round to the mew, where, as he was wont, Bertram de Lille was stationed overlooking the falconers and whistling to the hawks, Leonora seized the youth by the arm, exclaiming, "To horse! to horse! sweet servant, away to the lady of Beaujeu, there is mischief brewing, the thick skulls of the baron's followers have hatched a plot which will cost thee some hard riding, and me all the jewels in my casket to defeat. Here are twenty broad pieces for the lacquey who keeps the door, and this rich chain for the seneschal that you may have speech of the lady; and stay, here is a ruby ring as some small token of our mistress's affection for her royal kinswoman, and these clasps and brooches are for her waiting gentlewomen, that they may speed thy errand; and as I learn that money is not over plenty in the king's camp, for the jewels of the Duchess of Savoy and the Marchioness of Montserrat, which he has borrowed, lie in pawn for his necessities, stint not to say that so there be a fa-

[104]

vourable answer to this missive, plate to the value of a thousand marks shall be dispatched to Lombardy. Now it is well, thou art mounted, fly with the speed of the wind, and linger not in making those gambados -- thy skill in horsemanship has not been cast away on careless eyes."

17     De Lille obeyed the commands of the sprightly Leonora with so much zeal and diligence that his foaming steed clattered into the court-yard an hour before even her impatient spirit expected to see the dust which the charger's hoofs would raise upon the adjacent hill; and exchanging his travel-soiled garments for the silken vest which displayed his figure to the best advantage, he was ready to join the seneschal in his attendance on the ladies in their evening walk through the parks and pleasure ground. Passing down a broad flower-bespangled glade they encountered the baron, who attired in black garments, and accompanied by his page, and his three trusty esquires, advanced to pay his respects to the countess.

18     "Fair lady," he exclaimed, "attribute to this ardour of my passion my apparent disrespect in approaching you clad in this dolorous habit."

19     "What is't, a penance?" interrupted Leonora; "and by the wing of Cupid for some heavy offence, for it suits your complexion marvellously ill, and of that the malicious priest was aware. A penance it

[105]

must be; the jovial countenances of your merry men declare that no evil hap can betided in your household."

20     "Alas, madam," replied the baron, "I wear this raven-tinted garb as a tribute of respect to the memory of one whose death, in sooth, I lament not, since it promises to remove one barrier to the suit I have so long and so hopelessly pressed, with the lovely but too disdainful mistress of my soul. I am released from my betrothment with the Lady Adela, by her decease."

21     "What, ho! Master Bertram," exclaimed Leonora, "thou mayest restore the baron to the hues of the popinjay, in which he does so much execution in the hearts of simple damsels. This gentleman, my lord, is fresh from the court of the lady of Beaujeu, where he has seen and conversed with the Lady Adela, who morever has sent thee a token that she liveth still to demand the fulfillment of an engagement made before her broken fortune caused her to be slighted."

22     "And," said the Countess de Normanville, "I marvel that a gentleman and a knight should shame his high lineage and chivalric oath by such a paltry device. Know, sir, I am also acquainted with the base means with which you have tampered with the avarice of my kinsman -- an honorable bargain, forsooth -- half the estate when you lost all hope of

[106]

clutching the whole: but, beware sir, neither fraud or force can avail you now; the Lady of Beaujeu, in behalf of my sovereign King Charles, has taken my wardship into her own hand, and has alone the power to dispose of me in marriage."

23     "And my lord," cried Bertram, "there is news from the camp of Charles; he marches from triumph to triumph, and he has 'gaged the hands of his wards to the knights, who shall add the conquered states of Italy to the crown of France. What sayst thou? my poor sword is at the service of my king; I post to the army to-morrow. Wilt thou quit thy sylvan warfare in these woods to strive in martial exploits with the gallant Lusignan, who it is rumoured wears the Countess de Normanville's glove upon his basnet?"

24     "Peace, Bertram," cried the seneschal, "the baron loves to court far more dangerous perils than the Lombard wars present, to tilt with ladies' eyes instead of spears."

25     "Tarry for me, Master Bertram," exclaimed the page, "if it be but for the space of a single day, and thou shalt not ride alone an there be a broad sword and a steel jerkin left in the armoury."

26     "Farewell, friend Roland," said Leonora, "thou, too, hast to win thy spurs, and line thy purse with bezants; say, wilt thou take thy chance with an uncrested helm to gain the land which calls me heir

[107]

in Bertram's absence? He leaves me, thou seest, to combat as best I may against thy wit and valour; or wilt thou, too, speed to these Lombard wars, and delegate to yon sad browed knight and Messieurs Degarde and Montresor, who look wondrous wise, though unhandsomely chary of their words, the task of consoling me and my fellow damsels, when these vales shall be deprived of the sunshine of thy presence."

27     "No, sweet mistress," returned Roland, "though thy sharp tongue and scornful eye drive Master Bertram to the tented field, though thy humour were ten times more petulant, and thy jests more keen, thou shalt not wear the willow branch for me, or hang or drown for lack of one poor servant to bear with thy impertinencies: 'twere pity to have them wasted on thy monkey or thy tire woman, send forth thy warrior youth to gather laurels, we will pluck them from their brows when they return,

28     And thou shalt call him brave who bears away At once, the trophies of each toilsome day."



Ane Waefu' Scots Pastoral By James Hogg, the Ettrick Shephard


[108]

4
          1.
          O MOOR- COCK, moor- cock, dinna craw
          Sae crouse on wing of mottled feather,
          Nor spread that boardly breast sae braw5
          Upon thy height of Highland heather;
          For that's a brewing on the sea
          Will mar thy pride afore the even,
          And hap thy teemfu' mate and thee
          Deep frae the glowing light o' heaven.10

          2.
          Thy voice gars a' the echos blair
          From viewless dens of rock and river;
          Like some wild spirit of the air
          Thou mak'st its billows quake and quiver,15

[109]

          Proud of the mate thou lovest best;
          But o'er her hame nae mair thou'lt craw,
          Her grave maun be her lowly nest,
          Her winding- sheet the wreathe o' snaw.

          3.20
          Thou lawless black- cock dinna spread
          That speckled fan so bright of hue,
          Why all that pride of evil deed
          Pruning thy wing of glossy blue,
          In wooing of a silly dame,25
          Who knows full well thy love's a flam,
          And that for her 'tis much the same,
          As raven's for the sickly lamb?

          4.
          Begone thou heartless libertine,30
          And locker in thy sheltered glade;
          For soon that motely love of thine,
          And thou shall both be lowly laid;
          Yet I will miss thee in the glen
          When August winds breathe o'er the fell,35
          As mounting from thy braken den,
          Or skimmering o'er the heather bell.

          5.
          The laverock lilts within the lift,
          The mavis touts upon the tree;40

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          The blackbird hardly makes a shift
          To strain one note of melody;
          For ay he cowers his sooty wing
          An' points his yellow bill on high,
          And fears he has foreflown the spring45
          Misled by winter's courtesy.

          6.
          For the sand- lark I needs must wail
          Sae ruefully he pours his pain,
          And as he sits and wags his tail,50
          And whews upon his cauldrife stane;
          He sees the lapper on the stream,
          And Yarrow's banks sae sternly piled,
          That Sandy 5 thinks he's in a dream,
          Or landed in some polar wild.55

          7.
          The curlew's neb's a weary length,
          The pease- weep's crest is like a tree,
          The chirping wagtail scarce has strength
          To turn his white cheek to the lee,60
          Their necks are lang, their shanks are sma'
          Through perfect downright consternation,
          An' ay they cower by holt an' ha'
          Like thriftless weavers in starvation.


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          8.65
          The shilfu clars amang the firs,
          The yellow yorline in the thorn,
          But a' the simmer's harbingers
          Are buried ere the break of morn,
          The lambs lie smothered in the dean,70
          The ewes stand bleating loud an' lang,
          While the poor shepherd dights his een,
          And thinks the world is a' gane wrang.

          Mount Benger, April 24th, 1827.


Anacreontic By T.K. Hervey, Esq.


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          THE moon is forth! -- and while the cars
          Of night are out, we will not sleep,
          Send round the bowl, and shew the stars
          The vigils earthly spirits keep! --
          And if the vines, in yonder sky,5
          Drop for their train such purple tears,
          The poet's tale should be no lie,
          Which paints them singing in their spheres!

          Shall we, because Hope's fount is dry,
          Shun every fount that soothes the soul? -- 10
          The pang that blights the heart and eye
          Was never gathered from the bowl!
          If looks be dim, that once were bright,
          To weep will hardly make them brighter,
          And if our hearts be far from light,15
          At least, we'll strive to make them lighter!


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          Fill high the glass! -- to- night, we'll try,
          For once, to make a truce with sorrow,
          And they who think it wise to sigh,
          May smile to- night -- and sigh to- morrow; -- 20
          But we, who love the better mood,
          To gather gladness where we may,
          Will hail, across this purple flood,
          The dawning of a brighter day.


The Ritter von Reichenstein By Unknown


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1     The Ritter von Reichenstein6

2     THE great hall in the royal castle of Linz resounded with kettle-drums and trumpets, while King Ferdinand and his Queen sat at the banquet table, rejoicing that the siege was now raised, and Austria once more victorious. The banquet was given in honour of the young Baron von Reichenstein, who then, for the first time, appeared as the King's guest. He had the good fortune to bring the welcome tidings that Solyman, after beleaguering the city for many weeks, and being repulsed in every attack, had at last suddenly desisted from his undertaking, and retreated by quick marches. Of the distinction now conferred on Reichenstein his own noble conduct during the siege rendered him eminently worthy, nor could the favour have been bestowed on any one who would have valued it more highly, for pride and ambition were indeed his leading characteristics.


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3     The lively monarch banished for the time all political cares, and gave himself up to the festivity of the moment, heightened by the consideration that the good news came unexpectedly, as Vienna was then, in truth, but ill provided with the means of defence, and the Sultan, at the head of three thousand men, had vowed never to return till he had conquered both Hungary and Austria, where the Christian sway should be terminated for ever. Merrily coursed the brimming goblets round the table, and in the joy of his heart the King proposed the health of his country's brave defender, the heroic youth, Philip Palsgraf of the Rhine, and of the veteran warrior, Count Nicholas of Salm, whose locks had now grown grey under arms. The mirth became louder, and the applause more vehement, till the Queen commanded silence and attention, for she too had prepared a little entertainment to celebrate the termination of that campaign which had threatened so much misfortune; well knowing that on such occasions her illustrious consort did not disdain to exchange the homage to Bacchus for a sacrifice to the Muses. Of this Monarch, indeed, it is recorded that when a certain Colonel of his Life Guards once ventured to hint that he bestowed too many favors on the learned, to the neglect of the ancient nobility, the Colonel next day received a great packet of old and important parchments, with an order that he

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should read them through, and in a few hours return a written abstract of their contents; the Colonel, of course, brought them back, declaring his incapacity for the task. "Good friend," said the King, smiling ironically, "you will for the future spare your animadversions on our patronage of the learned, for you perceive that if noblemen and warriors only were to be raised to office, the duties of the state would be fulfilled yet worse than heretofore."

4     On a signal from the queen a red silk curtain at the bottom of the hall was suddenly drawn up, and revealed an altar from which a clear flame rose flickering, and illuminated the arms of Austria wreathed with laurel and gorgeously emblazoned. Before the altar sat a female form, beaming in such luxuriance of beauty, that she might well indeed have been deemed one of the muses descended from Mount Olympus. Her long white robes though rich in folds could not conceal the exquisite symmetry of her form; round her waist she wore a gold embroidered girdle, while from her shoulders waved a short mantle of blue velvet studded with golden stars. Her features were of the noblest Grecian mould; round her temples was bound a laurel wreath, and her glossy chesnut hair flowed in profuse curls round her blushing cheeks, down into her snow-white neck and bosom. In her arms she supported a harp, and accompanying her voice with powerful chords, sung

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a fervent hymn in praise of the brave men by whose courage the threatening danger had been averted, and the proud plans of the Pagan invader defeated. Impassioned eloquence or music alone is enough to move irresistibly every feeling heart, -- but how much is that effect encreased , when the tones flow from lips so beautiful, when such eyes beam with the sacred fire of inspiration! -- A watchful silence prevailed in the hall that was before so loud with voices; the guests had eyes and ears only for the seraphic musician, who exercised her power like an enchantress even over the roughest veteran warriors "albeit unused to the melting mood," for she recalled to them and presented as if in a magic mirror the fairy dreams of their youth. How vivid then must have been the impression on younger auditors! Involuntarily all hearts were attracted and won by the lovely performer -- every eye glistened with pleasure, and when she had finished her triumphant song, every tongue was busy in her praise -- even the proud and haughty Baron Reichenstein was deeply moved. 'Till now, the attention which had often been bestowed on the young warrior by susceptible beauties of the capital had failed to excite any other sensation but that of gratified vanity. Now, however, when the songstress in her chaunt alluded to him as the announcing messenger of that that victory which he had assisted to gain, he could

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no longer look proudly around, as he had been wont to do. On the contrary a deep blush came over his features; his proud heart beat anxiously, and his fiery eagle eyes were humbly fixed on the ground.

5     So the festivities of the banquet were closed, and the evening of that happy day was spent in dancing and games of chance. For neither of these amusements was Baron Reichenstein disposed. Leaning against a pillar of the Gothic Hall, he followed with watchful eyes every movement of the Demoiselle Appollonia von Santi, -- for so the beautiful songstress was named. Descended from a noble Greek house, and left in early youth an orphan, she had been brought to the Court of King Ferdinand, and there educated as one of the queen's maids of honour. Her beauty, -- her eminent talents for music, and but still more the unpretending modesty of her demeanour excited universal attention, and every one spoke with respect of the beautiful Lady Appollonia. No sooner had she made her appearance in the ball-room than Reichenstein saw that the young and old crowded around her, to express their thanks for the delight which her music had afforded, and afterwards as she whirled past him in the walk, supported by some gay and brilliant courtier, he was racked by a feeling of the bitterest envy; yet he who had before known fear scarcely by name, had

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not the courage to approach her. With rapture he remarked, that even during the dance, his eyes often encountered hers, and when she seated herself for refreshment and rest, her looks again followed him as if she would say -- "And you alone determined not to share in the pleasures of these fleeting hours?" So at last he mustered resolution, humbly approached the victorious enchantress, and in a faultering half audible voice begged that he might have the honour of her hand for the next dance. Appollonia blushed and courtesied her consent; the warlike hero made an awkward bow, and retreated, not daring to say more, 'till the music recommencing called them to their places. Reichenstein, who was usually a good waltzer could now scarcely keep in time, while his lovely partner seemed to partake of his embarrassment, yet this was but for a few minutes; her sparkling eyes and approving smiles soon roused him to self-possession. Even the musicians seemed inspired; they played louder, and with more precision. Envied by many a youth in the numerous assemblage, he flew down the ranks, with the peerless Grecian on his arm, and all allowed that there never was seen a more beautiful couple. On returning to their seats, Appollonia challenged her partner to give her some account of the Blockade. Reichenstein had now recovered from his awkward timidity, and contrived to tell his story with un-

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wonted eloquence, enlivened and rewarded all the while by the approbation which he read unequivocally in the bright eyes of his auditress. Appollonia's attention was indeed so absorbed that she forgot the dance, and the presence of the court, so that the marshal was obliged to remind her of her duty, for the queen had already proposed to break up the party.

6     Henceforward Reichenstein saw the young lady almost every day, and continued always to discover new charms and fresh virtues, -- and this at length drew from him a confession of his love, and a request for her hand in marriage. Appollonia in answer explained to him that her fate depended on the king, who had hitherto acted towards her as a father, and who therefore possessed the full parental authority. Reichenstein heard this with fear and trembling; for he suspected that Ferdinand might have other views for his fair adopted daughter. He knew how much the king delighted in Appollonia's talents, by which his mind was often exhilarated after the cares of public business, and with which amusement it could not be supposed that he would willingly dispense. It was necessary therefore to watch for some favourable opportunity, when the king should appear in especial good humour, before the subject could be broached, and ere long, such a fitting occasion presented itself to the anxious lover.


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7     The disaffected Bohemians, whom Ferdinand had a few years ago severely chastised, happened to lose by an accidental fire great part of the national archives, and their most important charters or deed of immunity. Conscience-stricken, and fearful that advantage might be taken of this event, whereby they might be deprived of many valuable privileges, they sent a deputation to Linz, in order to treat with their monarch on the subject. Scarcely had Ferdinand heard their preamble, when he exclaimed angrily -- "Your charters may be destroyed, but our imperial promise, and principles of integrity, are not destroyed along with them. All the rights and privileges of which this fire has robbed you, we shall renew; and, where there is doubt, rather than give you less, we shall make your advantages greater than before." Of that scene Reichenstein was a witness. "No," said he to himself, "it is impossible that a sovereign, who is thus so mild and equitable, should be harsh to me alone." And no sooner had the ashamed representatives left the audience-hall, than he threw himself at Ferdinand's feet, and stammered out his request. For a few moments he was, indeed, kept in agonising suspense, while the king looked at him silently and with a very grave aspect. At length he made a sign for the supplicant to rise, and said, "I cannot conceal that I shall be very unwilling to part with Mademoiselle de Santi. In

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her delightful music I must lose one of the best enjoyments of my life; -- yet far be it from me to interfere on any selfish principles, with her future prospects or yours; -- take her then, and be happy."

8     What language could adequately describe the rapture of the lovers! Soon after, their marriage was solemnized with princely magnificence, and Reichenstein took his young bride to the family castle from which he derived his title, and which was situated in Upper Austria, in one of the most attractive districts of that beautiful country. Then, from far and near, flocked visitors to pay their homage at the festal mansion, more attracted, however, by the wondrous musical talents of the bride, than by the hospitable manners of the castle's lord. The young noblemen of the neighbourhood, especially, were numerous and unwearied in their attentions; and their admiration of the Lady von Reichenstein's improvisator songs was beyond measure fervent. The baron's pride was at first flattered by such universal applause; but that feeling soon yielded to another very different emotion. He began to fear that it was not merely the delight they experienced from her music, but much more their admiration of Appollonia's personal charms, which shone in the eyes of these gay and idle youths, so that by degrees jealously more and more deeply fixed her serpent stings into his very

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heart. Yet far too proud to confess that he had become the prey of a passion so despicable, and sensible that her conduct was too scrupulously correct to warrant his avowal of any suspicions, he concealed his irritability as much as possible, though many times, by gloomy silence, or short monosyllabic answers, did he betray his inward discontent. Appollonia, conscious of her own innocence, was completely at a loss to fix on any cause for this change, and enquired anxiously the reason of his distress, -- whereupon the proud baron, instead of imparting at once the source of his grief, and thus, for ever banishing the demon that haunted his house, was either moodily silent as before, or ascribed his depression to a transient attack of illness.

9     Love is sharp-sighted. Appollonia thought that she had at last found out the real cause of his displeasure; and under the pretext that their present mode of life was far too fatiguing, she begged him to dismiss their guests, in order that they might henceforth live in retirement: but how could Reichenstein's haughty spirit submit to the idea of having appeared as a jealous husband? He insisted that the castle of his ancestors must remain open to every guest; and when Appollonia, under various pretences withdrew to the solitude of her own apartments, and the visitors with regret commented on

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the absence of their beautiful hostess -- but especially when ironical hints and conjectures were whispered round the festal board, regarding the reasons for her disappearance, his pride was more than ever wounded. He therefore entreated Appollonia, nay, commanded her, to appear as formerly at every banquet, and to enliven his guests by the exercise of her magic art. Under these circumstances, concluding that her former suppositions had been altogether erroneous, she obeyed him willingly, without disguising that the incense of praise lavishly bestowed was welcome and acceptable to her female heart. Reichenstein's gloomy discontent now increased visibly from day to day, and it was only in the presence of strangers that his jealousy was overcome or concealed by the determination to appear gay and unembarrassed. In vain did his affectionate wife enquire into the cause of such inexplicable conduct. Two whole years thus passed away, during which that abode of his ancestors, where the spirit of domestic happiness should have woven for him the richest and brightest wreaths, was changed by his own imperious temper, and haughty and foolish reserve, into a cell of torment and ceaseless disquietude.

10     Meanwhile Solyman, in order to revenge himself for the loss and disgrace which he had encoun-

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tered, prepared to renew the war more formidably than ever, and made such an attack on Styria and Austria, that the Emperor Charles, in person, at the head of a considerable army, came to the assistance of the king, his illustrious brother. Ferdinand at the same time hastened to collect around him his faithful troops, and the rumour of these proceedings having reached the secluded castle of Reichenstein, the baron determined that he would immediately resume the duties of his station in the army. He had not yet been summoned; but alas! in his home there was no longer any domestic happiness that could induce him to remain there. In his wayward self-delusions he had cast it away; and in the tumult of the battle-field he best hoped to forget his vexations.

11     The news of this approaching separation struck fearfully on the already wounded heart of Appollonia. When the dreadful hour of parting arrived, her anguish was indeed most sincere and overpowering, yet her foolish husband imagined that her tears and complaints were but a mask under which she concealed her joy at the prospect of being able in future to follow her inclinations without restraint. Unmoved, therefore, and sternly, he tore himself from her affectionate embraces, and galloped away, spurring his foaming charger, even as the

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demons of jealousy and distrust goaded him on in his insane career.

12     Now the once gay castle of Reichenstein became silent as a hermitage; -- and like a widow mourning the death of a beloved husband, Appollonia withdrew from all society, living only for the care of his property, and ceaseless prayers for his welfare and preservation. Often at the midnight hour her attendants found her still at her earnest devotions, or listened with respectful sympathy as she touched her harp, and with tearful eyes expressed her grief, and even her prayers, in low faultering melody.

13     Day after day, week after week dragged on, but no news arrived of Reichenstein, though she had earnestly requested that he would write to her. At length she found herself quite unable any longer to bear the racking pains of suspense, and dispatched her Castellan, a man of years and experience, with orders that he should make his way to the royal army, and by no means to return without some intelligence of her beloved husband. The interval of her messenger's absence she spent in continued prayer, and in acts of charity and benevolence.

14     When the Castellan's return was announced, he was summoned immediately to her presence, but alas! -- his features wore an expression of deep grief

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and disappointment. "Merciful God!" cried she, "my worst fears are then realized -- and I shall never see him more!" She fainted, and not without great care and skill could her attendants restore her to self-possession -- then it seemed that by direful and heroic exertion she had resolved to conquer her emotion, yet her bosom heaved convulsively, and her lips and eyelids quivered. "Speak on," said she in a hollow voic -- "relate all that thou know'st." "Forgive me," noble lady, said the messenger -- "but I fear you are not well enough now to hear such tidings." "I know already that which is most appalling," answered she, "thou canst not tell me aught that could wound more deeply -- say then, how and where did he die?" "Die!" exclaimed the Castellan -- "God forbid that he should die -- no, of this much be assured, your noble husband lives." "Lives!" exclaimed Appollonia, in a voice like that of the condemned victim on the scaffold, in whose ears for the first time sounds the voice of pardon, and who fears he may yet be deluded. -- "Lives -- saidst thou -- lives?" "Aye indeed," said the Castellan, "but the Baron von Reichenstein is now a Turkish prisoner." "Oh, heaven be praised!" cried the enraptured wife, "his life then is yet spared;" and she fell on her knees, uplifting her clasped hands in fervent gratitude to the Giver of all Good for his

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mercy. Thereafter she listened with calm attention to the Castellan's narrative. Reichenstein had been placed with a corps which was destined to oppose that of Michael Oglu, who was forcing his way with the van of the Turkish army over the Sommering mountains. In the heat of battle the Baron had advanced too far; he was quickly surrounded, and after a brave resistance, taken prisoner, and dragged away by the repulsed and fugitive Turks. Intelligence had been subsequently received by means of deserters, that he had fallen into the power of the Bassa of Belgrade, who, in consequence of his severe wounds, had obtained permission to return home, and had taken with him to his own country all his prisoners. "So then he lives -- he is at Belgrade," cried Appollonia, "and there is hope that I may yet again call him mine!" With these words her tears flowed more freely than ever, but they were now tears of joy.

15     For the rest of that day she remained shut up in her chamber, she would not speak with any one, nor accept of refreshment, but in the evening the castle chaplain was summoned to her presence. To him she explained that some affairs of great urgency and importance obliged her to go forthwith to the Queen's Court at Linz, and as the Castellan must attend her on the journey, the chaplain should, in their absence,

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use every means in his power for the due guardianship of the castle. The grey-headed priest not knowing the purpose of her journey, did not venture to remonstrate, and only implored that as her affectionate servants and vassals would deeply grieve for her absence, she would not long defer her return. With visible emotion she then took leave of her domestics, and at the earliest dawn of the next day, followed by the old castellan, and the blessing of all the Baron's vassals, she departed, taking with her only her harp, and wearing apparel.

16     Meanwhile, the Ritter von Reichenstein was obliged to fulfil menial drudgery as a slave in the gardens of Ibrahim, Bassa of Belgrade. At that time it happened that in his Harem there prevailed great affliction; Fatima, the most beautiful and beloved of his wives, had been driven to distraction by the death of her first-born infant child, and the violence of her sorrow had given way to an apathy and indifference which amounted to insanity. The unhappy Ibrahim offered the largest rewards for assistance, and tired every method to save his favourite from that untimely death to which the continuance of her malady would certainly lead. The most skilful physicians had recourse to all expedients of their art, but in vain; so that with an almost broken heart, Ibrahim saw that she was rapidly sinking into the grave.


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17     One evening when he was under the dominion of these painful reflections, it was announced that a Grecian youth had made his appearance at Belgrade as a harp player and singer, with whose music every listener had been enraptured, and who had begged permission to prove his talents before the Bassa. Ibrahim gladly availed himself of the opportunity to obtain some diversion from his own gloomy thoughts; he desired that the stranger should be admitted forthwith, and was so much delighted with the youth's performance that as long as the music continued he quite forgot his usual sufferings. Thereafter the question occurred to him whether that magic art which had such influence over his emotions might not also alleviate the malady of his beloved Fatima. He imparted this idea to the stranger, who encouraged his hopes, and assured him that many instances were on record of insane persons being altogether restored to health by the power of music. "Should'st thou succeed in this attempt," cried the rejoiced Bassa, "then demand what thou wilt -- no reward is too great, when the service performed is the preservation of my dearest Fatima."

18     The Greek youth was duly instructed in the cause and symptoms of the malady, and undertook its cure. The attempt succeeded even beyond expectation. At first he was concealed behind a veranda, and ventured only to sing the most melan-

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choly lays in soft and long protracted notes, to which for some time Fatima seemed, as usual, indifferent, but by degrees her attention was roused, and she listened with visibly increasing interest. While the music continued, her beautiful features were once more animated, a slight tinge of colour rose into her cheeks, and a lambent fire shone in her eyes, but as the tones died away into silence she declined again into her wonted mournful apathy. By degrees she began to watch every word of the youth's songs, which like the music were plaintive and desponding, till her bosom heaved, and she wept unconsciously. Thus the trial was repeated for several successive days, and as often as the hour drew near which was appointed for the musician's attendance, she expressed anxiety and impatience; nay, once when by some accident he had been detained, she enquired if they intended to deprive her of her only remaining consolation. These words were the first that she had been heard to utter for many weeks, and from henceforward the Greek, at her request, came earlier, and remained longer. By degrees, too, he ventured to introduce songs that were less mournful, and the listener seemed even more gratified than before, till at length she begged to see the wonderful musician by whom she had been thus delighted; and even requested that he would give her instructions in his divine art. He obeyed

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willingly, and Fatima had soon learned a few simple ballads, which she practised passionately night and day, thus forgetting her misfortunes, so that she was ere long restored to perfect health.

19     The Bassa, rejoiced beyond measure at this result, did not fail to send for the musician. "Thou hast fulfilled thy promise," said he, "now demand thy reward, in order that I also may behave honourably. Be not afraid to ask too much, for Allah has made me rich by his exceeding bounties, but for the preservation of my best and dearest treasure I am indebted to thee." "Sir," answered the youth, "there is in the gardens of your Harem a noble German soldier, the Ritter von Reichenstein, a captive who now labours there as a slave. It so happens that I have been deeply indebted to his house, and therefore if you are pleased to give up to me the liberty of this man, I shall be amply and richly rewarded." "Take him hence then," said the Bassa, "and along with him, if thou wilt, ten of his fellow soldiers, who have hitherto shared his fate. Moreover, it shall not be said that the Bassa Ibrahim sent any man out into the wide world to find his way home as a mendicant; he shall therefore be amply provided for; and thou, too, modest youth, shalt not leave my palace unrewarded." Hereupon Ibrahim summoned the overseer of his slaves, commanding him to lead the Greek youth into the prison of the Christians, to

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inform the Baron and his companions that they were free, and present to them the noble Greek youth as their deliverer. In vain did the humble minstrel strive against this -- the Bassa's resolution was inexorable, "for it is no more than justice," said he, "that these Christian dogs should learn to know their benefactor, and offer him due thanks for his disinterested benevolence."

20     Miserable embarrassed, the young Greek followed the overseer, and entered a gloomy prison, where the captives were seated on the damp ground, strewed with rushes. No sooner had the overseer announced the purpose of his message than the overjoyed exiles threw themselves at their deliverer's feet, even kissed the hem of his garment, and wept in their excess of gratitude. "Be thankful to God," said the youth, in a faultering, scarce audible tone, "and may Providence guide you on your homeward journey!" "Stay, noble stranger," cried Reichenstein, as the minstrel would have hastily retired -- "if you will not listen to our humble protestations of gratitude, yet at least accept from my hands this insignificant ring. Should you, or any of your friends ever come to Germany, and pass near the castle of Reichenstein, this little token will open for the traveller a new home, and make him an acknowledged inmate of a noble family, whose last remaining chief you

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have thus contributed to uphold." "We shall meet again," stammered the youth, with obvious emotion, and taking the ring, rushed from the prison as though he dared not trust himself in any farther colloquy.

21     The Bassa's promises were faithfully fulfilled. Enriched by valuable presents, and attended by a secure escort, Reichenstein, along with his companions, left Belgrade. They arrived in safety at the Christian camp, and were all most kindly received by King Ferdinand, especially Reichenstein, who still expressed his wish and resolution to remain with the army. "In the first place," answered the King, "it is our will and pleasure that you should appear before her Majesty at Linz. Should your inclinations alter when there, which I hope may be the case, you shall have free leave of absence from your military duties, for after the oppressions you have undergone, this indulgence is but just and necessary. If however your determination should remain unshaken, the presence of so brave a soldier as the Baron von Reichenstein will always be welcome to our army."

22     In the royal palace of Linz, after an interval of three years, the baron once more sat in the great hall at the banquet table, though now the party was less numerous, consisting only of the queen, her maids of honour, and some old coutiers. He

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again beheld the same golden framework of the folding doors, and the same red curtain which had formerly risen at the queen's signal, and afforded the first view of that peerless beauty, whom afterwards he was so fortunate as to call his own. With bitter regret he thought of that happy day, and all the fairy visions that had shone so brightly, and were now fled for ever. He sighed deeply, and the queen observing his distress, interrupted his contemplations with the words -- "If I interpret your looks aright, that curtain revives recollections of the good fortune, which was here unexpectedly prepared for you, and I can well explain that sigh with which your longing heart has reverted to home and a beloved wife." A cloud came over Reichenstein's expressive features, and a yet deeper sigh was his only answer.

23     "Nay, then, perhaps you have received some disquieting letters," said the queen, "and I doubt not that Appollonia's grief at your long absence -- "

24     "Appollonia's grief, indeed!" interrupted the baron with bitter irony; "your majesty must forgive me if I venture to doubt that any such cause -- "

25     "Nay, nay," answered the queen, "we must hear no more of this. I shall not allow myself to believe that unworthy suspicions could ever find harbour in your bosom. For the present, let us hear

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minutely how you contrived to escape from the Turkish prison?"

26     The Ritter went through his narrative accordingly.

27     "But your deliverer," observed the queen; "that noble-hearted Greek -- have you then never seen him since your meeting in prison?"

28     "Alas, no!" answered the baron; "and the manner in which he then took leave obliges me to fear that I shall never in this world be so happy as to see my generous benefactor again, in order to prove how deep and sincere is my gratitude."

29     "While there is life there is hope," said the queen; "could you have believed, three years ago, that yonder curtain, which you no doubt looked on with contempt, concealed the beautiful songstress, who was destined to be your loving wife? What should you think, if its mystic folds should once more expand, and reveal the person of your kind deliverer?"

30     "Your majesty is pleased to jest," said the baron with a melancholy smile.

31     "Let us try," said the queen, "whether it is impossible to convert his infidel;" and at her signal the curtain was again drawn up. Again he saw the altar from which a bright flame rose and illuminated, not the Austrian arms, but those of the noble house

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of Reichenstein; while beneath stood the Grecian youth, his large hat slouched over his features, and leaning on his harp.

32     "Is it possible? my deliverer! my benefactor!" cried Reichenstein, and then rushed up to the apparition. At that moment the pilgrim's hat fell off; the grey-coloured dress was thrown aside; and Appollonia smiling in all her wonted loveliness, while tears of joy shone in her eyes, presented to him the ring which he had given as a token to the wandering minstrel. He stood silent and confounded.

33     "Yes," said the queen in a solemn voice, "she it was -- your affectionate and faithful wife, whom not all the fatigues and dangers of so long a journey could deter from her undertaking, to redeem out of wretched thralldom that still beloved husband, who, too haughty to confess the injustice of which he had been guilty, had destroyed her happiness and his own."

34     Reichenstein meanwhile throwing himself prostrate on the ground, and forgetting all his wonted pride, had hidden his face in the folds of her garment. Appollonia would have raised him up, but he exclaimed vehemently, though in a voice broken by his emotion -- "Never more dare I lift up mine eyes to her whom I have thus injured! No penance no humiliation can atone for that guilt which now

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cleaves to my conscience and of which the stain will never be effaced."

35     "Nay," said Appollonia, "knowst thou not that of all duties in this world, there is none more easy for true love than to forgive, -- that the fond heart may indeed be wounded and broken by faults, mistrust and injuries, yet will never thus be alienated from its idol?"

36     So the happy couple rushed into each others embrace, forgetful of the spectators and all the world -- nor was there one individual present, who did not sympathize in their emotion; even the queen herself burst into tears. Henceforward, Reichenstein cherished no other pride but that founded on possession of the most beautiful and faithful of wives. The Bassa of Belgrade's gifts might increase his worldly wealth, but not his happiness, for in the tried attachment of Appollonia, he had secured the richest of all earthly treasures; mutually placing unbounded confidences in each other, their path of life was evermore cheered by sunshine and strown with flowers.



Figure 6: The Boy and Dog


painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A., engraved by Mr. W. Humphreys



A Familiar Epistle to Sir Thomas Lawrence By Barry Cornwall


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          LAWRENCE! -- although the Muse and I have parted,
          (She to her airy heights, and I to toil,
          Not discontent, nor wroth, nor gloomy-hearted,
          Because I now must till a rugged soil,) --
          Although self-banished from the peerless Muse,5
          Banish'd from Art's gay groups and blending hues,
          I still gaze on thy lines, where Beauty reigns,
          With pleasure which rewards mine errant pains.
          Thus, though I con no more the common page,
          With learned Milton still and Shakespeare sage10
          I commune, when the labouring day is over,
          Filled with a deep delight; like some true lover,
          Whom frowning fate may not entirely sever
          From her whose love, perhaps, is lost for ever!

          Even now thy potent art witches my sight.15
          I see thee again, (with all my old delight,) --
          With rainbows o'er thy beaming figures flung,
          Still bright, and like Lyaeus, "ever young."
          For thou, as Raffaelle and Correggio smiled
          On beauty in the bud, and made the child20
          Immortal as the man of thoughtful brow,
          By dint of their sweet power, -- so dost thou.

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          And who, whilst those fair matchless children7 are,
          Which, with thy radiant pencil, like a star,
          Thou broughtest into light and pictured grace,25
          Shall dare assign to thee a second place?
          Yet,--thou so lov'st the art thou dost profess,
          (I know,) that thou would'st rather be deemed less
          Than thine own stature, so that they who first
          Gave art nobility, and burst30
          Like dawn upon the world to shine and reign,
          Sole homage of mens' souls may still retain.

           -- With whom dost thou now commune, -- night by night,
          When Nature, lady thine, withdraws her light,
          And even thou must cease to charm all time?35
          Is it with Michael and his stern-sublime?
          With Rembrandt's riddles dark, -- a "mighty maze?"
          Caracci's learned lines? -- or Rubens' blaze?
          With hoary Leonardo, great and wise?
          With Parma's painters and their angel eyes?40
          Or Raffaelle sent us down from out the sunny skies?

          Or, leav'st thou these to their immortal rest,
          Turning unto some youthful artist guest?
          Or with some high mind or accomplished friend
          Dost thou delight the evening hours to spend45
          By thine own fire, where proud shapes stand around,
          Deathless and eloquent, though without sound, --

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          All in the poet's dreams and fancies born,
          But wrought by sculptor-poets like the morn?
          Dost thou with Ottley talk, a spirit learn'd,50
          In whom so long the smother'd fire has burned, --
          Who should have been what many hope to be,
          A painter stamp'd with immortality?
          Speak! -- or is't all enough that thou canst dream
          Of ages when thyself must be the theme55
          Of praise unmixed, from rival envy free,
          (If rival envy ever aimed at thee -- )?
           -- Not that all those around thee (thou the sun)
           perish when their beauteous toil is done:
          For some there are whose works are wrought for time,60
          For future wonder, and eternal rhyme; --
          Good Stothard, -- old, but in his youth of fame;
          Who is, and must survive -- a potent name!
          Chantrey, -- and Flemish Wilkie, -- Landseer young,
          (Whose skill hath given the very beast a tongue -- 65
          Life -- motion -- till it chains the admiring eyes;)
          And Turner, famous for his Claudian skies;
          Hilton, Dewint, (rare brothers) formed to last;
          And Collins, with his landscapes unsurpassed;
          Callcott, whom river gods should all adore;70
          Westall, -- and Leslie, -- perhaps many more,
          Who now expand their wings, and strive and hope to soar.

           -- The Great live free from envy, free from hate,
          Born or self-raised beyond that puny state

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          Where warfare frets the heart, and shrinks the soul,75
          Which else all grandly might itself unroll
          Like morning in the east, when summer skies
          Grow bright with beauty as the darkness dies.
          Though near them wars and tempests shake the clime,
          They live unvanquished through the storms of Time,80
          Like the centurion oak, whose tower of grey
          Endureth age, but scarcely owns decay!
          Thus free dost thou live, Lawrence! -- and thus free
          From hate, from wrong, envy and calumny,
          Free from the pain thou giv'st not -- may thy life85
          Glide onwards without taint of care, or strife!
          Meantime, with every grace, and many a friend,
          Continue still thy evening time to spend,
          Feeding on lovely scenes and lofty shapes, --
          Pondering on thoughts, while not a charm escapes, -- 90
          Sitting 'midst all the gods whom painters own,
          Each standing on his pale and sculptured throne; --
          Sitting and sharing all: -- No miser thou,
          Who hoard'st the wealth which may be useful now,
          But to the artist young and yet unrefined,95
          Unbaring thoughts of many a master mind, --
          Tracing the learned lines, -- and sweetening all
          With graceful converse, never known to pall.
          Even I, deserter from the Muse's bowers,
          Have shared with thee some pleasant, pleasant hours!100
          Since when -- (those winter evenings fair and few!)
          I see the spells have raised sweet shadows new.


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           -- How long is't Lawrence, since this8 creature young,
          Out of thy sportive mood so bravely sprung
          Into bright life, and took his stand in joy105
          With things that Time shall never dare destroy? --
           -- What matter? -- he is here, and here shall be,
          A shape to speak, in far futurity,
          Of thy rare merits to the Muse of Song,
          When I and all these rhymes have vanished long!110



Youth and Age By S. T. Coleridge, Esq.


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          VERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying,
          Where Hope clings feeding like a bee,
          Both were mine! Life went a maying
               With Nature Hope and Poesy.
                    When I was young!5
          When I was young? -- Ah, woful when!
          Ah, for the change 'twixt now and then!
          This house of clay not built with hands,
          This body that does me grievous wrong
          O'er hill and dale and sounding sands,10
          How lightly then it flashed along: --
          Like those trim boats, unknown of yore,
          On winding lakes and rivers wide,
          That ask no aid of sail or oar,
          That fear no spite of wind or tide!15
          Nought cared this body for wind or weather,
          When youth and I lived in't together.

          Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like,
          Friendship is a sheltering tree;
          O the joys that come down shower like20
          Of Beauty, Truth and Liberty.

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          Ere I was old!
          Ere I was old? Ah woful ere,
          Which tells me youth's no longer here!
          O youth for years so merry and sweet,25
          'Tis known that thou and I were one,
          I'll think it but a false conceit,
          It cannot be that thou art gone!
          Thy vesper bell hath not yet toll'd,
          And thou wert, aye a masker bold.30
          What strange disguise hast now put on,
          To make believe that thou art gone?
          I see these locks in silvery slips,
          This dragging gait, this altered size; --
          But spring tide blossoms on thy lips,35
          And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
          Life is but thought, so think I will
          That youth and I are house-mates still.



A Day Dream By S.T. Coleridge, Esq.


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          MY eyes make pictures, when they are shut: --
          I see a fountain, large and fair,
          A willow and a ruined hut,
          And thee, and me and Mary there: --
          O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow!5
          Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow!

          A wild- rose roofs the ruined shed,
          And that and summer will agree:
          And, lo! where Mary leans her head,
          Two dear names carved upon the tree! -- 10
          And Mary's tears -- they are not tears of sorrow, --
          Our sister and our friend will both be here tomorrow.

          'Twas day; but now few, large, and bright,
          The stars are round the crescent moon; --
          And now it is a dark warm night,15
          The balmiest of the month of June!

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          A glow-worm fall'n, and in the marge remounting
          Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain.

          O ever -- ever be thou blest!
          O Asra! dearly love I thee20
          This brooding warmth across my breast;
          This depth of tranquil bliss -- ah, me!
          Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither,
          But in one quiet room we three are still together.

          The shadows dance upon the wall25
          By the still dancing fire- flames made;
          And now they slumber moveless all!
          And now they make to me deep shade!
          But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee,
          I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee!30

          Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play --
          'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow!
          But let me check this tender lay
          Which none may hear but she and thou,
          Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming,35
          Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women.


Figure 7: A Village Festival (Head Piece)


painted by T. Stothard, Esq., engraved by Mr. Augustus Fox



Marie's Grave: A Tale of the Landes By the author of "The Subaltern."


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1     IT is hardly necessary to remind the reader that at the close of the Peninsular war orders were issued for the formation of an encampment in the neighbourhood of Bourdeaux, where the regiments which had been selected to reinforce Sir George Prevost in Canada, as well as to carry on hostilities along the shores of the United States, might assemble. It fell to the lot of the **** regiment of light infantry to form one of the corps appointed for the last-mentioned of these services. Having been attached to the left column of Lord Wellington's army we were stationed, when the above intelligence reached us, under the walls of Bayonne, at the distance of ten long day's march from the point of rendezvous; but we welcomed the communication with not less alacrity on that account, and

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made ready, on the 14th May, 1814, to act in accordance with its tenor.

2     Of the particulars of our journey I am not at present called upon to give any account, farther than that in all its stages, and in every circumstance connected with it, it was most delightful. The weather chanced to be peculiarly favorable. Not a shower of rain, or a blast of wind, overtook us during the whole of our progress; and though towards noon the heat usually became more oppressive than agreeable, we managed by starting every day an hour or two before sun-rise, to escape most of the inconveniences which might have otherwise affected us. Every thing moreover, animate and inanimate which came in our way, had about it an air of exquisite novelty. The costume and personal appearance of the people, the arrangement of their houses, fields, vineyards and gardens, the order of their domestic life, were to us perfectly new, and interesting. We struck into the Landes, on the morning of the third day, and if any of my readers have happened to visit that wild district, he will doubtless attest that one more singular, or more prolific in extraordinary spectacles, has seldom been pressed by the foot of a traveller [sic].

3     Amidst the huge forests of pine which overspread the whole face of this region, there are scattered at wide intervals from one another, a few villages, or rather hamlets, remarkable for their extreme beauty,

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and for the air of primitive simplicity and contentment which hangs over them. They consist, for the most part, of from ten to twenty cottages, the walls of which are composed entirely of wood, and the roofs uniformly covered with straw. Each stands apart in the centre of its own neat garden and enclosure, whilst to the distance of perhaps a quarter of a mile in every direction, a circle of cultivated fields encompasses the whole. It rarely happens that a stream of limpid and excellent water is wanting in the vicinity, and a church, suited to the humble charactor [sic] of its simple worshippers, was a conspicuous feature in every one of the hamlets that lay along the line of our march.

4     The quarter-master-general had so arranged our route that we were every day enabled, after compassng [sic] a sufficient extent of ground, to encamp in the neighbourhood of one or other of these delightful villages. The inhabitants proved in all instances, as obliging, as their poverty and secluded course of existence authorised us to expect; and if the women were not always remarkable for personal beauty they were, at all events, invariably goodnatured [sic], and lively. It happened that on one occasion I had my feelings wrought upon to a degree beyond my anticipations; and as the affair appeared at the moment worthy of being noted down, perhaps even now it may be deemed not undeserving of mention.


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5     The night of Saturday the 21st of May, having been spent in the village of St. Muret, at two o'clock on Sunday morning, our tents were struck and we were in motion. Our route lat, as usual during the preceding week over a deep sandy track, cut through the heart of a dreary pine-wood, and our journey, on account of the absence of a convenient spot for halting, proved to be particularly tedious and fatiguing. We had traversed something more than six leagues; the hour of noon was past, and the heat had become intense, when a sort of shout uttered at the head of the column gave notice, that a resting place was in view. The shout did not deceive us. The leading files had already emerged from the wood into the customary range of open country; and in little more than half an hour afterwards our camp was pitched in one [sic] the loveliest situations which it had occupied since the commencement of our progress.

6     Unlike its fellow-hamlets, La Barbp the village, beside which we now halted did not stand in the midst of an extensive area of bare meadows, and low corn-fields. Meadows and corn-fields there doubtless were but their surfaces were beautifully diversified by the frequent interspersion of clumps of oaks and chesnuts [sic]; whilst numerous undulations in the ground produced a species of tasteful irregularity, which gave to the little landscape the

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appearance, rather of a park, or gentleman's enclosure, than of lands portioned out into fourteen or fifteen different farms. A rivulet of the purest water issued from the forest upon the right, and flowing gently onwards, wound round the base of a green hill, upon which, about a stone's throw apart from the other buildings, was erected the village church. In the village itself I saw nothing to distinguish it from the others. It consisted as usual of wooden cottages, not one of which, in point of architecture or decorations could claim a superiority over the others. And even the very cure or vicarage, if such it deserved to be called, was nothing more than a cabin, clean and neat, indeed, but presenting the lowliest aspect.

7     Every body [sic] knows, that Sunday is observed in a French village as a day, not of relaxation only, but of jubilee. We therefore found the villagers in their best attire, assembled on the green or common, round which their cottages stood; and as they came forward in a body to bid us welcome, they presented upon the whole, a very striking and picturesque appearance. The men were conspicuous for their jackets of coarse brown cloth, their grey or brown breeches, blue stockings and large wooden shoes, but it was in the garb of the women that the distinction paid to Sunday might be most readily

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noted. The boddice [sic] laced up with blue or scarlet ribbon; the bright scarlet petticoat, made so scanty as to display the scarlet clock [sic] which ornamented the blue stocking, these, with the handkerchief tied round the head with more than ordinary care and neatness, gave intimation that the toilette for that day always occupied much time, and particular attention. All, however, seemed to enjoy the same excellent flow of spirits, and not a few of the younger had gladly availed themselves of our band, to continue the dancing which our approach had interrupted.

8     As soon as the bustle of encamping came to a close, I directed my steps towards the church, with the design of joining in the devotions of these simple people, or at least, of offering up my own orisons, from within consecrated walls. In this, however, I was disappointed; the priest, it appeared, officiated at another village besides La Barbp, taking the one in the morning, and the other in the evening, alternately; and as on this day, divine service had been performed here in the morning, it would not be repeated. Though a little chagrined at this circumstance I nevertheless followed up my original design so far, as to take a hasty survey of the interior of the pile; and then proceeded to indulge a favourite whim, by strolling leisurely

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through the humble cemetery by which it was surrounded.

9     I found the churchyard moderately studded with green mounds, but wholly devoid of head-stones or columns to tell the names of the persons who slept beneath. Wooden crosses seemed to be the only species of monument erected by the people of La Barbp to the memory of their deceased relatives, and of these, though they were almost as numerous as the graves themselves, not one bore a word or letter of inscription. Even the garlands, which throughout most parts of France it is customary for the survivors to twine over the tombs of those whom they loved, were all, with a solitary exception, wanting here. Upon one cross, and one only, hung a wreath of flowers; and though the blackened hue of the wood told a tale of exposure to more than one summer and winter, the garland was fresh and fragrant, as if gathered and arranged this very morning. I was much struck with the contrast which the condition of this grave, as compared with the others, presented, and, sitting down, was beginning to give free vent to fancy, when the noise of approaching footsteps disturbed my reverie. I looked round, and beheld, advancing towards me, a man in the common garb of the country. His age seemed to be about three or four and thirty; but in his general appearance there

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was nothing at all remarkable except that an upright carriage, one empty sleeve, and a pair of monstrous mustachios, indicated that he had been a soldier, and had served in the memorable wars of his country. As he drew nearer, however, I examined him more closely, and observed, or fancied so, a peculiarly mild and even melancholy expression in his eye. Whether or not I was correct, little time was granted to consider, for he raised his hand to his hat and coming forward at once, with the freedom and frankness of his country entered with me into conversation.

10     "I perceive, Monsieur," said he, "that the garland upon the cross which distinguishes this grave from those around it, has attracted your attention." I assented to his remark, and proceeded to inquire whether he could give me any information respecting the individual who had suspended it there, and the person to whose memory it was consecrated. "I can indeed, sir," answered he; "I can satisfy you fully on both these heads; it was I that gathered it, it was I that wove it, and it was I that hung it here; it is a task which I religiously perform on the return of every Sunday morning, and she to whom I dedicate my weekly offerings, was the best, as she was the loveliest maiden of the province. Perhaps you may desire to learn something of her history. If you will allow me to take the privilege of a brother soldier I

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can sit down beside you; and God help me, I shall derive as much satisfaction, though it be a melancholy one from relating the brief detail, as you can have from listening to it." I immediately, and with the utmost readiness, accepted his proposal, upon which the villager seated himself by my side, and began as follows:

11     "I am a native of this place, as from my address and dialect you have doubtless already guessed. My name is Jean Baptiste, and my father, whose only child I am, is accounted the wealthiest and most skillful cultivator in all the department. You may perceive that bating the loss of this arm (and that occurred six years ago, ought not to tell against me), I am neither worse made, nor less personally attractive than my neighbours; whilst I can appeal to all that know me, whether my temper be not as mild, and my disposition as amiable, as those of any lad in these parts."

12     I could not suppress a smile at this most characteristic display of French egotism. "Why Jean," said, laughing, "I thought you were going to tell me a tale connected with the fair tenant of this grave; but you seem more disposed to instruct me concerning your own good qualities and fortunes." "Ah! Monsieur," replied he, "you may smile if you please, and say on that point what you will; but

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believe me I speak the truth. Yet what availed all these advantages. Marie, the beautiful and gentle Marie, whom I loved with my whole heart, and to promote whose happiness I could have willingly sacrificed my life, would not listen to my suit. It is a fact, indeed it is, she slighted my accomplishments, undervalued my wealth, and preferred to me a poor neighbour, who had nothing to recommend him, that I, at least, could discover, except that he was of a less fair complexion, and possessed a tolerable share of bodily strength and activity. Well, well, I could not quarrel with the girl for that, nor yet forsake my friend because he supplanted me, for Lewis Charmont was my friend, and dear to me as my own soul.

13     "It is hardly necessary to inform you, that La Barbp has been inhabited by the ancestors of those families which inhabit it now, since the day when the good saint first planted these forests, and stayed the sands from moving. Under these circumstances you will not be surprised to learn, that we are all accustomed to regard one another as brothers and sisters, and that the poorest man amongst us is not despised or treated as an inferior, by the richest. But though this be, and has ever been the case, it is still only natural that even in our small community particular friendships should bind individuals more closely to each other, than the tie of common regard which

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binds the same individuals to the whole body. Such has long been the case with the Charmonts, the Clausels, and the Baptistes. Our ancestors loved one another from the remotest period; no change in worldly circumstances ever interfered with their feelings; our parents were as if they had descended from the same stock; and we *** I mean Lewis, Marie and myself *** inherited their attachment.

14     "Lewis Charmont was by one year only, my junior; Marie Clausel was two years younger than he. From the very cradle we were companions and playmates; nay were more, *** Lewis was the brother of my adoption, and Marie was our sister. Ah! Monsieur, those were blessed days, when each holding a hand, we led the sweet girl forth towards the river, and seating her on the bank the one plied his rod and line, whilst the other chased the butterfly which she admired, or wove a wreath of wild flowers for her fair brow. But childhood passed away, and youth came, to make us acquainted with the true state of our feelings, and to teach us that we were rivals. We both loved Marie, loved her to absolute idolatry; yet we loved each other at the same time, and never, no not for an instant did a pang of angry jealousy rankle in our hearts.

15      "As we approached to manhood, Lewis and I, differing widely in our propensities and pursuits became by degrees not less truly friends, but less fre-

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quently companions. Lewis was agile, daring and adventurous; field sports, violent bodily exertions, especially where danger was to be surmounted or difficulties overcome, carried him away from his home, and the operations of agriculture; whereas my habits and tastes were all quiet and domestic. I cultivated my father's fields, contentedly and cheerfully, and was never so happy, as when I found leisure to dress Marie's garden, and stock it with the rarest and choicest plants within my reach. Yet for all this, she rejected my addresses: she withdrew not, indeed, from my society, but she refused to listen to my vows, and her refusal was so mildly and so affectionately pronounced that I only loved her the more because I felt my suit was hopeless. The truth is, Monsieur, that her affections were already engaged. She preferred to me, (who was continually at her side,) him who bestowed but a small portion of his time or attention upon her; but spent whole days, and sometimes nights in the woods, only that he might bring home and present to her the head of a wolf or the skin of a bear.

16     "In this condition affairs continued for some time. We never dreamed of concealing from each other how our affections were disposed of; on the contrary Lewis was all along aware that I loved Marie tenderly, and I was equally aware that Lewis loved her also; yet that either was preferred by her to the

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other we both continued ignorant, till an accident drew forth the secret.

17     "Early in the year 1808, there arrived in our village a sub-officer's party of Gendarmerie, bearing an order from the prefect of the department, to enrol [sic] four young men from the division of La Barbp, for the service of the army. Such an order, coming from such a quarter, could neither be disputed nor evaded; the names of all the villagers capable of bearing arms, were put into a cap, and that of Lewis Charmont came up. Lewis himself, naturally brave and enterprising, uttered no complaint against his fortune, but rather rejoiced, in the prospect of honor and advancement. Lewis continued as yet ignorant of the possession of Marie's affections, for though repeatedly urged, she had hitherto refused to acknowledge it, though now, however, concealment was at an end. A threatening separation effected that which years of intimacy and familiar intercourse had failed to effect; and in the bitterness of her agony she yielded a full confession. I was present when she assured him, that she lived for him and him alone; that his departure would be to her a blow which she could not survive; that she would not even desire to exist, did he abandon her. What could I do. I saw indeed that my own hopes were blighted, and that Marie's coldness sprang not from indifference, but from a positive predilec-

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tion for another. But that other was my friend; Marie I still loved as before; could I be contented to behold this misery! No, Monsieur, though naturally averse to a life of bustle and contention I determined on the instant, to volunteer in Lewis's room, I did so without so much as consulting him, and was accepted.

18     "Not all the misery which in my quieter hours has followed up the reflection that Marie was lost to me for ever [sic]; not all the grief which was my lot when I committed her delicate form to the earth, have been able to efface the blessed recollection of the moment when the flushed cheek, and glittering eye I told her that her lover was free, and that they might thenceforth be happy together. Ah! Monsieur, that was indeed a moment of rapture, of rapture such as I shall never again experience when I heard her address me as her brother and preserver; when I felt her arms around my neck, and her warm tears upon my cheek, and received the sweetest and most rapturous kiss that the lip of woman ever bestowed! Oh! whole years of agony could not suffice to blot out the recollection of those moments; a life of pain were but a poor price to offer for their repossession! But they passed away; and I marched off, if not happy, at all events, satisfied that I had done my duty, and that there were two kind hearts which

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beat in gratitude for me, whose own was little better than a blank.

19     "My satisfaction was, however, but of short duration. I had sojourned but a few weeks at the dépôt, when the arrival of Lewis, as one of a fresh batch of conscripts, gave proof that the sacrifice which I had made had been to no purpose. A second call for recruits, it appeared, produced a second ballot; and the name of Lewis, as if heaven had decreed that he should not elude his destiny, was again among the number of the drawn. You may well believe that my friend for some time after his enlistment was melancholy enough, when I inform you that the very day was named which ought to have made Marie his own; yet he recovered his spirits by degrees, applied steadily to his drill and his duty, and bore himself as proudly, and was as much admired as any man in the ranks, when the detachment began its march to join the army in Spain.

20     "Lewis and I were fortunate enough to be appointed to the same corps, and the same company, indeed we were comrades. We were fortunate too in being commanded by a brave and good officer; and to fill up our measure of good luck, were sent off to serve under one of the ablest and most humane generals whom France has produced. We were ordered to Catalonia, at that time the province of the gallant and

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generous St. Cyr. This happy combination of events naturally tended to make us look to the future with a less desponding gaze, and upon the past with greater resignation; we acknowledged that our lot might have been far less desirable, and we were contented.

21     "No particular events befel [sic] us on our journey towards the frontier. On the whole, we were treated with sufficient consideration by the inhabitants, who bestowed on us a thousand wishes for our success and safe return, and we came up with the army just as it had taken its ground, and begun to make preparations for the siege of Rosas. You are, doubtless, aware, that the defence made by the garrison of that fortress was exceedingly obstinate and gallant. Though our trenches were gradually drawn to the very crest of the glacis, and our saps penetrated the escarpment, the governor refused to surrender; nothing therefore remained but to try the fortune of an assault, and for this perilous service volunteers were invited to offer.

22     "The first man who presented himself on that occasion was Lewis Charmont. It was in vain that I reminded him of Marie, and of the necessity under which he lay of guarding his life, as far as circumstances would allow, for her sake. He only smiled at my remonstrance, and squeezing my hand, replied, that if he fell, Marie would honor his memory, and if he survived, he should be the more worthy of her, as

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he would have acted like a brave man, and earned a medal.

23     "The assault took place, and was successful. The carnage on both sides was terrible, but the town fell, and Lewis escaped unhurt. That I rejoiced at his escape you will, I am sure, believe; yet let me be candid, I did envy him, for the first and only time in my life, when I beheld him next morning upon parade with the medal already suspended from his button. Bitterly did I upbraid myself that I had not volunteered also; and I resolved that he should never again earn a distinction to which I should not be equally entitled; nor was I without hope that even Rosas might be to me, as it had been to him, a theatre of renown. The citadel still held out, principally, I believe, through the exertions of your countryman, Lord Cochrane, and a few of his sailors; and it continued for many days to withstand all our efforts. I was one of those who thrice endeavoured to storm it, and were thrice repulsed; but the works were demolished at last by cannon shot, the English were compelled to abandon them, and we took possession of the ruins.

24     "Worn out with the labours of a tedious and harassing siege, we fondly looked forward, now that the place had fallen, to the enjoyment of at least a few days of repose, but we were disappointed. The critical situation of Barcelona, at that period blockaded by the

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enemy, called upon the general to make every effort for its preservation. It was by far the most important of all our possessions on that coast, for the loss of which hardly any success would have compensated; so St. Cyr having determined that it should not change masters through any negligence on his part, made ready, without a moment's delay, to succour it. On the evening of the day which saw our flag hoisted upon the ramparts of Rosas, the order to prepare was issued, and at an early hour next morning the whole army was in motion.

25     "The direct road from Rosas to Barcelona leads, you must know, under the very guns of Hostalrech, a fortified town, which was then held by a numerous Spanish garrison. Conscious that any effort to force a passage must be attended by a heavy loss, and unwilling to waste time by reducing the fort, St. Cyr resolved to penetrate, as he best could, through the mountain; and having found a shepherd who professed to be acquainted with the different tracks, he took him for his guide. The man was no traitor. He conducted the column, by a difficult and circuitous route, round the hill upon which Hostalrech is built, and brought it in safety, after a perilous and fatiguing march, once more into the high road.

26     "On this occasion Lewis Charmont and myself were both attached to the rear-guard. It was not very efficient in point of numbers, though the general was

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pleased to say that we were all brave men, on whom he could perfectly depend; and it came not off so well as the column which it was appointed to protect. During the earlier part of the day, indeed, we, like those in front of us, went on without beholding an enemy; but about four o'clock in the afternoon we suddenly found ourselves watched by a very superior force; which, in spite of our most strenuous efforts to prevent it, succeeded in throwing itself between us and the rear of the column. For and instant we fell back, as if uncertain what course to pursue; the main body, we were well aware, would not, and could not halt to succour us, they could not even spare reinforcements to bring us off, for the defile of Trientepasos was before them, which must be passed that night or never; there was, therefore, no help to be expected from that quarter. The idea of surrendering, whilst we had arms in our hands, could not be borne for a moment; more especially as we were not ignorant that he who became a prisoner to the Spaniards was less to be envied than his comrade who fell in battle. Though they exceeded us in numbers by four to one, we resolved to fight our way through them, and either to make good our passage, or perish in the attempt.

27     "The Spaniards were advantageously posted on the brow of a wooded height, and galled us dreadfully, as we rushed on, with their fire, but our charge

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was decisive; for one instant they stood the shock, in the next we had pierced them. And now all was hurry and confusion; it was our business to escape, each man as he was best able, and we were not very scrupulous as to the means. We ran as fast as weariness would permit, preserving, however, for a time an irregular line, and stopping occasionally, as a convenient space offered, to check the pursuit by our fire; but at last even our skirmishing order was lost, and we fled and fought in files or singly, as chance or circumstances directed.

28     "In this manner the tiraillading continued till hardly light enough remained for us to point our muskets, when Lewis, who throughout the whole affaire had kept by my side, fell to the ground. You will wonder when I tell you, that notwithstanding the situation in which we were placed, it never once occurred to me that my friend could be wounded; I imagined that he had merely lost his footing, and I stooped down, in the careless turn of mind which such a belief was calculated to create, in order to assist him in rising. What then were my sensations when I found that he made no reply to my inquiries, and on examining him more closely, discovered that a musket ball had struck him just where the shoulder joins the neck, and passed into his vitals. My very brain swam round, yet I retained self-command sufficient to raise him in my arms, and to entreat that he

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would exert his utmost strength, as the fire was fast slackening. He did so, and I led him to the rear; but we had not proceeded a dozen paces before he exclaimed in a feeble voice, 'It is useless, Baptiste, I cannot proceed farther. Go, go you, save yourself for poor Marie, and leave me to die.' I could not act thus, Monsieur; it was not in my nature to abandon any one, more especially the friend of my heart, under these circumstances; so partly carrying, and partly dragging, I contrived to hurry him along, till a cottage opportunely offering, I conveyed him into it. It was deserted and in ruins; yet with a winter's night closing rapidly upon us, I was too thankful even for such a shelter to pass it by.

29     "The firing had now ceased; our people having made good their retreat, and the enemy fallen back to Hostalrech; but that was a matter about which I was perfectly regardless. I thought only of my friend, for whom the plundered hut afforded no comforts, and but a very partial shelter. I laid him upon the mud floor, and tearing my handkerchief into shreds, attempted to staunch the blood which welled from his broken limb; but all my efforts were fruitless, it flowed in spite of them. When I looked at his countenance, too, that told me plainly enough that there was no hope; the half-closed eye and fallen jaw, not less than the pale lit and livid cheek, warned me that Lewis was departing. Wild with my own

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fears, I called upon him in the name of Marie, and of all the tender associations connected with his native village, to rally himself, and take courage; and at last, finding that he paid no heed to my adjurations, I sat down beside him in despair, buried my face in my hands, and wept aloud. The sound of my lamentation reached him even in his last moments; he looked up, and in a tone scarcely audible, exclaimed, 'Do not weep, Baptiste, do not weep, it must be thus, we must all die. Tell Marie that I fell as became me; and give her my medal, that she may occasionally look upon it, and remember me when I am gone. Tell her, likewise, that with my last breath I consigned her to you; you love her, Baptiste, that I know; and I need not add be kind to her, for to whom was my friend ever unkind? May you be happy together, and the thought that you are so *** .' He could not finish the sentence; no doubt he meant to say, that his spirit would look down upon our happiness with delight, but the word died upon his lips, the lips themselves ceased to move, and he was a corpse.

30     "Ah, Monsieur, if you have ever known what it is to witness the dissolution of a friend who was dear to you as the air which you breathed, then, and then only, will you be able to imagine what my feelings were at this moment. Alas! I could not even pay to him the last tribute of friendship; I could not lay him in a grave; but I did what I could; I took his

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medal from his breast, and fetching a quantity of straw from an adjoining chamber, I spread it over him; I knelt down, too, and breathed a fervent prayer for his soul's repose; and then with swollen eyes, and a heavy heart, set out to overtake my regiment.

31     "I need not pursue the remainder of my story with any particular minuteness. I came up with the corps at the farther mouth of the defile, for the Spaniards, contrary to all expectation, had permitted us to thread it unmolested; and I partook of the bivouac which they had formed on the plain of Llenas. But our repose was of short continuance; the dawn had just begun to break when a heavy column showed itself in full march towards the pass; no doubt could exist as to the force which composed the column; so the drums beat to arms, and in five minutes after the army was in line.

32     "Of the action which ensued, and which ended in the total defeat of the Spaniards, I cannot pretend to give any account, for the cannonade had scarcely begun when a round shot struck me in the left arm, and took it off. I was carried from the field along with hundreds besides, and having suffered amputation, was removed to a crowded hospital, where, during many weeks I endured all the misery attendant upon inadequate accommodation, imperfect nursing, and scanty provisions. At last, however,

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thanks to a naturally good constitution, I recovered; and being no longer serviceable, I received my discharge, but no pension was allowed me; I had not served long enough, it appeared, to merit one; indeed I was left to make my way, as I best might, through the whole breadth of France, without receiving any assistance than that which private benevolence afforded. Thus mutilated, and a beggar, I reached my home exactly ten months from the day on which I quitted it.

33     "And now, Monsieur, it only remains for me to repeat the saddest portion of my story. Poor Marie had received no account of her lover since he departed, and had pined and languished after him, like a bird robbed of her young. Her health, naturally delicate, was already impaired by suspense; how then could it be expected that she would bear up against the terrible reality; she did not, Monsieur. I broke the matter to her as delicately as I could, but even thus she was unable to bear it; the intelligence that Lewis was no more came upon her like a thunderbolt upon a bruised reed *** it crushed her. When I strove to cheer her by making mention of her lover's valour, her tears only flowed the faster; and when I pulled out his medal, and gave it to her as his last bequest, it seemed as if her heart would have broken. She took it, laid it upon her bosom, and to her dying day kept it there; nay, it was not removed from her even

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in death, it is buried in her grave. No, no, Monsieur, I could not speak to one, thus afflicted, of new ties; I never told her that Lewis had bequeathed her to me. The poor stricken doe had no pasture to fly to; she lingered on for a while, and died.

34     "Six years and a half have passed since we laid her in the dust; she had then barely completed her twenty-first year, and the merciful God never took to himself a purer or a chaster spirit. For me, it has ever since been my chief delight to deck her grave, as you see it even now. Every Sunday I gather fresh garland for the purpose; and as long as life remains, I will continue the practice."

35     Though there was something French in this poor fellow's story, I was, upon the whole, a good deal affected by it; and deeming it not unworthy of a place in my scrap-book, I noted it down.



The National Norwegian Song, From S. P. Wolff By W. H. Leeds


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          LAND of our fathers thou art fair,
          To us thy sea- zoned coast is dear;
          And dear thy rocks up- piled on high,
          Which storms and years alike defy! --
          Remains of a primeval land,5
          That midst the raging tempests stand
          As mailed giants on whose brow
          Wide gleams the helmet's silver glow.

          When Thor first Norway's shores beheld,
          His throne he stationed there, and dwelled10
          Amidst the spirits who delight
          With cloud and storm to wage the fight.
          As through the welkin rolled his car,
          He heard them chaunt his praise afar;
          With boding voice of awe they hailed15
          The power that o'er thy foes prevailed.


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          'Twas here that roamed the North's brave child,
          Undaunted through the troublous wild;
          Not death could e'er his soul appal,
          But beckoned him to Odin's hall,20
          Like a fair maid with Freia's face,
          Full rushing to his fond embrace,
          Whilst in his life's last throb of pain
          His lips would breathe the victor strain.

          Dear to our hearts the legend lore25
          Of which is thine so rich a store:
          When howls the storm the plain along,
          It seems some ancient warrior's song;
          When foams the dashing water fall,
          We hear a voice to battle call -- 30
          The clang of arms -- the glorious fray --
          The Skald's bold, courage stirring lay.

          Still in thy manly sons we trace
           Norway's former hero- race;
          The spirit flashes from their eye,35
          While toil they brave, and death defy;
          And in thy maiden's eye of blue
          Beneath young Siofna's virgin hue,
          While Ydun's ever- youthful spring
          Doth o'er their cheek its rose- tints fling.40


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          Hail! thou our glorious father- land!
          With pride we view thy lofty strand --
          Its summer vales and winter woods,
          Its crystal lakes, and torrent- floods.
          Unshaken by the storms that rage45
          Around, it stands from age to age;
          And rears its giant crest sublime,
          Unchanging to the end of time!


An Address to the Lost Wig of John Bell, Esquire By a Tyro


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          BEFORE I yet assume the band,
          Or dare to tread on lawyer- land,
          (A rich champaign that's never bleak
          Nor bare to those who boldly speak;
          Where neither cold, nor rain, nor drought5
          Can ever turn the crops to nought:) --
          Before I venture on a brief, --
          Before I hang a single theif, --
          Or plunge my goose- quill into ink, --
          Or purse my mouth and seem to think,10
          While clients stare, and rustics wonder,
          Like young pigs when they shrink from thunder, --
          I'll call on thee, renowned wig!
          (In self- importance justly big)
          Beneath whose ample curls men sit,15
          Disfigured by thy weight of wit: --
          (For thou still dost the lawyer fire,
          As Phoebus' rays bards' brains inspire;
          Making mere man thrice vast and learn'd,
          Like water into vapour turned.) -- 20


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           -- Spirit of wisdom, cramped and curled!
          Type of the thoughts that fill the world!
          (Tortured to every quirk and shift
          That lawyers into fortune lift:)
          What garland, wrought of barren bays? -- 25
          What "order," rich with martial rays? --
          What knightly cross, or riband red?
          What key,-- -- what collar ever shed
          Such honours on man's honoured head?
          Vittoria's splendours! -- what are they 30
          To Eldon's powder waxing grey?
          What black King Charles's black peruke?
          What Villers' locks, 'though twice a duke'?
          What Malborough's waggon- load of hair?
          Or Lely's loves all frizz'd and fair? -- 35

          And thou -- Greatwig! -- white -- powdered -- flowing
          O'er eyebrows knit and foreheads knowing,
          Upon what skull, on law intent,
          Did'st perch, -- thou, King of wigs! -- content,
          When wisest BELL, (so keen and kind)40
          Left law but left no peer behind, --
          Not one so sage, and yet so meek,
          Of all the tribes that love to speak?
          Before what jaded judge, (who sits,
          And sighs, and nods, and yawns by fits,)45
          Dost thou now shake thy Gorgon terrors,
          Doubling some damned defendant's errors?


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          Or, -- after P -- 's judicial fury,
          Dost smooth some forty- shilling jury?
          Casting thy perfumes in their noses50
          The more thy brother wig opposes?
          Or dost thou on the bench inhabit,
          Where L -- looks smug and -- says 'D -- it?'
          From little snarling -- -- 's crown
          Fling'st thou thy odours half- way down55
          His pigmy shape? -- From Pr -- st -- n's head,
          Where deep black- lettered law was bred,
          And nursed through many a patient night
          Till Lincolns Inn was filled with light?
          Dwell'st thou with elder S -- nd -- rs, (well60
          Mayst thou with him contented dwell, --
          A lawyer sound as ever saw
          When sense should sway the doubtful law)?
          Hang'st thou on L -- nd -- st's lordly cheek?
          Dost thou abide with W -- lde, or P -- ke,65
          Both serjeants firm and fit to battle
          A cause through four old women's tattle?
          Or hidest thou S -- t's pompous air?
          Or M -- t's visage hard and square?
          Or A -- t's look 'tween scowl and smile?70
          Or -- 's face all drenched in guile?
          Or H -- ld's bold brow? or B -- s -- l's grace,
          Handsomest of the lawyer race?&mdash
          Speak! -- if thou still canst teach the tongue
          (That thing on golden hinges hung)75
          To speak -- I'll secret be -- Declare,
          From all thy thousand mouths of hair
          If any barrister or bencher
           Still from thy bounty fills his trencher?

          If, on some huge block's head and shoulders,80
          Thou hang'st, the laugh of all beholders,
          Forc'd, when thou canst inspire no more,
          To hear the trash thou scorn'dst before,
          Quick! leave the block (the head) -- whose hum
          Comes out as from some empty drum,85
          Which one who should be beaten beats, --
          Where noisy nonsense, nonsense meets, --
          Where blunders bump 'midst lawyer's quirks, --
          And not one ounce of wisdom lurks:
          Quick, leave the lackwit's skull all free,90
          And send the rogue to -- Coventry9.

          Or, -- are thou still, by human head,
          O peerless wig! untenanted?
          Hanging somewhere 'tween sea and sky,
          Like prophets' coffin lone and high? -- 95
          If so, and there's a curl of hair,
          A bunch -- a look -- a lock to spare,
          Yield it to me, -- to me, who left
          (Like widow of her son bereft)
          (which would be of little service to a dunce) but a learned and ingenious conveyancer of that name100

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          For aye, the sweet muse Poesy,
          And gave my life to law and thee!

          And must I see the poet's pages
          No more? -- ne'er dream of bright bright-ages,
          When inspiration, like a sun,105
          Came down and deathless deed were done?
          Farewell, then -- (in Sir Blackstone's vein,
          I'll bid the muse farewell again) --
          Farewell, then, to the dangerous muse,
          Whom lawyers love yet aye abuse!110
          Farewell unto the poets crowned!
          Farewell, where laurel leaves abound, --
          Thessalian Pindus! -- Tempe's plains! --
          Parnassus, where Apollo reigns!
          And farewell O Castalian river!115
          Upon whose fringed banks for ever
          Lie clustering still the dark-eyed daughters,
          Singing to all thy running waters
          Strange music like the Sybil's spell, --
          Farewell, -- to all and each -- Farewell!120


Figure 8: A Portrait of a Lady


painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, engraved by Mr. W. H. Worthington



A Simile, on a Lady's Portrait By James Montgomery, Esq.


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          A FOUNTAIN issuing into light,
          Before a marble palace, threw
          To heaven its column, pure and bright,
          Returning thence in showers of dew;&mdash
          But soon a humbler course it took,5
          And glid away&mdash a nameless brook.

          Flowers on its grassy margin sprang,
          Flies o'er its eddying surface play'd,
          Birds 'midst the waving branches sang,
          Flocks through the verdant meadows stray'd;10
          The weary there lay down to rest,
          And there the halcyon built her nest.

          'Twas beautiful&mdash to stand and watch
          The fountain's crystal turn to gems,
          And such resplendent colours catch,15
          As though 'twere raining diadems;
          Yet all was cold and curious art,
          That charm'd the eye, but miss'd the heart!&mdash


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          Dearer to me the little stream,
          Whose unimprison'd waters run,20
          Wild as the changes of a dream,
          By rock and glen, through shade and sun;
          Its lovely links have power to bind,
          And whirl away my willing mind.

          So thought I, when I saw the face,25
          By happy portraiture reveal'd,
          Of one, adorn'd with every grace;
          Her name and date from me conceal'd,
          But not her story;&mdash she had been
          The pride of many a splendid scene.30

          She cast her glory round a court,
          And frolick'd in the gayest ring,
          Where Fashion's high&hyphen born minions sport,
          Like gilded insects on the wing;
          But thence, when love had touch'd her soul,35
          To nature and to truth she stole.

          From din, and pageantry, and strife,
          'Midst woods and mountains, vales and plains,
          She treads the paths of lowly life,
          Yet in affection's bosom reigns;40
          No fountain scattering diamond&hyphen showers,
          But the sweet streamlet, edged with flowers!


The Epistle of Servius Sulpicius to Marcus Tullius Cicero By Unknown


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1     Translated by HIS MAJESTY.

2     AS soon as I heard your daughter Tullia was dead, I confess I was extremely concerned, as it became me to be, at a loss which I regarded as common to us both; and if I had been with you, I should not have been wanting to you, but should have openly testified the bitterness of my grief. 'Tis true this is but a poor and miserable consolation, because those who ought to administer it, I mean our nearest friends and relations, are almost equally affected with ourselves, nor can they attempt it without shedding many a tear: so that they appear to be more in want of comfort themselves than to perform that duty to others. I resolved, however, to set down in a short letter to you such considerations as occurred to my mind, not because they can have escaped you, but because I think that your grief has hindered your attending to them. What reason is there why you should be transported by so immoderate a grief: consider how fortune has

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hitherto dealt with us; consider that we have lost what ought to be dearer to us than our own offspring, our country, our credit, dignity, and all our honours. This one misfortune more, how can it increase our misery? Or what mind is there that has been subject to such distress, but must have now grown callous, and regard every thing else as of little consequence? Is it for her sake that you grieve? But how often must you have fallen into that train of thinking into which I often fall, which suggests to me that those persons are not the most unfortunate at this time who are permitted to exchange life for death? What is there now which could make her so much regret the loss of life? What affairs? what [sic] hopes? what [sic] prospects of comfort? Was it that she might pass her life with some Nobleman of high rank and qualification? And can you really think that it was in your power, deservedly honored as you are, to choose out of our present youth, a son-in-law, to whom you might safely commit a child so dear to you? Or, was it that she might bear children from whose flourishing condition she might have drawn much pleasure? Who might have enjoyed a large fortune, transmitted to them from their parents? Who might have been candidates in turn for the honors of the state; and who might have employed their liberty in the service of your friends! Alas! which of these blessings was not taken

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away before she was in a condition to bestow them on others? But it is a most shocking thing to lose one's children. True, if it were not much more so to suffer and undergo what we now do. Give me leave to relate to you, what on a certain occasion afforded me some little comfort, and allow me to hope that it may have the same effect upon you. Upon my return from Asia, as I sailed from Ægina to Megara, on my right hand Piræus, on my left Corinth. These cities were at one time flourishing beyond imagination, but are now desolate and in ruins. Thus I began to ruminate with myself; alas! do we poor mortals resent it so much, if one of us dies, or is killed, whose life is of so short a date, when we see in one spot the many carcases [sic] of so great cities lying before us? Will you not, Servius, check your grief by recollecting that you are born a man? Believe me I was not a little comforted by that thought. If you please, therefore, try the power of it on yourself. It was but lately we saw many famous men perish, a great empire declining and all the provinces in the utmost distress. And shall the death of one little woman so grievously afflict you! Who if she had not died now, must in a few years have done so; for she was born a mortal. Let me beg of you therefore, as much as is in your power, to call off your

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mind from brooding over these subjects, and to turn it rather on such as are worthy of your character; consider, that she lived as long as it was desirable for her to live; that her fate was joined to that of her country, that she lived to see her father, Prætor, Consul, and Augur; had been married to youths of the greatest distinction; had enjoyed all manner of happiness: and fell at last with the republic. Upon what account can you or she complain of fortune? Above all, do not forget that you are Cicero, one who is accustomed to advise and direct others; and do not imitate bad physicians, who in the disorders of others profess that they are conversant in the art of physic, and are not able to cure themselves; but rather follow what you recommend to others and keep it constantly before your eyes. There is no grief which length of time will not diminish and soften, it is beneath you to wait for that moment, and not to master your grief, beforehand by your wisdom. But if there be any feeling in the dead, I am certain that she is very desirous that you should not wear yourself out with grief for her sake, on account of her filial piety and affection for you. Grant this favor to her, who is now dead and to the rest of your friends and relations, who sympathise with you in your grief, grant it also to your country, that, if she be in want of your assistance, she may be able to make use of your counsel and advice. And last of all, since we are fallen into such a situation, that we

[187]

must submit to the present state of things, do not put it in the power of any one to say, that you grieve less for your daughter, than you do for the misfortunes of the country and for the victories of her enemies. It does not become me to write to you any more concerning this affair lest I should appear to distrust your prudence. Wherefore, when I have mentioned this one piece of advice, I will conclude my letter. We have seen you bear prosperity in a manner that became you, and acquire great glory from it; now let us perceive that you can bear adversity with equal fortitude, and that you are no more oppressed by it than you ought to be: lest this should appear to be the only virtue you want among so many. But as to what belongs to me, when I understand that you are a little more composed, I will inform you concerning what passes here and in what state this province is. Adieu.

3     [insert scanned image of signature: George P. 1779.]



The Epistle of Marcus Tullius Cicero to Servius Sulpicius By Unknown


[188]

1     Translated by his late Royal Highness THE DUKE OF YORK.

2     I WISH, indeed, Servius, as you write, that you had been here when this misfortune befel [sic] me; for I easily understand from the quiet the reading of your letters administered to me, how much if you had been present, you might have assisted in consoling me, and almost equally sharing in my grief; for you have not only written such things as have alleviated my grief, but have very kindly sympathized with me. However you son Servius has testified by all those serviceswhich could be rendered to me, not only how much he esteems me, but how much he thinks you will be pleased with his kindness towards me *** whose good offices, though often upon pleasanter occasions, have never been more welcome to me than at this time. But it is not what you say in your letter, and the share you take in my affliction, but your authority also which has consoled me; for I think it unworthy of me not to bear my mis-

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fortune, as you who are endowed with so much wisdom, think I ought to do. But I am sometimes oppressed, and can hardly resist my grief; because those comforts are wanting which were not wanting to these, whom I have proposed to myself as patterns. For both Q. Maximus, who lost his son after he had been consul, and rendered himself famous by great actions; and L. Paulus, who was deprived of two sons in the compass of seven days, as well as your Gallus and Marcus; Cato who left a son of the greatest genius and virtue, all these lived at a time when their own dignity, which they had received at the hands of the republic, was alone able to alleviate their grief. But after I had lost those ornaments which you have mentioned, and which I had with much labour obtained, this was the only comfort left me, which I am now deprived of.

3     My thoughts were not employed on the affairs of friends, or in the affairs of the republic. It was irksome to me to do any thing in the Forum, and I could not even bear the sight of the Senate House. I thought what was very true, that I had lost all the fruits of my industry and fortune. Yet when I reflected that these things were common to me with you and many others; and when I was forcing myself to bear these things tolerably, I had a person to whom I could fly, with whom I could be at east, and in whose conversation and sweetness of manners I could lose all my cares and vexations. But this has opened

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again all my former wounds, which appeared to be healing. For it is not now as it was then, when my family relieved my concern for the affairs of the republic; neither can I fly for consolation under my private misfortunes to the prosperity of the republic. Therefore I absent myself as well from my own house as from the forum; because my own house is not able now to console me under the grief which I receive from the republic, nor the republic under the grief which I receive from my own private affairs. Wherefore I anxiously wait for you, and am very desirous of seeing you. No greater pleasure can I now receive, than in your conversation and friendship; and I hope, and indeed have heard, that your return will soon afford me this consolation. I am desirous in truth of seeing you as soon as possible for many reasons, but particularly that we may settle together our plan of life in this conjecture, which must be arranged according to the will of one man, who is prudent and liberal, a great friend as I conceive of yours, and no enemy of mine. Still it demands no small deliberation what measures we must take; I do not mean for acting, but for remaining quiet, with his permission and good will. Farewell.

4     [signature of Frederick.]



The Lover's Invocation: Imitated from an Unpublished French Poem By Miss Mitford


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          COME night, and spread thy shadowy veil
          Across the still too glorious sky!
          Come night, dark, silent, misty, pale, --
          As best befits a lover's sigh!
          Suspend the course of yonder rill5
          That murmurs o'er the mossy ground;
          My Julia comes -- be still! be still!
          For love will fly the lightest sound.

          Come night, and wrap in heaviest sleep
          The guardian harsh who caused me to woe,10
          His senses in sweet visions steep,
          And laughing lies around him throw!
          Oh! be he cradled in such dreams
          As poets view with waking eyes!
          Prolong the soul enchanting themes,15
          And charm the doubt that never dies!


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          Come night! -- For see across the green,
          Hies with quick step the timid maid --
          Hush the soft breeze that lulled the scene,
          And bid the silvery moon- beam fade!20
          For she, that timorous maid, would start
          E'en at thy stars' mild lustre, night!
          List trembling to her beating heart,
          And fly the glow- worm's emerald light.


Figure 9: The Poet's Invocation


painted by T. Stothard, Esq., engraved by Mr. Augustus Fox



Inscription for a Grotto By Horace Smith, Esq.


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          HITHER to my Grotto fly,
          To its cold and mossy seats,
          Ye who dread the summer sky,
          And the sun's meridian heats.

          Here's a fount that moistly breathes5
          Freshness through the vaulted gloom,
          Eglantine whose hidden wreaths
          The dim cooling air perfume.

          Harboured from the care and noise
          Which have still your steps pursued,10
          Here you taste the purer joys
          Of sweet soothing solitude.


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          Here may maid with love untold,
          In echo's ear her tale effuse,
          Here may raptured poet hold15
          Communion with the willing muse.
          Hither -- hither -- hither fly,
          To silence to serenity! --


Figure 10: The Dreams of the Infant Shakespeare


painted by Richard Westall, Esq., engraved by Mr. Augustus Fox



The Infant Shakespeare By Unknown


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          BY the living waterspring,
          By the grass- green fairy ring,
          Pillowed on the rathe primrose,
          Lies a boy in rich repose.
          Yet, though honey- dews of sleep5
          All his crimson beauty steep --
          Though like languid lily- bands,
          Fall on earth his infant hands;
          And the veiling eyelids win
          From us all the light within;10
          And, but for a passing glow,
          Sculptured stone might seem his brow.
          Yet that marble brow beneath,
          Dreams are born too strong for death;
          Thoughts, as with the stroke of lightning,15
          Soul- pervading, smiting, brightning.
          Mighty visions are awake,
          That shall yet the nations shake;

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          In that sleeping form enshrined,
          Powers, and mysteries of mind;20
          That shall utter more than spell
          Of a more than Oracle!

          Now, on his enchanted sleep,
          See the rich creations sweep;
          Mark the lifting of his hand,25
          It has grasped a fancied wand;
          Spirits, to its waving bowed,
          Spring from earth, and fire and cloud.

          Now he smiles! a kingly pomp
          Comes with shout and silver tromp;30
          Or along the burnished waters
          Float some fairy island's daughters
          Or, as day's empurpled smile,
          Fades on the cathedral pile;
          Incense- winged the evening prayer,35
          Rises on the dewy air.

          See, the sudden writhing brow!
          See, the stealing tear below!
          From his lip has gone the word,
          Darkness from its depths is stirred;40
          And on fiery blasts are born,
          Howling terrors, shapes forlorn.


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          But again the laughing lip
          Quivers with the matchless quip;
          Wit, with diamond point and play,45
          Bright for ever and for aye:
          Boy, to witch the world -- arise!
          On that rose bank -- SHAKSPEARE lies!


On a Little Girl By William Fraser


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          THAT beautiful and starry brow,
          With youth and joy all splendent now --
          Can it be marred by years?
          That passionless and stainless breast,
          Where innocence hath raised her nest -- 5
          Must it be racked by fears?
          That glowing cheek and sun- bright eye
          Whence laughter wings its archery --
          Will it be stained with tears?
          Such is, alas! the bitter doom10
          That waits each tenant of the tomb; --
          And how canst thou, young bud of beauty be,
          Excluded from the pale of destiny!

          But years will pass nor leave behind
          One stain upon thy seraph mind -- 15
          Then, come, thou fearful age!
          And fears that rack thy breast may prove
          The token sure of passionate love --
          Such is love's heritage!


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          And tears from pity's fount will flow,20
          And on the cheek full sunny glow,
          Of joy the fond presage!
          Thy days shall onward wing their way,
          Like the month of fragrance- breathing May;
          Or should Grief come thy beauties to enshroud25
          It shall pass o'er thee like an April cloud.


Canzonet By John Bird, Esq.


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          LOVE farewell! --
          Fickle as fair,
          Hope's fond spell
          Fades into air --
          Like pale leaves of autumn sighing,5
          All our joys are drooping, -- dying! --
          Love farewell! --
          Fickle as fair,
          Hope's fond spell
          Fades into air!10

          Love farewell! --
          Moments are dear,
          When eyes tell
          Parting is near --
          Kindred heart to heart appealing -- 15
          Kindred glances love- vows sealing! --
          Love farewell! --