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heaven ;

Cannot thy tears and mine preserve her, 1 Gentlewoman. This is a sad employment. Florio ?

2 Gent. The last we e'er shall do my lady. If we want brine, a thousand virgins shall

Florio, looking on the corpse, says, Weep every day upon her, and themselves, In winter, leaning round upon her monument,

Let me look upon Being moist creatures, stiffen with the cold, My sister now ; still she retains her beauty, And freeze into so many white supporters.

Death has been kind to leave her all this But we lose time. I charge thee, by thy love Thus in a morning have I oft saluted

To this pale relic, be instructed by me,
Not to thy danger ; some revenge must be, My sister in her chamber, sate upon
And I am lost already ; if thou fall,

Her bed, and talk'd of many harmless pasWho shall survive, to give us funeral ?

sages :

(Pxeurt. But now 'tis night, and a long night with her, Lorenzo is now maddened at the I ne'er shall see these curtains drawn again, failure of all his plots, and resolves at Until we meet in heaven.—

The duke

already? last to murder the Duke with his own

The Duke now enters the chamber hand. Afraid lest the youth and beau- in all the impatience of passion. ty of his benefactor might palsy his

Duke. All perfect ; till this minute, I

could never arm, he has for some time kept in his chamber a picture of his victim,

that, Boast I was happy : all this world has not looking on it with fell thoughts, he

A blessing to exchange: this world ! 'tis might harden his heart for the mur- And thus I take possession of my saint: der.

(Goes up to the bed. Hae first the duke was painted to the life, Asleep already ? 'twere great pity to But with this pencil to the death : I love Disturb her dream, yet if her soul be not My brain for the invention, and thus Tired with the body's weight, it must convey Confirmd, dare trust my resolution. Into her slumbers I wait here, and thus I did suspect his youth and beauty might Seal my devotion. [Kisses. ]—What winter Win some compassion when I came to kill dwells him ;

Upon this lip ! 'twas no warm kiss ; I'll try Or the remembrance that he is my kinsman, Again – Kisses. ]—the snow is not so cold; Might thrill my blood; or something in I have his title

Drunk ice, and feel a numbness spread Might give my hand repulse, and startle through (all] nature :

My blood at once.--Ha! let me examine But thus I have arm'd myself against all pity, A little better ; Amidea! she is dead, she That when I come to strike, my poniard may is dead ! Through all his charms as confidently wound What horror doth invade me ?-Help, Lo. him,

renzo ! As thus I stab his picture, and stare on it. Murder! where is Lorenzo ?

(Stabs the picture. Methinks the duke should feel menow: is not wicked creature of his), and, amidst

Lorenzo rushes in with Petruchio (a Hissoul acquainted ? can he less than tremble, When I lift up my arm to wound his coun- prayers for mercy, murders the Duke, terfeit

who dies exclaiming, Witches can persecute the lives of whom I am coming, Amidea, I am coming. They hate, when they torment their sense. For thee, inhuman murderer, expect less figures,

My blood shall fly to heaven, and there inAnd stick the waxen model full of pins.

flam'd, Can any stroke of mine carry less spell Hang a prodigious meteor all thy life, To wound his heart, sent with as great a And when by some as bloody hand as thine malice?

Thy soul is ebbing forth, it shall descend He smiles, he smiles upon me! I will dig In flaming drops upon thee: oh, I faint ! Thy wanton eyes out, and supply the dark Thou flattering world farewell! let princes And hollow cells with two pitch-burning gather tapers;

My dust into a glass, and learn to spend Then place thee porter in some charnel-house; Their hour of state, that's all they have ; To light the coffins in.

for when Florio,. Sciarrha's brother, comes That's out, Time never turns the glass upon him in the fantastic horrors of agen.

[Dies. his solitude, and tells him that Ami

Lor. So ! dea is at last willing to receive the em- Lay him beside his mistress ; hide their faces.

The duke dismiss'd the train came with him? braces of the Duke, and will come

Pct. He did, my lord. privately to his chamber.

Lor. Run to Sciarrha, pray him come The last scene opens with melan

and speak with me; choly music, and discovers the body Secure his passage to this chamber : haste ! of Amidea laid out for interment.

[Exit Pet. Vol. IV.



He's dead ; I'll trust him now, and his petuous, but easily deceived and uns ghost too;

steady, Sciarrha, -a man of mixed Fools start at shadows, I'm in love with night vices and virtues, such as we find in And her complexion.

nature, and drawn by the poet to the Sciarrha and Florio now join Lor- very life. enzo, and he proposes that they shall In Pisano and Cosmo we find little give out that the Duke ravished and to interest, and, as we observed bemurdered Amidea, for which he was fore, there is something rather fantasslain by her brother; and that then he tic and unnatural in their story; yet and Sciarrha shall assume joint sway the mind not unwillingly turns to over Florence. Sciarrha for a while them as inferior instruments employdallies with these ambitious projects, ed to hasten the catastrophe ; and and then, laying aside his assumed some of the scenes in which they are acquiescence, dares the villain Loren- engaged are full of beauty and tenderzo to single combat, as having been the cause of all his ruin. They fight Of Oriana we see little, but that and fall dead by mutual wounds. little is sufficiently touching ; and we

We have few farther observations feel enough of interest in her to make to make on this tragedy. Our readers us pleased that, at the end of the dra. will have seen, in the first place, from ma, she finds happiness with Cosmo. the extracts, that the language is sin- Amidea takes a faster hold on our gularly spirited, poetical, and also affections. The heroic and yet gentle dramatic. The interest is well kept spirit which she exhibits in her foralive; for all the incidents follow each lorn desertion, invests her with the other, if not very naturally, at least highest dignity of her sex. There is a with a wild tumult and precipitation calm stateliness in her sorrow, and a which agitates us with frequent alter- strength of love in her virgin widowation of feeling. There is nothing hood, that her lover's perfidy

cannot imdull, heavy, or lingering in the whole pair. There are few things in dramatic action. Neither are there any intri- poetry much more beautiful than the cacies in the plot to disentangle,--so scene of her death; and though we know that we are never called on for the not how “ the laying out," and the exercise of ingenuity, instead of the exhibition of the sheeted corpse, might indulgence of passion. These are affect spectators in a theatre, every great merits in an acting play; and reader in the closet must feel it chill indeed with them a play can, if well his heart's blood, while, at the same acted, scarcely fail of success.

time, there is a relief from painful But, besides these excellencies, we sorrow in the exquisite beauty of the are inclined to think, that Lorenzo poetry.

H. M. and Sciarrha are characters that would tell in representation. The intellectual energy of the former gives him

VERSES, something of dignity, and saves him, at all times, from utter degradation, Ambition carries with it nobility ; and the baseness of the means em- (WE have as yet, by accidental circum. ployed to attain its object, is partially stances, been prevented from laying before hidden by the strength of mind which

our readers any account of the Prose Tales invests them. Lorenzo is certainly, lately published by Me Hoog. In the though not an interesting, almost a

mean time, we have great pleasure in ex

tracting the following very beautiful Poetical commanding traitor; and we feel ourselves in some measure under the Family whose enlightened' patronage has

Dedication to a Young Lady of the Noble mastery of that talent, which, though been so liberally extended to the ETTRICK ultimately defeated, kept him so long SHEPHERD.] on the very brink of success.

It cannot be said that we have an interest To HER, whose bounty oft hath shed in him; but we unquestionably desire Joy round the peasant's lowly bed, to follow him in his career, if it be And God and Angels only knew

When trouble press’d and friends were few, only to witness its anticipated termi- To Her, who loves the board to cheer, nation. The cool, calculating, intre. And hearth of simple Cottager; pid villany of the “ Traitor," is fine- Who loves the tale of rural hind, ly contrasted with the fiery and im. And wayward visions of his mind,


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I dedicate, with high delight,

Our creeds may differ in degree,
The themes of many a winter night. But small that difference sure can be !

What other name on Yarrow's vale As flowers which vary in their dyes,
Can Shepherd choose to grace his tale? We all shall bloom in Paradise.
There other living name is none

As sire who loves his children well, Heard with one feeling,-one alone. The loveliest face he cannot tell, Some heavenly charm must name endear So 'tis with us. We are the same, That all men love, and all revere !

One faith, one Father, and one aim. Even the rude boy of rustic form,

And hadst thou lived where I was bred, And robes all fluttering to the storm, Amid the scenes where martyrs bled, Whose roguish lip and graceless eye Their sufferings all to thee endeard Inclines to mock the passer by,

By those most honour'd and revered; Walks by the Maid with softer tread, And where the wild dark streamlet raves, And lowly bends his burly head,

Hadst wept above their lonely graves, Following with eye of milder ray

Thou wouldst have felt, I know it true, The gentle form that glides away.

As I have done, and aye must do. The little school-nymph, drawing near, And for the same exalted cause, Says, with a sly and courteous leer, For mankind's right, and nature's laws, As plain as eye and manner can,

The cause of liberty divine, Thou lor'st me-bless thee, Lady Anne!” Thy fathers bled as well as inine. Even babes catch the beloved theme,

Then be it thine, 0 noble Maid, And learn to lisp their Lady's name. On some still eve these tales to read;

The orphan's blessing rests on thee; And thou wilt read, I know full well, Happy thou art, and long shalt be! For still thou lovest the haunted dell; Tis not in sorrow, nor distress,

To linger by the sainted spring, Nor Fortune's power, to make thee less. And trace the ancient fairy ring The heart, unaltered in its mood,

Where moonlight revels long were held That joys alone in doing good,

In many a lone sequester'd field, And follows in the heavenly road,

By Yarrow dens and Ettrick shaw, And steps where once an Angel trode, And the green mounds of Carterhaugh. The joys within such heart that burn, O for one kindred heart that thought No loss can quench, nor time o'erturn! As minstrel must, and lady ought, The stars may from their orbits bend, That loves like thee the whispering wood, The mountains rock, the heavens rend, And range of mountain solitude ! The sun's last ember cool and quiver, Think how more wild the greenwood scene, But these shall glow, and glow for ever! If times were still as they have been ;

Then thou, who lovost the shepherd's home, If fairies, at the fall of even, And cherishest his lowly dome,

Down from the eye-brow of the heaven, O list the mystic lore sublime,

Or some aërial land afar, Of fairy tales of ancient time.

Came on the beam of rising star; I learned them in the lonely glen,

Their lightsome gambols to renew, The last abodes of living men ;

From the green leaf to quaff the dew, Where never stranger came our way Or dance with such a graceful tread, By summer night, or winter day ; ,

As scarce to bend the gowan's head ! Where neighbouring hind or cot was pone,

Think if thou wert, some evening still, Our converse was with Heaven alone, Within thy wood of green BowhillWith voices through the cloud that sung, Thy native wood !-the forest's pride ! And brooding storms that round us hung. Lover or sister by thy side ;

O Lady, judge, if judge you may, In converse sweet the hour to improve How stern and ample was the sway

Of things below and things above, Of themes like these, when darkness fell, Of an existence scarce begun, And gray-haired sires the tales would tell ! And note the stars rise one by one. When doors were barr'd, and eldron dame Just then, the moon and daylight blending, Plied at her task beside the flame,

To see the fairy bands descending, That through the smoke and gloom alone Wheeling and shivering as they came, On dim and umber'd faces shone

Like glimmering shreds of human frame; The bleat of mountain goat on high, Or sailing, 'mid the golden air, That from the cliff came quavering by; In skiffs of yielding gossamer. The echoing rock, the rushing flood,

0, I would wander forth alone The cataract's swell, the moaning wood, Where human eye hath never shone, That undefined and mingled hum

Away o'er continents and isles Voice of the desert, never dumb !

A thousand and a thousand miles, All these have left within this heart

For one such eve to sit with thee, A feeling tongue can ne'er impart ;

Their strains to hear and forms to see ! A wilder'd and unearthly flame,

Absent the while all fears of harm, A something that's without a name. Secure in Heaven's protecting arm ; And, Lady, thou wilt never deem

To list the songs such beings sung, Religious tale offensive theme;

And hear them speak in human tongue;

To see in beauty, perfect, pure,

With all the scene before his eyes, Of human face the miniature,

A family's and a nation's ties And smile of being free from sin,

Bonds which the Heavens alone can rend, That had not death impress'd within. With Chief, with Father, and with Friend. Oh, can it ever be forgot

No wonder that such scene refin'd What Scotland had, and now has not ! Should dwell on rude enthusiast's mind !

Such scenes, dear Lady, now no more Strange his reverse ! -He little wist Are given, or fitted as before,

Poor inmate of the cloud and mist!
To eye or ear of guilty dust;

That ever he, as friend, should claim
But when it comes, as come it must, The proudest Caledonian name,
The time when I, from earth set free,

J. H.
Shall turn the spark I fain would be ; Eltrive Lake, April 1st, 1818.
If there's a land, as grandsires tell,
Where Brownies, Elves, and Fairies dwell,
There my first visit shall be sped-
Journeyer of earth, go hide thy head !

Of all thy travelling splendour shorn,
Though in thy golden chariot borne !

A Pastoral Poet's Dream.
Yon little cloud of many a hue
That wanders o'er the solar blue,
That curls, and rolls, and fleets away

She hath risen up from her morning prayer, Beyond the very springs of day,

And chained the waves of her golden hair, That do I challenge and engage

Hath kissed her sleeping sister's cheek, To be my travelling equipage,

And breathed the blessing she might not Then onward, onward, far to steer,

speak, The breeze of Heaven my charioteer ;

Lest the whisper should break the dream The soul's own energy my guide,

that smil'd Eternal hope my all beside.

Round the snow-white brow of the sinless At such a shrine who would not bow !

child. Traveller' of earth, where art thou now?

Her radiant Lamb and her purpling Dove Then let me for these legends claim,

Have ta'en their food from the hand they My young, my honour'd Lady's name;

love ; Thai honour is reward complete,

The low deep coo and the plaintive bleat Yet I must crave, if not unmeet,

In the morning calm, how clear and sweet! Onę little boon-delightful task

E’er the Sun has warmed the dawning hours, For maid to grant, or minstrel ask!

She hath watered the glow of her garden One day, thou may'st remember well,

flowers, For short the time since it befel,

And welcomed the hum of the carliest Bee When o'er thy forest-bowers of oak,

In the moist bloom working drousily ; The eddying storm in darkness broke;

Then up the flow of the rocky rill Loud sung the blast adown the dell,

She trips away to the pastoral Hill; And Yarrow lent her treble swell ;

And, as she lifts her glistening eyes The mountain's form grew more sublime,

In the joy of her heart to the dewy skies, Wrapt in its wreaths of rolling rime;

She feels that her sainted Parents bless And Newark Cairn, in hoary shroud,

The life of their Orphan Shepherdless. Appear'd like giant o'er the cloud :

'Tis a lonely Glen ! but the happy Child The eve fell dark, and grimly scowld, Hath friends whom she meets in the morn. Loud and more loud the tempest howl'd;

ing-wildWithout was turmoil, waste, and din, -As on she trips, her native stream, The kelpie's cry was in the linn,

Like her hath awoke from a joyful drcam, But all was love and peace within !

And glides away by her twinkling feet, And aye, between, the melting strain With a face as bright and a voice as sweet. Pour'd from thy woodland harp amain, In the osier bank the Ouzel sitting, Which, mixing with the storm around, Hath heard her steps, and away is flitting Gave a wild cadence to the sound.

From stone to stone, as she glides along, That mingled scene, in every part,

Then sinks in the stream with a broken song. Hath so impress'd thy shepherd's heart, The Lapwing, fearless of his nest, With glowing feelings, kindling bright Stands looking round with his delicate crest, Some filial visions of delight,

Or a lonelike joy is in his cry, That almost border upon pain,

As he wheels and darts and glances by, And he would hear those strains again. Is the Heron asleep on the silvery sand They brought delusions not to last,

Of his little Lake ? Lo! his wings expand Blending the future with the past ;

As a dreamy thought, and withouten dread, Dreams of fair stems, in foliage new, Cloudlike he floats o'er the Maiden's head. Of flowers that spring where others grew She looks to the birch-wood glade, and lo ! of beauty ne'er to be outdone,

There is browzing there the mountain-roe, And stars that rise when sets the sun ; Who lifts up her gentle eyes, nor moves The patriarchal days of yore,

As on glides the form whom all nature loves. The mountain music heard no more, Having spent in Heaven an hour of mirth,

The Lark drops down to the dewy earth, -And thus sole-sitting on the Brae,
And as silence smooths his yearning breast From human voices far away,
In the gentle fold of his lowly nest, Even like the flowers round Edith's feet,
The Linnet takes up the hymn, unseen Shone forth her fancies wild or sweet;
In the yellow broom or the bracken green. Some in the shades of memory
And now, as the morning-hours are glowing, Unfolding out reluctantly,
From the hillside cots the cocks are crowing, But breathing from that tender gloom
And the Shepherd's Dog is barking shrill A faint-etherial-pure perfume ;
From the mist fast rising from the hill, Some burning in their full-blown pride,
And the Shepherd's-self, with locks of gray, And by the Sun's love beautified ;
Hath blessed the Maiden on her way; None wither'd--for the air is holy,
And now she sees her own dear flock Of a pure spirit's melancholy;
On a verdant mound beneath the rock, And God's own gracious eye hath smiled
Al close together in beauty and love, On the sorrows of this Orphan Child;
Like the small fair clouds in heaven above, Therefore, her Parents' Grave appears
And her innocent soul at the peaceful sight Green, calm, and sunbright thro' her tears,
Is swimming o'er with a still delight. Beneath the deep'ning hush of years.
And how shall sweet Edith pass the day, An Image of young Edith's Life,
From her home and her sister so far away,

This one still day-no noise-no strifeWith none to whom she may speak the Alike calm-morning—noon_and even while,

And Earth to her as pure as Heaven. Or share the silence and the smile,

Now night comes wavering down the sky : When the stream of thought flows calm and The clouds like ships at anchor lie, deep,

All gathered in the glimmering air, And the face of Joy is like that of sleep? After their pleasant voyage : there Fear not—the long, still Summer-day

One solitary bark glides on

So slow, that its haven will ne'er be won. On downy wings hath sailed away, And is melting unawares in Even,

But a wandering wind hath lent it motion, Like a pure cloud in the heart of Heaven,

And the last Sail hath passed o'er the heavenNor Weariness nor Woe hath paid

ly ocean. One visit to the happy Maid

Are these the Hills so steeped by day, Sitting in sunshine or in shade.

In a greenness that seemed to mock decay,

And that stole from the Sun so strong and For many a wild Tale doth she know, Framed in these valleys long ago


That it well might dare th' eclipse of night? By pensive Shepherds, unto whom

Where is the sound that filled the air The sweet breath of the heather-bloom

Around and above and every where ? Brought inspiration, and the Sky Folding the hill-tops silently,

Soft wild pipes hushed ! and a world of And airs so spirit-like, and streams

Aye murmuring through a world of dreams. All shut with their radiant shiverings!

The wild bees now are all at rest
A hundred plaintive tunes hath she
A hundred chants of sober glee

In their earthen cell-or their mossy nest

Save when some lated labourers come
And she hath sung them o'er and o'er,
As.on some solitary shore,

From the far-off hills with a weary hum, 'Tis said the Mermaid oft doth sing

And drop down mid the flowers, till morn Beneath some cliffs o'ershadowing,

Shall awaken to life each tiny horn. While melteth o'er the waters clear

Dew sprinkles slecp on every flower, A song which there is none to hear !

And each bending stalk has lost its powerStill at the close of each wild strain

No toils have they, but in beauty blest, Hath gentle Edith lived again,

They seem to partake in Nature's rest. O'er long-past hours—while smiles and sighs Sleep calms the bosom of the Earth, Obeyed their own loved Melodies.

And a dream just moves it in faintest mirth. Now rose to sight the hawthorn-glade, The slumber of the Hills and Sky Where that old blind Musician played Hath hushed into a reverie So blithely to the dancing ring

The soul of Edith-by degrees, Or, in a fit of sorrowing,

With half-closed eyes she nothing sees Sung mournful Songs of other years But the glimmer of twilight stretched afar, That filled his own dim eyes with tears. And one bright solitary star, And then the Sabbath seemed to rise That comes like an angel with his beams, In stillness o'er the placid skies,

To lead her on thro' the world of dreams. And from the small Kirk in the Dell She feels the soft grass beneath her head, Came the clear chime of holy Bell,

And the smell of flowers around her shed, Solemnly ceasing, when appeared

Breathing of Earth,-as yet, she knows The grey-haired Man beloved and feared Whence is the sound that past her flows, The Man of God—whose eyes were filled (The flowery fount in its hillside cell-) With visions in the heavens beheld, But a beauty there is which she cannot tell And rightfully inspired fear,

To her soul that beholdsit, spread all around; Whose yoke, like Love's, is light to bear. And she feels a rapture, oh! more profound

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