The Companion: being a selection of the beauties of the most celebrated authors, in the English language. In prose and verse. : [Two lines from Akenside]

The Companion: being a selection of the beauties of the most celebrated authors, in the English language. In prose and verse. : [Two lines from Akenside]

Table of contents

Title page

CONTENTS.

1

2

3

4

THE INDIANS. A TALE.

RODOLPHO AND MATILDA.

A CHINESE TALE.

THE TWO COQUETTES.

THE DISABLED SOLDIER. A SIMPLE STORY.

THE THREE WARNINGS.

THE RUINS OF THE HOUSE OF ALBERT. A ROMANCE.

A TURKISH ODE.

THE SURRENDER OF CALAIS. AN HISTORIC FACT.

ALBERT AND ELWEENA.

CROMA. AN ANCIENT POEM FROM OSSIAN.

AN ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. GRAY.

THE EPITAPH.

THE BARON ST. BRUNNE. A PROVENÇAL TALE.

THE FATE OF ATHWOLD AND ELFRIDA.

ADVENTURES OF A KNIGHT. A TALE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.

A FAIRY TALE, IN THE ANCIENT ENGLISH STYLE.

THE CAVE OF MODRED. A BRITISH STORY.

ARMINE AND ELVIRA. A LEGENDARY TALE. IN TWO PARTS.

PART THE FIRST.

PART THE SECOND.

SIR REGINALD DE CUTHBERT. A ROMANCE ELUCIDATED.

THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. FIT THE FIRST.

THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. FIT THE SECOND.

THE HERMIT's TALE.

THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. FIT THE THIRD.

THE TREASURY OF WIT.

A ROGUE'S MODESTY.

A KICK FOR A BITE.

THE RETORT.

ANECDOTE OF DR. RADCLIFFE.

THE REPLY.

REAL COURAGE.

IMAGINARY COURAGE.

LAST WORDS OF DON FRANCIS.

GREAT CONSOLATION FOR THE LOSE OF AN EYE.

THE MAN OF FORTITUDE.

DON SANCHO IN DISTRESS.

A PROPHECY FULFILLED.

A MILITARY ANECDOTE.

PREACHING WELL APPLIED.

PRAYING MADE EASY.

A DISPUTABLE FACT.

COMPARISONS OF DRUNKENNESS.

FORTUNE OF A LIAR.

LIBERTY AND EQUALITY.

TEARS OF AFFECTION.

DEAD ALIVE.

WONDERFUL POWER OF MAGNETISM.

A CURE FOR THE ITCH OF DUELLING.

A GLIMPSE OF COSMOGRAPHY.

THE WOODEN GOD.

A RECEIPT, BY WHICH TWO MEN CAN MAKE FIFTY ARMED MEN RUN.

AN INDISPUTABLE FACT.

A SOLDIER'S REPLY.

STORY OF AN ASS, WHO CONTRADICTED HIS MASTER.

A HANGING MATTER.

A DISQUISITION ON COLOURS.

A RECEIPT TO PREVENT ANY BAD ACCIDENT BY FALLING FROM A TREE.

THE MAN OF FEELING.

THE MAN OF FAILING.

SURPRISING INSTANCE OF FORGETFULNESS.

A DOUBTFUL CASE.

AN UNACCOUNTABLE WHIM.

A VIRGIN'S REQUEST.

FRUITLESS PRECAUTION.

A REMARKABLE CASE.

NOUGHT'S WIFE.

THE DEAF MAN STUNNED.

TIT FOR TAT.

REMARKABLE ACCIDENT OF A GUN, WHICH WENT OFF, WITHOUT BEING CHARGED.

THE POOR SCHOLAR.

THE BLOODY-MINDED PARSON.

THE OLD SPORSTMAN OUTWITTED.

THE GREAT BISHOP'S BEARD.

THE GENEROUS CONQUEROR.

ILL EFFECTS OF EARLY RISING.

UNFORTUNATE SPECULATION.

THE CONTENTED WIFE.

HORSEMANSHIP.

EXTREME MODESTY.

LAW EXPLAINED.

THE PARSON BROUGHT TO TERMS.

SIGNS OF CIVILIZATION.

A PERFECT HUNCH-BACK.

HOW TO CUT A CHEESE IN THE BEST PLACE.

PRAYER AT SEA.

HISTORICAL ANECDOTE.

SUM TOTAL OF A LORD MAYOR'S TALENTS.

SPECIMEN OF ENGLISH SKILL IN WIT AND WARFARE.

ORATORY.

THE GOOSE AND HIS LORDSHIP.

A ROGUE CAUGHT IN BAD COMPANY.

COUNT DE GRANCE.

VOLTAIRE.

THE LINGUIST.

THE REPOSITORY OF GEUIUS. HUMOROUS AND ENTERTAINING EPIGRAMS.

TRUE WIT.

THE MORALIST.

A COURT AUDIENCE.

THE KNIGHTS OF THE SHEERS.

THE LAWYER AND CLIENT.

UPON A MILL.

LORD LYTTLETON TO LADY BROWN.

ON MATRIMONY.

TRUE BENEVOLENCE.

A RHAPSODY.

THE FRIEND.

LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S MILTON.

YOUNG TONY'S REASON FOR DRINKING.

THE COMPARISON.

THE FASHIONS.

THE MODERN COUPLE.

THE KINGS OF EUROPE.

A REPARTEE.

WHAT THIS WORLD IS LIKE.

SIR TOPEWELL.

THE DEAD ALIVE.

THE FAIR THIEF.

FASHIONABLE SONGS, FOR THE YEAR 1798.

SONG I. ALL FOR A SONG.

SONG II. ROW, DOW, DOW.

SONG III. HEATHEN MYTHOLOGY.

SONG IV. TOM TACLL. A much admired song, composed by Mr. Dibdin, in his entertainment of castles in the air.

SONG V. TUG AT THE OAR.

SONG VI. THE GIRL OF MY HEART.

SONG VII. THE GENEROUS LOVER.

SONG VIII. 'TIS NO FAULT OF MINE.

SONG IX. NANCY, OR THE SAILOR'S JOURNAL.

SONG X. POOR TOM, OR THE SAILOR'S EPITAPH.

SONG XI. A FAVOURITE SCOTCH AIR.

SONG XII. THE NEGLECTED FAIR.

SONG XIII. IN PURSUIT OF THE FASHION.

SONG XIV. IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT.

SONG XV.

SONG XVI. HAIL COLUMBIA.

SONG XVII. ADAMS AND LIBERTY.

SONG XVIII. THE FEDERAL CONSTITUTION AND THE PRESIDENT FOR EVER.

§

§

[Page]

[Page]

THE COMPANION: BEING A SELECTION OF THE BEAUTIES OF THE MOST CELEBRATED AUTHORS, IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

IN PROSE AND VERSE.

'Thou, cheerfulness, by Heav'n design'd

To rule the pulse, that moves the mind.'

AKENSIDE.

PRINTED BY NATHANIEL AND BENJAMIN HEATON, FOR JOSEPH J. TODD, PROVIDENCE, At the SIGN of the BIBLE and ANCHOR.

M, DCC, XCIX.

CONTENTS.

[Page]

1

THE Indians, a Tale, PROFESSOR RICHARDSON PAGE. 9

Rodolpho and Matilda, KEATE PAGE. 24

Choang and Hansi, a Chinese tale, DR. GOLDSMITH PAGE. 27

The Two Coquettes, CUNNINGHAM PAGE. 31

The disabled Soldier, DR. GOLDSMITH PAGE. 33

The three Warnings, THRALE PAGE. 40

The Ruins of the House of Albert, ANON PAGE. 44

A Turkish Ode, ANON PAGE. 56

The Surrender of Calais, BROOKES PAGE. 58

Albert and Elweena, FALCONAR PAGE. 68

Croma, an ancient Poem, OSSIAN PAGE. 74

An Elegy, GRAY PAGE. 79

The Baron St. Brunne, a Provençal tale, RADCLIFFE PAGE. 85

Fate of Athwold and Elfrida, MEEK PAGE. 93

Adventures of a Knight, a Tale of the Sixteenth Century, C. SHINK PAGE. 101

A Fairy Tale, in the ancient English Style, PARNELL PAGE. 119

The Cave of Modred, a British Story, ANON PAGE. 126

[Page]Armine and Elvira, a Legendary Tale, ANON PAGE. 146

Sir Reginald de Cuthbert, a Romance elucidated, ANON PAGE. 167

The Hermit of Warkworth, DEAN PERCY PAGE. 175

2

PART THE SECOND. THE TREASURY OF WIT.

A Rogue's Modesty PAGE. 210

A Virgin's Request PAGE. 228

Anecdote of Dr. Radcliffe PAGE. 211

A disputable Fact PAGE. 217

An indisputable Fact PAGE. 222

A Receipt by which two men can make fifty armed men run PAGE. 222

An unaccountable whim PAGE. 227

A remarkable case PAGE. 228

A doubtful case PAGE. 227

A disquisition on colours PAGE. 224

A Kick for a Bite PAGE. 210

A Prophecy fulfilled PAGE. 215

A military Anecdote PAGE. 216

A cure for the itch of Duelling PAGE. 221

A glimpse of Cosmography PAGE. 221

A Soldier's Reply PAGE. 223

[Page]A hanging matter PAGE. 224

A receipt to prevent any bad accident by falling from a tree PAGE. 225

A perfect hunch-back PAGE. 236

A Rogue caught in bad Company PAGE. 241

Comparisons of Drunkenness PAGE. 218

Count de Grancè PAGE. 241

Dead alive PAGE. 220

Don Sancho in distress PAGE. 215

Extreme Modesty PAGE. 234

Fortune of a Liar PAGE. 218

Fruitless Precaution PAGE. 228

Great Consolation for the Loss of an Eye PAGE. 214

Historical Anecdote PAGE. 237

Horsemanship PAGE. 234

How to cut a Cheese in the best place PAGE. 236

Ill Effects of rising early PAGE. 233

Imaginary Courage PAGE. 213

Last Words of Don Francis PAGE. 213

Law explained PAGE. 234

Liberty and Equality PAGE. 219

Nought's Wife PAGE. 229

Oratory PAGE. 240

Praying made easy PAGE. 217

Prayer at Sea PAGE. 236

Preaching well applied PAGE. 216

Remarkable accident of a gun, which went off without being charged PAGE. 230

Real Courage PAGE. 212

Story of an Ass who contradicted his Master PAGE. 223

[Page]Specimen of English skill in wit and warfare PAGE. 238

Surprising Instance of Forgetfulness PAGE. 226

Signs of Civilization PAGE. 235

Sum total of a Lord Mayor's talents PAGE. 237

The Man of Fortitude PAGE. 214

The Man of Feeling PAGE. 225

The Man of Failing PAGE. 225

Tears of Affection PAGE. 219

The Linguist PAGE. 242

The bloody minded Parson PAGE. 231

The contented Wife PAGE. 233

The Goose and his Lordship PAGE. 240

The Retort PAGE. 211

The Reply PAGE. 212

The wooden God PAGE. 222

The deaf Man stunned PAGE. 229

Tit for tat PAGE. 230

The poor Scholar PAGE. 231

The old Sportsman outwitted PAGE. 231

The great Bishop's beard PAGE. 232

The generous Conqueror PAGE. 232

The Parson brought to terms PAGE. 235

Unfortunate Speculation PAGE. 233

Voltaire PAGE. 242

Wonderful Power of Magnetism PAGE. 220

3

[Page]

PART THE THIRD. THE REPOSITORY OF GENIUS.

A Court Audience PAGE. 244

A Rhapsody PAGE. 246

A Repartee PAGE. 249

Lines written in a Lady's Milton PAGE. 247

Lord Lyttleton to Lady Brown PAGE. 245

On Matrimony PAGE. 245

Sir Topewell PAGE. 250

True Wit PAGE. 243

The Moralist PAGE. 243

The Lawyer and Client PAGE. 244

True Benevolence PAGE. 246

The Friend PAGE. 247

The Fashions PAGE. 248

The Knights of the Sheers PAGE. 244

The Kings of Europe PAGE. 249

The Comparison PAGE. 248

The dead alive PAGE. 250

The Modern Couple PAGE. 248

The Fair Thief PAGE. 251

Upon a Mill PAGE. 245

What the world is like PAGE. 250

Young Tony's Reason for drinking PAGE. 247

4

[Page]

PART THE FOURTH. FASHIONABLE SONGS.

Adams and Liberty PAGE. 275

All for a Song PAGE. 253

A favourite Scotch Air PAGE. 267

Hail Columbia PAGE. 273

Heathen Mythology PAGE. 255

In the dead of the night PAGE. 271

Nancy, or the Sailor's Journal PAGE. 264

Poor Tom, or the Sailor's Epitaph PAGE. 266

Row, dow, dow PAGE. 254

Tom Tackle PAGE. 257

The Federal Constitution PAGE. 279

The generous Lover PAGE. 261

The neglected Fair PAGE. 268

Tug at the Oar PAGE. 259

The girl of my heart PAGE. 261

'Tis no fault of mine PAGE. 262

The Fashions PAGE. 270

The Eve PAGE. 272

THE INDIANS. A TALE.

[Page]

In pity come, and ease my grief,

Bring my distemper'd soul relief.

MARANO, amiable in her sorrow, sat alone by a shelving rock. She sought in solitude to indulge the anguish of her soul. She leaned pensive on her arm. Her tresses flowed careless to the gale. The blooming beauty of her complexion was flushed with weeping. Her eyes were full of tender anxiety. And her bosom heaved with repeated sighs.

'When will he return?' she said, ‘my beloved Oneyo! the husband of my affections! How I long to behold him! ye waves of Ontario convey him to his native shore; restore him to his friends; restore him to my tender embrace. O when shall I behold him? when will the swift canoe come bounding over the lake, and waft the hero to his gladsome isle! Yes, thou happy isle! thy rocks, thy resounding glades, and thy forests shall then rejoice. Gladness shall then be in the village. The Elders shall come forth to receive him. The festival shall be prepared. [Page] Ah me! peradventure he hath perished! Or now expires in some bloody field! impetuous in his valour, and eager in the ardour of youth, perchance he rushes on the foe and falls!’ While Marano thus indulged her inquietude, the venerable Ononthio was drawing nigh to console her. He had perceived the uneasiness of her soul, and had followed her from the village. He was the father of Oneyo, one of the Elders of the nation, revered for his wisdom, and beloved for his humanity. He loved Marano with the affection of a father. 'Be comforted,' he said, ‘give not thy soul to despair. The great spirit, who rides in the whirlwind, and speaks from the passing thunder, will protect thee. But to merit his favour, be resigned to his will. It is impious to anticipate misery, and render ourselves unhappy before we are actually afflicted. Be comforted. Oneyo may soon return loaded with the spoils of the Briton, and extolled by the gallant warriors of France.’

'To see my husband return in safety,' she replied, ‘is the sum of my desires. To see him loaded with the spoils of the Briton will be no addition to my joy.’ The Indian seemed astonished. 'Have you forgotten,' she continued, ‘that I myself am a Briton that I was carried violently from my father's house, when the Outagami ravaged our land, and carried terror to the gates of Albany? My parents perished. I was yet a child; but I remember the bloody carnage. My brother of riper years, was rescued; but I [Page] became the prey of their fury. Since that time, many years are elapsed; yet at the name of Briton my bosom glows with peculiar transport.’

'I fondly imagined,' answered the Indian, ‘that you loved us. We named you after the manner of our tribe. But your affections are estranged, and you languish for the land of your fathers. I called you my daughter—but, Marano you would leave me.’ Uttering these words, he looked tenderly upon her. ‘You would leave me,’ he repeated, and a tear rose in his eye. Marano was affected. She clasped his hand, and pressed it to her rosy lips. ‘No, I will never leave thee. My heart is thine, and my beloved Oneyo's. I revere thee. Can I forget thy compassion? Can I forget the dreadful day when the Outagami, in an assembly of their nation, decreed me a sacrifice to their god Areskoui. You was present on an embassy from your people. Oneyo in the bloom of years accompanied his father. He was beside you. He sighed, when he beheld me weeping. Alas! I was feeble, friendless, and beset with soes. Oneyo intreated you to relieve me. Your own heart was affected; you interposed in my behalf; you redeemed me, and called me your's. Oneyo hasted to my deliverance; he loosened my setters, and clasped me to his breast. Our affection grew with our years. You beheld it with kind indulgence, and ratified our wishes with your consent. I have heard of European refinements, of costly raiment, and lofty palaces; yet to me the simplicity of these [Page] rocks and forests seem far more delightful. But if Oneyo returns not, I am undone. Many moons have arisen since. With the flower of our tribe, he departed. The matrons are already wailing for their sons.—Oneyo, alas! is impetuous, and if he has fallen, grief will subdue thee; I know the tenderness of thine affection; it will pull thee down to the grave. Who then will be my friend? Among a strange people, I have no father to protect me, no brother to counsel or give me aid.’

Ononthio was about to reply, when an Indian from the village accosted them. He told them, with a sorrowful aspect, that the hopes of their tribe were blasted, for that some Indians of a neighbouring nation, having returned from Canada, brought certain intelligence of the total overthrow of their friends; that they had, with difficulty, escaped; that Oneyo was seen fierce and intrepid in the heat of the battle; that he was surrounded by the foe, and must have fallen a victim to their fury.

Marano was overwhelmed. Ononthio heaved a sigh: but the hapless condition of his daughter, and the desire of yielding her consolation, suspended and relieved his sorrow. ‘If my son has fallen,’ he said, ‘he has fallen as became a warrior. His praise shall be preserved by his kindred and descend to posterity in the war song. His name shall terrify the European, when the chieftains of future times, rushing fierce from their forests, shall surround his habitation at midnight, and [Page] raise the yell of death in his ear. Oneyo shall not die unrevenged.’ 'He shall not,' interrupted the Indian. ‘The messingers of our misfortune hovered around the walls of Quebec. They surprised a party of the foe, they have brought them captives to our Island; the Elders of our nation are now assembled; they have doomed them a sacrifice to the memory of the dead; and defer their execution, only till your arrival.’ 'Alas!' said Marano, ‘the sacrafice of a captive will afford me small consolation. Will the death of a foe restore life to my husband? or heal his ghastly wounds? or reanimate his breathless bosom? Leave me to my woe. Leave me to wail on these lonely mountains. Here I will not long be a sojourner. I will away to my love. I will meet him beyond the deserts, in some blissful valley, where no bloody foe shall invade us. Leave me to my sorrow; for I will not live.’ She intreated in vain. The Indian was urgent, and Ononthio seconded his solicitation.

That nation of Indians, of which Oneyo was a leader, inhabited an Island in the Lake Ontario. They were, therefore, no sooner informed of the death of Oneyo, and of their brethren, than they abandoned themselves to loud lamentations. The matrons with rent garments and disshevelled tresses, ran forth into the fields, and filled the air with their wailing. They then crowded around the captives, whom, in the bitterness of their woe, they loaded with keen invectives. The Elders were assembled; the boiling caldron into which [Page] the victims, after suffering every species of torment, were to be precipitated, was suspended over a raging fire; the knives, tomahawks, and other implements of cruelty, were exhibited in dreadful array; and the prisoners, loaded with heavy fetters, were conducted to the place of sacrifice.

Though Marano was deeply afflicted, the screams of the Indians, and the horrid preparations of torture, drew her attention to the prisoners. She regarded them with an eye of pity. Their leader, in the prime of youth, was comely, vigorous, and graceful. The sullenness of undaunted and indignant valour was portrayed by nature in his fearless aspect. His eye, full of ardour and invincible firmness, surveyed the preparations of death with indifference, and shot defiance to the foe. His followers, though valiant, seemed incapable of the same obstinate resolution; their features betrayed symptoms of dismay; but turning to their leader, they were struck with his unshaken boldness, they resumed their native courage, and armed their minds with becoming fortitude. Marano sighed. The sense of her own misfortune was for a moment suspended. ‘Peradventure,’ said she in her soul, ‘this valiant youth, like Oneyo, may be lamented. Some tender maiden, to whom his faith has been plighted, may now languish for his return. Some aged parent, whose infirmities he relieved and supported, may be sighing, anxious for his safety. Or some orphan sister, helpless and forsaken, like me, may, by his death, be made desolate.’ She [Page] then reflected on her own condition, and on the variety of her misfortunes. Carried into captivity in her early years, she was a stranger to her people, and to her kindred. Her husband no longer existed; and he, who had been to her as a father, overcome by age and calamity, was now declining into the grave. Yet alive to compassion, she was moved for the unhappy victims. She admired the magnanimity of their leader, and in regarding him, she felt unusual emotions, and a pang that she could not express. He was of her nation! Could she behold him perish, and not endeavour to save him? Could she behold him tortured, and not shed a tear for his sufferings! Meantime one of the Elders of the nation made a signal to the multitude. Immediate silence ensued. Then with a look of stern severity, he thus expressed himself to the captive. ‘The caldron boils, the ax is sharpened. Be prepared for torture and painful death. The spirit of the deceased is yet among us. He lingers on the mountains, or hovers amid the winds. He expects a sacrifice, and shall not chide our delay. Have you a parent or friend? They shall never behold you. Prepare for torture and painful death.’ ‘Inflict your tortures,’ he replied, ‘my soul contemns them. I have no parents to lament for Sydney. In Albany they were massacred, massacred by inhuman Indians. I had a sister—I lost her. She was carried into captivity, and became the victim of your savage sury. Inflict your tortures; my soul contemns them, but remember, the day of vengeance shall overtake you.’

[Page]Marano was astonished— ‘Of Albany! reft of his parents by the sword, and of a sister!’ —Suffice it to say, he was her brother. Mutual was their amazement, their affection mutual. She fell on his throbbing breast. He received her into his arms. His soul was softened. Marano for a time was speechless. At length weeping and in broken accents— ‘And have I found thee! a brother to solace and support me. Who will guide me through the weary wilderness of my sorrow! Who will be to me as a parent! I was desolate and forlorn, my soul languished and was afflicted; but now I will endure with patience.’ Then turning to the astonished multitude, ‘He is my brother! Born of the same parents! If I have ever merited your favour, O save him from destruction.’ They were deeply afflicted. 'Be not dismayed,' said Ononthio, he spake with the consent of the Elders: ‘Be not dismayed. The brother of Marano shall be to us as Oneyo.’ Then addressing himself, with an air of dignity to the stranger. ‘Young man, I have lost a son, Marano a husband, and our nation, a gallant warrior. He was slain by the people of your land, and we are desirous of gratifying his spirit, before it passes the mountains, by offering a sacrifice to his memory. But you are the brother of Marano; by her intercession we have changed our design, and adopt you into our tribe. Be a brother to our people, and to me a son. Supply the place of the dead; and as you possess his valour, and steady boldness, may you [Page] inherit his renown.’ So saying, he presented to him the calumet of peace, and a girdle of wampum.

Meantime the arrival of some canoes, filled with armed warriors, attracted the notice of the assembly. They were transported with ecstacy and surprise, when they descried the ensign of their nation, and recognized some of their brethren, whom they imagined slain. The hopes of Marano were revived. She enquired eagerly for Oneyo. ‘He perished,’ answered an Indian. She grew pale, her voice faltered, faint and speechless, she fell back on the throbbing breast of Ononthio. ‘He perished,’ continued the Indian, ‘and with him the prime of our warriors. The armies of France and Britain were marshalled beneath the walls of Quebec. Direful was the havoc of the battle. The earth trembled with the shock of the onset. The air was tortured with repeated peals. The commanders of both armies were slain. The fall was glorious, for their souls were undaunted. Resentment inflamed the combatants. Keen and obstinate was the encounter. Albion at length prevailed. Her sons, like a rapid torrent, overthrew the ranks of their adversaries. We counselled Oneyo to retire. Raging against the foe, and performing feats of amazing valour, we saw him environed beyond all hope of retreat. We saw the impetuosity of a youthful warrior, who brandished a bloody sword, rushing on to destroy him. We hastened from the field of death. We tarried some time in the adjacent forests, and observed the progress of the foe. The walls of our [Page] allies were overthrown. The sword of Albion will pursue us; and our shield, our gallant warrior, our Oneyo is no more.’

This melancholy recital filled the audience with lamentation. But their sorrow was interrupted by the sudden astonishment of the narrator. Casting his eye accidentally on the Briton, ‘Seize him, tear him,’ he exclaimed; ‘His was the lifted sword I beheld! It was he cleft the breast of our chieftain! It was he that destroyed him.’

The resentment of the assembly was again inflamed. 'I am innocent of his blood,' said the captive. But his declaration, and the entreaties of Ononthio in his behalf, were lost in furious screams and invectives. They dragged him again to the place of sacrifice. Marano, distracted with contending woes, 'Spare him, spare him!' exclaimed, 'He is my brother!' Fixing her eyes on him with a look of exquisite anguish, ‘whose hands are red with the blood of my husband! And was there none but thee to destroy him?’ 'Tear him,' exclaimed the multitude. Marano clasped him to her bosom, and turning to the outrageous and menacing, with a wild and frantic demeanour, ‘Bloody, bloody, though he be, I will defend him, or perish! Let the same javelin transfix us both! Smite and our kindred gore shall be mingled.’ The transcendent greatness of her calamity, who had lost a husband by the hand of a brother, and the resistless energy of her features, expressive of woe, tenderness and despair, awed the violence of the Assembly, and disposed them to pity. Onorthio [Page] took advantage of the change. He waved his hand with parental love and authority. His hoary locks gave dignity to his gestures. The usual benignity of his countenance was softened with sorrow. He spoke the language of his soul, and was eloquent; spoke the language of feeling, and was persuasive. They listened to him with profound veneration, were moved, and deferred the sacrifice. He then comforted Marano, and conveyed the captives to a place of security.

When they were apart from the multitude, 'Tell me,' said he to the Briton, ‘are you guiltless of the death of my son!’ 'I know not,' he replied; for he had resumed the pride of indignant courage, ‘I know not whom I have slain. I drew my sword against the foes of my country, and I am not answerable for the blood I have spilt.’ 'Young man;' said Ononthio, full of solicitude and parental tenderness, ‘O reflect on a father's feelings. I had an only son. He was valiant. He was the prop and solace of my old age; if he has gone down to darkness and the grave, I have no longer any joy in existence. But, if he lives, and lives by thy clemency, the prayers of an old man shall implore blessings upon thee, and the great spirit shall reward thee?’ While he was yet speaking, a tear rose in his eye, his voice faltered, he sighed— ‘O tell me if my son survives.’

'I slew him not,' he replied. ‘In the heat of the encounter, a gallant Indian assailed me. He was tired and exhausted▪ I disarmed him; and my [Page] sword was lifted against his life.’ 'Briton,' said he with a resolute tone, ‘think not that death dismays me. I have braved perils and the sword. I am not a suppliant for myself. I have an aged parent, whose life depends upon mine; the wife of my bosom is a stranger among my people, and I alone can protect her.’ 'Generous youth,' I replied, ‘go, comfort and protect thy friends. I sent him forthwith from the field. I never enquired into his condition; for in preserving him I obeyed the dictates of my heart.’ Marano and Ononthio were overjoyed. But reflecting that many days had elapsed since the discomfiture of their allies, and that hitherto they had received no intelligence of Oneyo, their joy suffered abatement.

Meantime Ononthio counselled his daughter to conduct the strangers to a distant retreat, and preserve him there, till, by his influence and authority, he had appeased the violence of his brethren.

It was already night. The Indians were dispersed to their hamlets, the sky was calm and unclouded. The full-orbed moon, in serene and solemn majesty, arose in the east. Her beams were reflected in a blaze of silver radiance from the smooth and untroubled bosom of the lake. The grey hills and awful forests were solitary and silent. No noise was heard, save the wailing of matrons, who lamented the untimely death of their sons. Marano, with the captives, issuing unperceived from the village, pursued their way along the silent shore, till they arrived at a narrow unfrequented recess. It was open to the lake, bounded [Page] on either side by shelving precipices, arrayed with living verdure, and parted by a winding rivulet. A venerable oak overshadowed the fountain, and rendered the scene more solemn. The other captives were overcome with fatigue, and finding some withered leaves in an adjoining cavern, they indulged themselves in repose. Marano conversed long with her brother; she poured out her soul in her sympathising bosom; she was comforted and relieved. While she leaned on his breast, while his arm was folded gently around her, a balmy slumber surprised them. Their features, even in sleep, preserved the character of their souls. A smile played innocent on the lips of Marano, her countenance was ineffably tender, and her tresses lay careless on her snowy bosom. The features of Sydney, of a bolder and more manly expression, seemed full of benignity and complaisance. Calm and unruffled was their repose. They enjoyed the happy visions of innocence, and dreamed not of impending danger.

The moon in unrivalled glory, had now attained her meridian, when the intermitting noise of rowers came slowly along the lake. A canoe was advancing, and the dripping oars arising at intervals from the water, shone gleaming along the deep. The boatman, silent and unobserved, moored their vessel on the sandy beach; and a young man of a keen and animated aspect, arrayed in the shaggy skin of a bear, armed with a bow and a javelin, having left his companions, was hastening along the shore. It was Oneyo. Having received [Page] wounds in the battle; he had been unable to prosecute his return, and had tarried with some Indians in the neighbourhood of Montreal. By the skilful application of herbs and balsams his cure was at length effectuated, and he returned impatient to his nation.

'I will return secretly,' he said. ‘I will enjoy the sorrow and regret of Marano, and of my brethren, who, doubtless, believe me dead. I will enjoy the ecstacy of their affection, and their surprise on my unexpected arrival. My lovely Marano now laments unconsoled. I will hasten to relieve her, and press her, weeping with joy, to my faithful transported bosom.’

Such were the sentiments of anticipated rapture that occupied the soul of Oneyo, when he discovered Marano in the arms of a stranger. He recoiled. He stood motionless in an agony of grief, anger, and astonishment. Pale and trembling he uttered some words incoherently. He again advanced, again recognised her, then turning abruptly, in bitter anguish, smiting his breast. ‘Faithless and inconstant,’ he cried, ‘and is this my expected meeting! In the arms of a stranger! Arrogant invader of my felicity! He shall perish! His blood shall expiate his offence.’ Fury flashed in his eye, he grasped his javelin, he aimed the blow, and recognised his deliverer. Surprise and horror seized him. ‘Injured by my deliverer! By him, whom my soul revered! And shall I dip my hands in his blood! My life he preserved. Would to Heaven, he had slain me! Thus injured [Page] and betrayed, Oneyo will not live.—Thou great universal Spirit, whose path is in the clouds! Whose voice is in the thunder! And whose eye pierces the heart! O conduct me to the blissful valley, for Oneyo will not live.’ He sighed, ‘One look, one parting look of my love. I believed her faithful; for her I lived, and for her I die.’ He advanced towards her, gazing on her with anguish and regret. ‘She will not weep for me! faithless and inconstant! She will exult! Exult to behold me bleeding! And shall it be? Have I cherished her for this? and lavished my soul on her? to be betrayed! to give her love to a stranger!’ He paused, trembled, his countenance grew fierce, his eye wild, he grasped his javelin.—Marano named him: Her voice was soft and plaintive, her visions were of Oneyo. ‘O come,’ she said, ‘hasten to thy love! Tarry not, my Oneyo! How I long to behold thee!’ ‘For this, said he, I'll embrace thee.’ He embraced her; she awakened, discovered her husband, and flew eagerly into his arms. He flung from her in fierce indignation. 'Away,' he cried, ‘go, cherish thy stranger. Away, perfidious.’ She followed him trembling and aghast. ‘He is my brother,’ she cried. 'Thy brother'— ‘Stranger,’ said he to the Briton, who now approached him, ‘you preserved my life. You are generous and valiant. Tell me then, am I to salute thee as a friend, and give full vent to my gratitude! or, must I view thee as a guileful seducer, and lift my javelin against thy life?’

[Page]The Briton perceiving his error, answered him with brevity and composure: He related to him the circumstances of his captivity, and, in confirmation, appealed to the testimony of his father. Oneyo was satisfied. He embraced them. They returned by morning to the village. Ononthio received them with becoming gladness, and the day was crowned with rejoicing.

RODOLPHO AND MATILDA.

And oft, at midnight, airy strains are heard

Around the grave, where the fond pair are laid,

Nor is the dirge by village maidens fear'd,

The lover's spirit guards the holy shade!

Ann Radcliffe.

IN a lone vale wash'd by the impetuous Arve,

Beneath a shade its tallest mountain threw,

Matilda dwelt, the sole remaining hope

Of old Alberto, whose paternal farm,

Cover'd with flocks and herds spread wide around,

Her's was each blushing charm which youth may boast,

When nature grows profuse; her's too each power,

Attended with each studious wish to please,

Fair as the bloom of May, and mildly sweet

[Page]As the soft gales that with their vernal wings

Fan the first op'ning flowers.—Each neigbhouring swain

Had sigh'd and languish'd; on the tender bark,

Inscrib'd the fair one's name, or to her ear

Whisper'd his love.—In vain!—None, none were heard;

Save young Rodolpho, whose prevailing form

Had won her to his favour; on his brow

Sat native comeliness, and manly fire

O'er all diffus'd its lustre. Yet with her

His gen'rous mind most sway'd, where shone each thought

That delicacy knows, far more refin'd

Than suits the happy!—Much he had convers'd

With reverend age, and learn'd from thence to prize

A rural life, learn'd to prefer the peace

Of his own woods, to the discordant din

Of populous cities.—What but fate could bar

Their wishes?—What indeed!—The morn was fix'd

To seal their plighted faith, the bridegroom rose

With all a bridegroom's transport, call'd his friends

To join the jocund train, and hasten forth

To greet the expecting maid; still as he went

Anticipating Fancy's magic hand,

The thousand raptures drew, which youthful breasts

Feel at approaching bliss.—Alas! how quick

Treads woe on pleasure's footsteps:—Now pursue

The fated youth, tho' words are sure too weak

To speak his horror, when nor well known farm,

Nor wonted flocks he saw, but in their place

[Page]A pond'rous mound of snow.—At early dawn

From the near Alp the cumb'rous ruin fell,

And crush'd Alberto's roof.—To lend their aid

The assembled villagers were met, and now

From out the mass had brought once more to light

Th' ill-starr'd Matilda; lovely still!—For still

A blush was on her cheek, and her clos'd eye

Shew'd but as sleep. Around her head she wore

Her bridal ornaments deck'd as she was

To wait the nuptial hour.—Ah! deck'd in vain,

The grave thy marriage bed!—On the sad scene

Rodolpho gazes, stands a while aghast,

The semblance of despair; his swelling breast,

Torn by conflicting passions, from his tongue

Utterance withholds. He rolls his haggard eyes

On all around, as he would ask, if e'er

Griefs such as his were known; then o'er the dead

A moment pausing, on her lips imprints

A thousand frantic kisses, her cold hand

With ardour seizes, and in broken sounds,

Calls on Matilda's name.—With that last word

The struggling soul a passage, and down

He sinks in death, pale as the ambient snow.

A CHINESE TALE.

[Page]

Attend, ye fair, to wisdom's voice:

A better fate shall crown your choice.

CHOANG was the fondest husband, and Hansi the most endearing wife, in all the kingdom of Corea. They were the pattern of conjugal bliss; the inhabitants of the country around saw, and envied their felicity. Wherever Choang came, Hansi was sure to follow; and in all the pleasures of Hansi, Choang was admitted a partner. They walked hand in hand wherever they appeared, shewing every mark of mutual satisfaction, embracing, kissing; their mouths were forever joined.

Their love was so great, that it was thought nothing could interrupt their mutual peace; when an accident happened, which, in some measure, diminished the husband's assurance of his wife's fidelity; for love, so refined as his, was subject to a thousand little disquietudes.

Happening to go one day alone among the tombs that lay at some distance from his house, he there perceived a lady dressed in the deepest mourning, fanning the wet clay, that was raised over one of the graves, with a large san, which she held in her hand. Choang, who had early been [Page] taught wisdom in the school of Lao, was unable to assign a cause for her present employment; and coming up, civilly demanded the reason. 'Alas!' replied the lady, her eyes bathed in tears, ‘how is it possible to survive the loss of my husband, who lies buried in this grave? He was the best of men, the tenderest of husbands; with his dying breath he bid me never marry again, till the earth over his grave should be dry; and here you see me steadily resolving to obey his will, and endeavouring to dry it with my fan. I have employed two whole days in fulfilling his commands, and am determined not to marry, till they are punctually obeyed, even though his grave should take up four days in drying.’

Choang, who was struck with the widow's beauty, could not, however, avoid smiling at her haste to be married; but, concealing the cause of his mirth, civilly invited her home; adding, that he had a wife, who might be capable of giving her some consolation. As soon as he and his guest were returned, he imparted to Hansi in private what he had seen, and could not avoid expressing his uneasiness, that such might be his own case, if his dearest wife should one day happen to survive him.

It is impossible to describe Hansi's resentment at so unkind a suspicion. As her passion for him was not only great, but extremely delicate, she employed tears, anger, frowns, and exclamations, to chide his suspicions; the widow herself was inveighed against; and Hansi declared, she was resolved [Page] never to sleep under the same roof with a wretch, who, like her, could be guilty of such barefaced inconstancy. The night was cold and stormy; however, the stranger was obliged to seek another lodging, for Choang was not disposed to resist, and Hansi would have her way.

The widow had scarce been gone an hour, when an old disciple of Choang's, whom he had not seen for many years, came to pay him a visit. He was received with the utmost ceremony, placed in the most honourble seat at supper, and the wine began to circulate with great freedom. Choang and Hansi exhibited open marks of mutual tenderness and unfeigned reconciliation; nothing could equal their apparent happiness; so fond a husband, so obedient a wife, few could behold without regretting their own infelicity; when lo! their happiness was at once disturbed by a most fatal accident. Choang fell lifeless in an apoplectic fit upon the floor. Every method was used, but in vain, for his recovery. Hansi was at first inconsolable for her husband's death: After some hours, however, she found spirits to read his last will. The ensuing day she began to moralize and talk wisdom; the next day she was able to comfort the young disciple; and, on the third, to shorten a long story, they both agreed to be married.

There was now no longer mourning in the apartments, the body of Choang was thrust into an old coffin, and placed in one of the meanest rooms, there to lie unattended until the time prescribed by law for his interment. In the mean [Page] time, Hansi and the young disciple were arrayed in the most magnificent habits; the bride wore in her nose a jewel, of immense price, and her lover was dressed in all the finery of his former master, together with a pair of artificial whiskers that reached to his middle. The hour of his nuptials was arrived; the whole family sympathised with their approaching happiness; the apartments were brightened up with a light that diffused the most exquisite perfumes, and a lustre more bright than noonday. The lady expected her youthful lover in an inner apartment, with impatience; when his servant, approaching with terror in his countenance, informed her that his master was fallen into a fit, which would certainly be mortal, unless the heart of a man lately dead, could be obtained, and applied to his breast. She scarce waited to the end of his story, when, tucking up her clothes, she ran with a mattock in her hand to the coffin, where Choang lay, resolving to apply the heart of her dead husband, as a cure for the living. She therefore struck the lid with the utmost violence; in a few blows the coffin flew open, when the body, which to all appearance had been dead, began to move. Terrified at the sight, Hansi dropped the mattock, and Choang walked out, astonished at his own situation, his wife's unusual magnificence, and her more amazing surprise. He went among the apartments, unable to conceive the cause of so much splendor. He was not long in suspense, before his domestics informed him of every transaction since he first became insensible. He could [Page] scarce believe what they told him, and went in pursuit of Hansi herself, in order to receive more certain information, or to reproach her infidelity. But she prevented his reproaches: he sound her weltering in blood; for she had stabbed herself to the heart, being unable to survive her shame and disappointment.

Choang, being a philosopher, was too wise to make any loud lamentations; he thought it best to bear his loss with serenity; so mending up the old coffin, where he had lain himself, he placed his faithless spouse in his room; and, unwilling that so many nuptial preparations should be expended in vain, he the same night married the widow with the large fan.

As they both were apprised of the foibles of each other beforehand, they knew how to excuse them after marriage. They lived together for many years in great tranquillity, and not expecting to find rapture, made a shift to find contentment.

THE TWO COQUETTES.

AT day's early dawn, a gay butterfly spy'd

A budding young rose, and he wish'd her his bride;

She blush'd, when she heard him his passion declare,

And tenderly told him he need not despair.

[Page]

Their vows soon they plighted, as lovers still do;

He swore to be constant, she vow'd to be true.

It had not been prudent to deal with delay:

The bloom of a rose passes quickly away,

And the pride of a butterfly dies in a day.

When wedded away the young gentleman hies;

From flower to flower he wantonly flies:

Nor did he revisit his bride, till the sun

Had less than one fourth of his journey to run.

The rose thus reproach'd him—'Already so cold?

'How feigned, O you false one! that passion you 'told!

''Tis an age since you left me'—she meant a few hours;

But such we'll suppose the fond language of flow'rs.

'I saw when you gave the base vi'olet a kiss:

'How could you descend to such meanness as this?

'Shall a low little wretch, whom we roses despise,

'Find favour, O love, in my butterfly's eyes?

'On a Tulip, quite tawdry, I mark'd your fond rape;

'Nor yet could the pitiful primrose escape;

'Dull daffodils, too, were with passion address'd,

'And poppies, ill-scented, you fondly caress'd.'

The coxcomb was piqued, and reply'd with a snear,

'That you're first to complain, I commend you, 'my dear;

[Page]'But, know, from your conduct my maxims I drew,

'And if I'm inconstant, I copy from you.

'I saw the boy Zephyrus rifle your charms;

'I saw how he simper'd and smil'd in your arms:

'The honey-bee kiss'd you, you must not disown;

'You favour'd, likewise, O dishonour! a drone!

'What's worse—'tis a fault which you cannot deny,

'Your sweets were made common, false rose, to 'a fly.'

THE MORAL.

This law, long ago, did love's providence make,

That every coquette should be curs'd with a rake.

THE DISABLED SOLDIER. A SIMPLE STORY.

See some strange comfort every state attend,

And pride bestow'd on all a common friend;

See some fit passion ev'ry age supply;

Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.

POPE.

NO observation is more common, and at the same time more true, than that one half of the world are ignorant how the other half live. The misfortunes of the great are held up to engage our attention; are enlarged upon in tones of declamation; [Page] and the world is called upon to gaze at the noble sufferers: the great, under the pressure of calamity, are conscious of others sympathising with their distress; and have, at once, the comfort of admiration and pity.

There is nothing magnanimous in bearing misfortunes with fortitude, when the whole world is looking on: men in such circumstances will act bravely, even from motives of vanity; but he who, in the vale of obscurity, can brave adversity; who, without friends to encourage, acquaintance to pity, or even without hope to alleviate his misfortunes, can behave with tranquillity and indifference, is truly great: whether peasant or courtier, he deserves admiration, and should be held up for our imitation and respect.

I have been led into these reflections, from accidentally meeting, some days ago, a poor fellow, whom I knew when a boy, dressed in a sailor's jacket, and begging at one of the outlets of the town, with a wooden leg. I knew him to have been honest and industrious, when in the country, and curious to learn what had reduced him to his present situation; wherefore, after giving him what I thought proper, I desired to know the history of his life and misfortunes. The disabled soldier, for such he was, though dressed in a sailor's habit, scratching his head, and leaning on his crutch, put himself into an attitude to comply with my request, and gave me his history, as follows:

'As for my misfortunes, master, I can't pretend to have gone through any more than other [Page] folks; for except the loss of my limb, and my being obliged to beg, I don't know any reason, thank heaven, that I have to complain; there is BILL TIBBS, of our regiment, he has lost both his legs, and an eye to boot; but, thank heaven, it is not so bad with me yet. I was born in Shropshire; my father was a labourer, and died when I was five years old; so I was put upon the parish. As he had been a wandering sort of a man, the parishioners were not able to tell to what parish I belonged, or where I was born; so they sent me to another parish, and that parish sent me to a third. I thought in my heart, they kept sending me about so long, that they would not let me be in born any parish at all; but, at last, however, they fixed me. I had some disposition to be a scholar, and was resolved at least to know my letters; but the master of the workhouse put me to business as soon as I was able to handle a mallet; and here I lived an easy kind of life for five years. I only wrought ten hours in the day, and had my meat and drink provided for my labour. It is true, I was not suffered to stir out of the house, for fear, as they said, I should run away. But what of that? I had the liberty of the whole house, and the yard before the door; and that was enough for me. I was then bound out to a farmer, where I was up early and late; but I ate and drank well, and liked my business well enough, till he died, when I was obliged to provide for myself; so I was resolved to go and seek my fortune.

'In this manner I went from town to town, [Page] worked where I could get employment, and starved when I could get none; when happening one day to go through a field belonging to a justice of peace, I spied a hare crossing the path just before me; and I believe the devil put it in my head to fling my stick at it. Well, what will you have on't? I killed the hare, and was bringing it away, when the justice himself met me: he called me a poacher, and, collaring me, desired I would give an account of myself. I fell upon my knees, begged his worship's pardon, and began to give a full account of all that I knew of my breed, seed, and generation; but, though I gave a very true account, the justice said I could give no account, so I was indicted at the Sessions, found guilty of being poor, and sent up to London, to Newgate, in order to be transported as a vagabond.

'People may say this and that of being in jail; but, for my part, I found Newgate as agreeable a place as ever I was in, in all my life. I had my bellyfull to eat and drink, and did no work at all. This kind of life was too good to last forever; so I was taken out of prison, after five months, put on board a ship, and sent off with two hundred more, to the plantations. We had but an indifferent passage; for being all confined in the hold, more than a hundred of our people died for want of sweet air; and those that remained were sickly enough, God knows. When we came ashore, we were sold to the planters, and I was bound for seven years more. As I was no scholar, for I did not know my letters, I was obliged to work among the negroes; [Page] and I served out my time as in duty bound to do.

'When my time was expired, I worked my passage home; and glad I was to see Old England again, because I loved my country. I was afraid, however, that I should be indicted for a vagabond once more, so did not much care to go down into the country, but kept about the town, and did little jobs, when I could get them.

'I was very happy in this manner for some time, till one evening, coming home from work, two men knocked me down, and then desired me to stand. They belonged to a press gang. I was carried before the justice, and, as I could give no account of myself, I had my choice left, whether to go on board a man of war, or list for a soldier. I chose the latter, and, in this post of a gentleman, I served two campaigns in Flanders, was at the battle of Val and Vontenoy, and received but one wound, through the breast here; but the doctor of our regiment soon made me well again.

'When the peace came on, I was discharged: and, as I could not work, because my wound was sometimes troublesome, I listed for a landsman in the East India company's service. I have fought the French in six pitched battles; and I verily believe, that if I could read or write, our captain would have made me a corporal. But it was not my good fortune to have any promotion, for I soon fell sick, and so got leave to return home again, with forty pounds in my pocket. This was at the beginning of the present war, and I hoped to be set on shore, and to have the pleasure of spending [Page] my money; but the government wanted men, and so I was pressed for a sailor, before ever I could set foot on shore.

'The boatswain sound me, as he said, an obstinate fellow; he swore he knew that I understood my business well, but that I shammed Abraham, to be idle; but God knows, I knew nothing of sea-business, and he beat me without considering what he was about. I had still, however, my forty pounds, and that was some comfort to me, under every beating; and the money I might have had to this day, but that our ship was taken by the French, and so I lost it all.

'Our crew was carried into Brest, and many of them died, because they were not used to live in jail; but for my part, it was nothing to me, for I was seasoned. One night, as I was asleep on my bed of boards, with a warm blanket about me, (for I always loved to lie well) I was awakened by the boatswain, who had a dark lanthorn in his hand. 'Jack,' says he to me, ‘will you knock out the French centry's brains?’ 'I don't care,' says I, striving to keep myself awake, ‘if I lend a hand.’ 'Then follow me,' says he, 'and I hope we shall do the business.' So up I got, and tied my blanket, which was all the clothes I had, about my middle, and went with him to fight the Frenchmen. I hate the French, because they are all slaves, and wear wooden shoes.

'Though we had no arms, one Englishman is able to beat five French at any time; so we went down to the door, where both the centries [Page] were posted, and, rushing upon them, seized their arms in a moment, and knocked them down. From thence, nine of us ran together to the quay, and seizing the first boat we met, got out of the harbour, and put to sea. We had not been here three days, before we were taken up by the Dorset privateer, who were glad of so many good hands; and we consented to run our chance. However, we had not as much luck as we expected. In three days we fell in with the Pompadour privateer, of forty guns, while we had but twenty three; so to it we went, yard-arm and yard-arm. The fight lasted for three hours, and I verily believe, we should have taken the Frenchman, had we but had some more men left behind; but, unfortunately, we lost all our men, just as we were going to get the victory.

'I was once more in the power of the French, and, I believe, it would have gone hard with me, had I been brought back to Brest; but by good fortune we were retaken by the Viper. I had almost forgot to tell you, that in that engagement, I was wounded in two places; I lost four fingers off the left hand, and my leg was shot off. If I had had the good fortune to have lost my leg and the use of my hand, on board a king's ship, and not on board a privateer, I should have been intitled to clothing and maintenance during the rest of my life; but that was not my chance: one man is born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and another with a wooden ladle. However, blessed be God! I enjoy good health, and will forever love liberty [Page] and Old England. Liberty, property, and Old England, forever, huzza!'

Thus saying, he limped off, leaving me in admiration at his intrepidity and content; nor could I avoid acknowledging, that an habitual acquaintance with misery serves better than philosophy to teach us to despise it.

THE THREE WARNINGS.

Shall ignorance of good and ill

Dare to direct the eternal will?

GAY.

THE tree of deepest root is found

Least willing still to quit the ground;

'Twas therefore said, by ancient sages,

That love of life increas'd with years

So much, that in our later stages,

When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,

The greatest love of life appears.

This great affection to believe,

Which all confess, but few perceive,

If old assertions can't prevail,

Be pleas'd to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay,

On neighbour Dobson's wedding day,

Death call'd aside the jocund groom

With him into another room:

[Page]And looking grave, 'You must,' says he,

'Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.'

'With you, and quit my Susan's side!

'With you!' the hapless husband cry'd:

'Young as I am! 'tis monstrous hard!

'Besides, in truth, I'm not prepar'd:

'My thoughts on other matters go;

'This is my wedding night, you know.'

What more he urg'd, I have not heard,

His reasons could not well be stronger;

So death the poor delinquent spar'd,

And left to live a little longer.

Yet calling up a serious look,

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke.

'Neighbour,' he said, 'farewell! No more

'Shall death disturb your mirthful hour:

'And further to avoid all blame

'Of cruelty upon my name,

'To give you time for preparation,

'And fit you for your former station,

'Three several warnings you shall have,

'Before you're summoned to the grave:

'Willing for once to quit my prey,

'And grant a kind reprieve;

'In hopes you'll have no more to say,

'But when I call again this way,

'Well pleas'd the world will leave.'

To these conditions both consented,

And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befel,

How long he liv'd, how wise, how well,

How roundly he pursued his course,

[Page]And smok'd his pipe, and stroak'd his horse,

The willing Muse shall tell:

He chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold,

Nor once perceiv'd his growing old,

Nor thought of death as near;

His friends not false, his wife no shrew,

Many his gains, his children few;

He pass'd his hours in peace;

But while he view'd his wealth increase,

While thus a long life's dusty road,

The beaten track content he trod,

Old time, whose haste no mortal spares,

Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.

And now one night, in musing mood,

As all alone he sate,

Th'unwelcome messenger of fate

Once more before him stood.

Half kill'd with anger and surprise,

'So soon return'd!' old Dobson cries.

'So soon d'ye call it!' Death replies:

'Surely, my friend, you're but in jest,

'Since I was here before,

''Tis six and thirty years at least,

'And you are now four-score.'

'So much the worse,' the clown rejoin'd;

'To spare the aged would be kind:

'Besides, you promis'd me three warnings,

'Which I've look'd for nights and mornings.'

'I know,' cries Death, 'that at the best,

'I seldom am a welcome guest;

'But do'nt be captious, friend, at least;

[Page]'I little thought, you'd still be able

'To stump about your farm and stable;

'Your years have run to a great length,

'I wish you joy, though of your strength.'

'Hold', says the farmer, 'not so fast,'

'I have been lame these four years past.'

'And no great wonder,' death replies,

'However, you still keep your eyes;

'And sure to see one's loves and friends,

'For legs and arms would make amends.'

'Perhaps,' says Dobson, 'so it might;

'But latterly I've lost my sight.'

'This is a shocking story, faith,

'Yet there's some comfort still,' says Death;

'Each strives your sadness to amuse;

'I warrant you hear all the news.'

'There's none,' cries he, 'and if there were,

'I'm grown so deaf I could not hear.'

'Nay then,' the spectre stern rejoin'd,

'If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,

'You've had your three sufficient warnings:

'So come along, no more we'll part.'

He said, and touch'd him with his dart;

And now old Dobson turning pale,

Yields to his fate—so ends my tale.

THE RUINS OF THE HOUSE OF ALBERT. A ROMANCE.

[Page]

Then welcome death, since death alone can prove,

The mournful solace to a constant love.

ADELA was the only daughter of a powerful baron of Aquitaine. Her father, sprung from an illustrious family, added to hereditary honours, the glory of heroic achievements. In his youth, he accompanied the flower of the European chivalry, who fought under the banner of Godfrey, and recovered the holy sepulchre from the hands of the infidel. He returned to his country, crowned with victory and fair renown; and inherited the rich domains of his ancestors.

Adela was in the prime of beauty, and possessed a susceptible heart. In her air and aspect, dignity was mingled with sweetness: For in the disposition of her mind, conscious elevation of sentiment was softened by amiable and mild affections.

Edwin, a gallant youth, animated with the generous love of arms, smit with the renown of Albert's prowess, and ambitious of profiting by the narrative of his exploits, repaired with other warriors to his hospitable castle. His eye, keen and piercing, indicated a fiery, vigorous and active [Page] spirit: His form was well fitted to kindle desire in the bosom of tender maids: And the heart of Adela was not insensible to his merit. Their passion was mutual. He gazed on her unaffected charms with astonishment; for till then, he had never felt the tender anxiety, the restless longing, and languishment of love. Ambition had been the governing passion of his soul; but the fierceness of ambition now yielded to a softer, though no less ardent desire. He no longer discoursed, in keen rapture, of marshalled hosts, of listed fields, and feats of venturous daring; but languished on the ineffable attractions of a roseate complexion, and a tender melting eye. The vehement impatience of the warrior was lost in the complacency and pensiveness of the lover.

Albert, perceiving this change in his deportment, demanded the cause. Edwin replied in candid and respectful guise: He told him, without reserve, of the impression made on his soul, by the peerless beauty of Adela. And, with the temerity of youthful passion, besought him to ratify his sincere attachment by wedlock. ‘And who art thou,’ said the houghty baron, ‘who pretendest to the love of Adela? What feats of heroic prowess hast thou achieved? Or is thy ancestry distinguished among the chieftains of the south? Thy shield is inscribed with no valorous achievement; nor are thy deeds, nor the deeds of thy fathers, rehearsed by recording minstrels. Gain thee a name in arms, and then aspire to the envied alliance of the House of Albert.’

[Page]These words, like an arrow, penetrated the heart of Edwin. Love and ambition, hitherto at variance, were now united; they concurred in the same pursuit; and their vehemence was irresistible. Accordingly, the youthful warrior prepared for his departure, and took a tender farewell of Adela. 'Farewell,' she replied, the tears gushing from her radiant eyes, ‘Heaven knows no gallant youth, but thee, ever shared my affections. May the holy angels, who regard true and virtuous love with esteem, grant thee protection. Speedy be thy return! and O! remember me. Gay and courtly dames, skilled in seducements and cunning device, may strive to allure thee; but their love will not equal mine.’ They plighted vows of mutual fidelity, and exchanged tokens of unshaken attachment. Then Edwin, clad in complete armour, a gay undaunted warrior, mounted a steed proudly caparisoned, and bent his course to the plains of Catalonia, where the Saracen waded in the blood of Spain.

Soon after his departure, Edgar, a proud and wealthy chieftain, with a numerous retinue of knights and retainers, came to the castle of Albert. He was received with pomp and hospitable welcome. He cast amorous glances on the reserved, unrivalled charms of Adela. He preferred his courtship with studied smiles and speeches devised with cunning. She heard him at first with indifference; he persisted; and she requited him with contempt. He then addressed his suit to the baron: He boasted of the high renown of his ancestors, [Page] and the wide extent of his domain: He expatiated on the number of his vassals; and insisted, in magnificent terms, on the mutual honour and security that would accrue from so seemly an alliance. Albert listened to him with partial and pleased attention: He repented of the hopes he had encouraged in the soul of Edwin; and he endeavored to persuade his daughter to forget her attachment to that valiant youth. In vain the astonished Adela lamented, wept, intreated; in vain she threw herself at her father's feet, and tore her dishevelled tresses, and in anguish smote her breast. Her opposition, instead of mitigating his rigour, irritated his resentment, and confirmed him in his ungenerous purpose. He mingled menaces and unkindly reproach with his persuasions: ‘By the holy rood,’ said he, with a fastidious and wrathful aspect, ‘the honor of my house shall not be stained by the pretensions of a low-born boy. Degenerated as thou art, the meanness of thy sentiments shall not fully the splendour of thine ancestry, nor load my respected age with dishonour. Receive the addresses of Edgar with suitable regard, and the deference due to my commands. Meantime preparations shall be made for the bridal solemnity in a manner becoming the dignity of this alliance.’

Adela, after remonstrating in vain against the severity of his commands, intreated, with an humble and dejected air, that the marriage-ceremony might be delayed. 'Can Edgar,' said she, ‘prize the cold and constrained embraces of a heart [Page] that throbs for another? Will the sighing and anguish of a broken spirit accord with the fond caresses of a bridegroom? To Edwin my faith was plighted, and on him my imagination hath dwelt. Give me time, therefore, to divert the current of an affection too violent to be suddenly opposed; to discourage the reveries of fancy, animated by a legal and habituated passion; and to be reconciled to the addresses of Edgar.’ As her reasoning was plausible, the nuptial solemnity was deferred. But, as soon as she retired from her father's presence, she summoned a page in whom she confided, and spoke to him in the following manner: ‘Prepare thee for a long journey: Saddle the fleetest of my father's steeds; and during the obscurity of the night, depart. Hie thee to the banks of the Ebro; find Edwin; tell him of the perils that beset me; tell him that a wealthy and powerful rival, with costly parade, and glittering shew of blazonry, hath imposed on my father, and insinuated himself into his esteem.’ The menial bowed with humble obeisance, and, with professions of diligence and fidelity, departed.

Meantime Edgar pressed his suit with courteous phrase and dalliance. Daily tournaments were exhibited at the castle of Albert. The knights and barons of the neighbouring domains attended: But Edgar surpassed them in the splendour of his armour, and the pomp of his retinue. The hall resounded with revelry and rejoicing; and minstrels clad in gaudy apparel celebrated the praises of warlike chiefs, or sung the power and the pleasures [Page] of love. Adela arrayed her countenance with smiles and courtesy; but her bosom was distracted with anguish, and her couch was bedewed with weeping. 'O when,' she cried, ‘shall I be delivered from the importunity of a detested suitor; and the bondage of a feigned complacency? When will Edwin return, adorned with conquest, and confident with success? His merit shall shine unrivalled, and Edgar be covered with shame.’

At length the page returned; and repairing to the apartment of his mournful dame, ‘Now heaven foresend,’ said he, ‘most gracious lady, that the tidings I bring should injure thy tender frame more than thou art able to endure. May the saints and ministering angels uphold thee!’ — 'Hath he perished?' cried Adela, with a look of terror and amazement. ‘In what bloody field hath he fallen? Where lies the lifeless body? What barbarous adversary hath mangled and insulted his graceful form?’ — ‘He hath not perished,’ replied the menial. ‘But O gentle lady! foul arts have been practised; shameful perfidy hath been committed. Edwin lives, but not for thee; he hath given his hand to another!’ — 'Peace, peace!' interrupted Adela, with a faultering utterance, and looks of astonishment, mixed with anger; ‘restrain thy blasphemous speech: nor with base calumny asperse the fame of a true and gallant warrior.’ —'When,' answered the menial, ‘have I been guilty of deceit or infidelity towards my gentle mistress? Full sore it grieveth me to be the messenger of evil tidings.’ — ‘Rehearse [Page] them unreservedly,’ cried Adela, with a tone of anxious impatience.

'I pursued my journey,' said he, ‘many days without any adventure, till I came within sight of a stately castle. It stood on the brow of a woody hill; was garnished with towers and battlements; and commanded a wide prospect of cultivaled fields and forests. As I advanced, mine ear was suddenly surprised with the din of hounds and horns, mingled with the cries of the huntsmen. I soon descried a gallant shew of knights and gorgeous dames, mounted on milk-white coursers, and pursuing the rapid deer. When the chace was ended, they stopped by the side of a chrystal brook; and a comely youth, arrayed in shining apparel, alighted from his foamy steed, with courtly obeisance, presented the prey to a fair and smiling lady. I mingled in their company, and in the lineaments of the courteous youth recognised the inconstant Edwin. O gentle lady, may Heaven so help me in my utmost need, as I now speak the words of truth; and may the faints and holy angels so succour thee as thy mishap requires. The faithless youth hath committed treason against thy love: Seduced by the blandishment of an artful dame, he hath become forgetful of thy peerless beauty.’

The heart of Adela throbbed with anguish during the recital. 'Valorous, heroic warrior!' she exclaimed, ‘are these thy deeds of hardy prowess, to betray the innocent credulity of an easy maid! Stain to manhood, and the honored profession of [Page] arms, be henceforth banished from my remembrance.’

Meantime Edgar advanced his suit with redoubled ardour. Albert, unable to brook any longer delay, insisted on having the bridal ceremony solemnized; and Adela, incited by secret pride and resentment, submitted to the will of her father. The report of this noble alliance was published through the land; and the kindred of Albert and Edgar, with the neighbouring barons, were assembled to grace the solemnity. Already were the parties betrothed; the holy benediction was already pronounced; and forever was Adela to be the wedded spouse of Edgar. Now, with pompous shew and attendance the banquet was served up to dames and knights, the flower of courtesy and valour. The castle resounded with minstrelsy and the dance, when a stranger, in the simple garb of a pilgrim, entered the hall. He cast his eyes around on the goodly company, and, with an air of sanctity and respect, implored a blessing on their friendship. He was received with hospitable welcome, and the reverence due to his holy semblance. He spake in meek and modest guise; his eyes were often fixed on Adela: they were sometimes dimmed with a glistening tear, and ever and anon his bosom heaved with involuntary sighs. He took up the harp of a minstrel; he touched the strings with masterly cunning, and accompanied the notes with a melodious voice. Tuneful, but melancholy was the strain; for he sung the sorrows of those that are forsaken; the anguish of [Page] a desponding spirit; and the wounds inflicted on a faithful heart by inconstancy and proud disdain. He desisted with marks of grief and inward contention. 'Holy pilgrim,' said Albert, ‘the sense of calamity devours thy spirit. Inform us of thy mishhap, that, if possible, we may administer comfort. Nor think it incompatible with bridal festivity to indulge compassion, and assuage the torment of heart-felt care.’

'I am the son of a freeman,' replied the stranger; ‘and though my birth was not ennobled by splendid titles, nor my ancestry distinguished by the parade of blazonry, my bosom burned with the love of arms, and my heart was upright. In an unlucky hour I became enamoured of a gentle dame, the only daughter of a noble baron. My sincere, though presumptuous suit, seemed not displeasing to that peerless beauty; and with the rash, intemperate boldness of a lover, I asked her in marriage of her sire. Go, said he, gain thee a name in arms, and then aspire to the envied alliance of my house. I departed, not without tender interchange of vows and tokens of affection with the beloved idol of my heart. I hastened to the plains of Catalonia, where the Saracen was waging fierce battle against the banner of the holy cross. I proffered my service to the chief of the Christians; and that my sword was not idle, and that I was not backward in the strife of arms, my honourable wounds can testify. Neither were my services, nor my thirst after martial fame unrewarded. Fair recompence have I [Page] received, and the fun of glory hath gilded the obscurity of my birth. Rejoicing in my success, I hastened my return. But what power of utterance can express the agony of my soul, when I learned that the faithless and inconstant dame had yielded to the vows of another? I who was so true and loyal to my love and plighted troth, to be so soon forgot, so soon forsaken.’

'Enough! enough!' cried Adela, ‘O ill-requited lover! pierce not my soul with deeper wounds. O Edwin! Edwin! never was I inconstant. Bear witness, ye holy angels! But traitorous guile has been practised: Thy integrity hath been impeached, and my vexed heart betrayed into errour.’

The eyes of all were now turned on the stranger: He threw off his disguise, and, instead of a pilgrim's staff, he grasped a keen and trenchant weapon. Resentment glowed on his cheek, and flashed from his fiery eye. 'And who,' said he, ‘hath impeached mine integrity? Stand forth, thou proud, but dastard baron, whose glozing tales have betrayed the unwary heart of a tender maiden: It is Edwin demands reparation.’ Conscious fear was manifest in the disordered features, the pale cheek, and disconcerted air of Edgar. He nevertheless accepted the challenge; and the two warriors, arraying themselves in complete armour, descended into the court of the castle. In the first onset, the well tempered steel of Edwin cleft the crested helm of his adversary; he threw him to the ground, and disarmed him. ‘Confess [Page] thy guilt,’ said the conqueror, ‘and by what infamous arts thou hast accomplished thy design.’ — 'By gifts and glittering gold,' he replied, ‘I corrupted the page of Adela, who, with counterfeited semblance of fidelity and regret, accused thee of inconstancy, and imposed falshood on the easy ear of his mistress. I embraced the season of her excited resentment, and forwarded my suit with success. She is mine by the indissoluble ties of wedlock: And know, proud boy, that if thy hands be stained with my blood, it is the blood of Adela's husband; and if she receives thee to her bosom, she receives the slayer of her spouse.’

Edwin started with apparent horror. He paused; but recollecting himself, 'Arise,' he cried, ‘and by another trial, prove thyself worthy of that envied title.’ So saying, he raised him from the ground; and both warriors addressed themselves a second time to the fight. Edgar, burning with exasperated rancour, aimed his spear at his rival's breast. Edwin neither averted nor avoided the deadly blow. The keen weapon cleft his breast, and was tinged in the purple springs of his heart. He fell to the ground. 'Farewell,' he cried, ‘Adela! lady peerless! and dearly beloved. I have proved myself worthy of thy esteem: I die a sacrifice to thy repose. With my hands red with thy husband's blood, could I ever aspire to thy love? Could I survive and behold thee the wedded bride of another!’ He heaved a sigh and died. 'Inhuman deed!' cried Adela, tearing her lovely tresses, and beating her snow-white breast. She [Page] ran, she threw herself on the bloody body, 'O stay!' she exclaimed, ‘O leave me not in my woe. Return, fleeting spirit! Reanimate these pallid features. He heeds me not.—I heard a voice! a dreary voice! It was Edwin! He summons me away!—I come! I come! Let the nuptial bed be prepared! the clay-cold bed!’ — So saying, she clasped the corpse, and expired.

Instantly the menial, who had been corrupted by Edgar, seizing a dagger, rushed behind that treacherous baron, and pierced him to the heart. 'Perish!' he cried, ‘author of my ruin, and of the ruin of the House of Albert.’ He grew immediately frantic: He ran forth furious and screaming: The memory of his crimes pursued him; and his reason was never restored.

The obsequies of the deceased were celebrated with due solemnity; Holy requiems were chanted over their remains; and pious priests preferred orisons for their eternal repose. Albert, unable to sustain the weight of his misfortune, forsook the habitation of his ancestors; and exposing his old age to fatigue, undertook a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, where he ended his days in a monastery.

A TURKISH ODE.

[Page]

STANZA I.

ADIEU, sweet maid! the din of war,

Calls Achmed from thy arms, afar,

Inglorious sadness chills my heart;

'Tis death to stay, but worse to part.

Would rapid time but move more slow,

Or fortune one short hour bestow,

Within thy arms, reclin'd at ease,

Beneath the shade of cypress trees,

I'd hang my sabre on the boughs,

And breathe once more my faithful vows.

STANZA II.

I go to seek the embattled plain,

Where horror leads her direful train,

The clashing sword, the brazen shield,

The shrieks, that rend th' ensanguin'd field,

Succeed to thy sweet silver voice,

That made the mimic birds rejoice,

When, in thy arms, reclin'd at ease,

Beneath the shade of cypress trees,

I hung my fabre on the boughs,

And breath'd to heaven and thee my vows

[Page]

STANZA III.

Already I endure the stings,

That cruel absence ever brings.

As thirsty camels, doom'd to toil

O'er wild Arabia's burning soil,

If near some lonely brook they stray,

Are driv'n reluctantly away,

So, forc'd from thee by fate unkind,

I linger, stop, and look behind,

And still desire, reclin'd at ease,

Beneath the shade of cypress trees,

To hang my sabre on the boughs,

And breathe inviolable vows.

STANZA IV.

Yet, when the dreadful slaughter's o'er.

When bearded jav'lins hiss no more,

I'll quickly fly from fields of death,

To taste thy renovating breath,

To view thy ever blooming charms,

To lodge within thy blissful arms,

And, blest with beauty, love, and ease▪

Beneath the shade of cypress trees,

I'll hang my sabre on the boughs,

And breathe my everlasting vows.

THE SURRENDER OF CALAIS. AN HISTORIC FACT.

[Page]

Let glorious Acts more glorious Acts inspire,

And catch from breast to breast the noble fire.

POPE.

EDWARD the Third, after the battle of Cressy, laid siege to Calais. He had fortified his camp in so impregnable a manner, that all the efforts of France proved ineffectual to raise the siege, or throw succours into the city. The citizens, however, under the conduct of Count Vienne, their gallant governour, made an admirable defence. Day after day the English effected many a breach, which they repeatedly expected to storm by morning; but, when morning appeared, they wondered to behold new ramparts raised, nightly erected out of the ruins which the day had made.

France had now put the sickle into her second harvest since Edward with his victorious army sat down before the town. The eyes of all Europe were intent on the issue. The English made their approaches and attacks without remission; but the citizens were as obstinate in repelling all their efforts.

[Page]At length, famine did more for Edward than arms. After the citizens had devoured the lean carcases of their starved cattle, they tore up old foundations and rubbish in search of vermin. They fed on boiled leather and the weeds of exhausted gardens, and a morsel of damaged corn was accounted a matter of luxury.

In this extremity they resolved to attempt the enemy's camp. They boldly sallied forth; the English joined battle; and, after a long and desperate engagement, Count Vienne was taken prisoner; and the citizens, who survived the slaughter, retired within their gates.

On the captivity of the governour, the command devolved upon Eustace Saint Pierre, the mayor of the town, a man of mean birth, but of exalted virtue.

Eustace now found himself under the necessity of capitulating, and offered to deliver to Edward the city, with all the possessions and wealth of the inhabitants, provided he permitted them to depart with life and liberty.

As Edward had long since expected to ascend the throne of France, he was exasperated, to the last degree, against these people, whose sole valour had defeated his warmest hopes; he therefore determined to take an exemplary revenge, though he wished to avoid the imputation of cruelty. He answered, by Sir Walter Manny, that they all deserved capital punishment, as obstinate traitors to him, their true and natural sovereign. That, however, in his wonted clemency, he consented to pardon [Page] the bulk of the plebeians, provided they would deliver up to him six of their principal citizens, with halters about their necks, as victims of due atonement for that spirit of rebellion with which they had enflamed the vulgar herd.

All the remains of this desolate city were convened in the great square, and, like men arraigned at a tribunal from whence there was no appeal, expected with beating hearts the sentence of their conqueror.

When Sir Walter had declared his message, consternation and pale dismay was impressed on every face. Each looked upon death as his own inevitable lot; for how should they desire to be saved at the price proposed? whom had they to deliver save parents, brothers, kindred, or valiant neighbours, who had so often exposed their lives in their defence? To a long and dead silence, deep sighs and groans succeeded; till Eustace St. Pierre, getting up to a little eminence, thus addressed the assembly.

‘My friends, we are brought to great straits this day. We must either submit to the terms of our cruel and ensnaring conqueror; or yield up our tender infants, our wives, and chaste daughters, to the bloody and brutal lusts of the violating soldiery.’

‘Look about you, my friends, and fix your eyes on the persons, whom you wish to deliver up as the victims of your own safety. Which of these would ye appoint to the rack, the axe, or the halter? Is there any here who has not fought for [Page] you, who has not bled for you? who through the length of this inveterate siege, has not suffered fatigues and miseries, a thousand times worse than death, that you and your's might survive to days of peace and prosperity? Is it your preservers, then, whom you would destine to destruction? you will not, you cannot do it. Justice, honour, humanity, make such a treason impossible.’

‘Where then is our resource? Is there any expedient left, whereby we may avoid guilt and infamy on the one hand, or the desolation and horrors of a sacked city on the other? There is, my friends, there is one expedient left; a gracious, an excellent, a god-like expedient! Is there any here to whom virtue is dearer than life; let him offer himself an oblation for the safety of his people! He shall not fail of a blessed approbation from that Power, who offered up his only Son for the salvation of mankind.’

He spoke — but an universal silence ensued. Each man looked around for the example of that virtue and magnanimity, in others, which all wished to approve in themselves, though they wanted the resolution.

At length St. Pierre resumed— ‘It had been base in me, my fellow citizens, to propose any matter of damage to others, which I myself had not been willing to undergo in my own person. But I held it ungenerous to deprive any man of that preference and estimation, which might attend a first offer, on so signal an occasion. For I doubt not but there are many here as ready, [Page] nay, more zealous of this martyrdom than I can be, however modesty and the fear of imputed ostentation may withhold them from being foremost in exhibiting their merits.’

‘Indeed, the station, to which the captivity of Lord Vienne has unhappily raised me, imparts a right to be the first in giving my life for your sakes, I give it freely, I give it cheerfully; who comes next?’

'Your son.' exclaimed a youth, not yet come to maturity.—'Ah, my child!' cried St. Pierre, ‘I am, then, twice sacrificed.—But no—I have rather begotten thee a second time.—Thy years are few but full, my son! the victim of virtue has reached the utmost purpose and goal of mortality. Who next, my friends?—This is the hour of heroes.’ —'Your kinsman,' cried John de Aire. 'Your kinsman,' cried James Wissant. ‘Your kinsman,’ cried Peter Wissant. —'Ah!' exclaimed Sir Walter Mauny, bursting into tears, 'why was I not a citizen of Calais?'

The sixth victim was still wanting, but was quickly supplied by lot, from numbers, who were now emulous of so ennobling an example.

The keys of the city were then delivered to Sir Walter. He took the six prisoners into his custody. He ordered the gates to be opened, and gave charge to his attendants to conduct the remaining citizens, with their families, through the camp of the English.

Before they departed, however, they desired permission to take their last adieu of their deliverers. [Page] —What a parting, what a scene! they crouded with their wives and children about St. Pierre and his fellow prisoners. They embraced, they clung around, they wept aloud; and the joint clamour of their mourning passed the gates of the city, and was heard throughout the camp.

The English, by this time, were apprised of what passed within Calais. They heard the voice of lamentation, and their souls were touched with compassion: each of the soldiers prepared a portion of their own victuals to welcome and entertain the half famished inhabitants; and they loaded them with as much as their present weakness was able to bear, in order to supply them with sustenance by the way.

At length, St. Pierre and his fellow victims appeared, under the conduct of Sir Walter and a guard. All the tents of the English were instantly emptied. The soldiers poured from all parts, and arranged themselves on each side, to behold, to contemplate, to admire this little band of patriots as they passed. They murmured their applause of that virtue, which they could not but revere, even in enemies. And they regarded those ropes, which they had voluntarily assumed about their necks, as ensigns of greater dignity than that of the British garter.

As soon as they had reached the presence of the king—'Mauny!' says the monarch, 'are these the principal inhabitants of Calais?'—'They are,' says Mauny, ‘they are not only the principal men of Calais, they are the principal men of France, my lord, if virtue has any share in the act of ennobling.’ [Page] —'Were they delivered peaceably,' says Edward; ‘was there no resistance, no commotion among the people?’ ‘Not in the least, my lord; the people would all have perished, rather than have delivered the least of these to your Majesty. They are self-delivered, self-devoted, and come to offer up their inestimable heads as an ample equivalent for the ransom of thousands.’

Edward was secretly piqued at this reply of Sir Walter, but he knew the privilege of a British subject, and suppressed his resentment. 'Experience,' says he, ‘hath ever shewn, that lenity only serves to invite people to new crimes. Severity, at times, is indispensibly necessary to deter subjects into submission by punishment and example. Go,’ he cried to an officer, ‘lead these men to execution—Your rebellion,’ continued he, addressing himself to St. Pierre, ‘your rebellion against me, the natural heir of your crown, is highly aggravated by your present presumption and affront of my power.’ — ‘We have nothing to ask of your Majesty,’ said Eustace, ‘save what you cannot refuse us.’ —'What is that?' ‘Your esteem, my lord,’ said Eustace, and went out with his companions.

At this instant, a sound of triumph was heard throughout the camp. The queen had just arrived, with a powerful reinforcement of those gallant soldiers, at the head of whom she had conquered Scotland, and taken their king captive.

Sir Walter Mauny flew to receive her Majesty, and briefly informed her of the particulars respecting the six victims.

[Page]As soon as she had been welcomed by Edward and his court, she desired a private audience. ‘My lord,’ said she, ‘the question I am to enter upon is not touching the lives of a few mechanics; it respects a matter more estimable than the lives of all the natives of France; it respects the honour of the English nation, it respects the glory of my Edward, my husband, my king.’

‘You think you have sentenced fix of your enemies to death. No, my lord, they have sentenced themselves, and their execution would be the execution of their own orders, not the orders of Edward.’

‘They have behaved themselves worthily, they have behaved themselves greatly; I cannot but respect, while I envy, while I hate them, for leaving us no share in the honour of this action, save that of granting a poor, an indispensible pardon.’

‘I admit they have deserved every thing that is evil at your hands. They have proved the most inveterate and efficacious of your enemies. They alone have withstood the rapid course of your conquests, and have withheld from you the crown to which you were born. Is it therefore that you would reward them? that you would gratify their desires, that you would indulge their ambition, and enwreath them with everlasting glory and applause?’

‘But, if such a death would exalt mechanics over the fame of the most illustrious heroes, how would the name of my Edward, with all his triumphs and honours, be tarnished thereby! Would [Page] it not be said, that magnanimity and virtue are grown odious in the eyes of the monarch of Britain? and the objects whom he destines to the punishment of felons, are the very men who deserve the praise and esteem of mankind? The stage on which they should suffer would be to them a stage of honour, but a stage of shame to Edward, a reproach to his conquests, a dark and indelible disgrace to his name.’

‘No, my lord. Let us rather disappoint the saucy ambition of these burghers, who wish to invest themselves with glory at our expence. We cannot, indeed, wholly deprive them of the me [...] of a sacrifice so nobly intended, but we may cut them short of their desires: in the place of that death by which their glory would be consummate, let us bury them under gifts, let us put them to shame with praises; we shall thereby defeat them of that popular opinion, which never fails to attend those who suffer in the cause of virtue.’

‘I am convinced; you have prevailed; be it so,’ cried Edward, ‘prevent the execution; have them instantly before us!’

They came, when the queen, with an aspect and accents diffusing sweetness, thus bespoke them:

‘Natives of France, and the inhabitants of Calais, ye have put us to vast expence of blood and treasure in the recovery of our just and natural inheritance; but you acted up to the best of an erroneous judgment, and we admire and honour in you that valour and virtue, by which we are so long kept out of our rightful possessions.’

[Page] ‘You noble burghers, you excellent citizens! though you were tenfold the enemies of our person and our throne, we can feel nothing on our part, save respect and affection for you. You have been sufficiently tested, we loose your chains, we snatch you from the scaffold, and we thank you for that lesson of humiliation, which you teach us, when you shew that excellence is not of blood, of title, or station; that virtue gives a dignity superior to that of kings; and that those, whom the Almighty informs with sentiments like your's, are justly and eminently raised above all human distinctions.’

‘You are now free to depart to your kinsfolk, your countrymen, to all those whose lives and liberties you have so nobly redeemed, provided you refuse not to carry with you the due tokens of our esteem.’

‘Yet, we would rather bind you to ourselves, by every endearing obligation; and for this purpose, we offer to you your choice of the gifts and honours that Edward has to bestow. Rivals for fame, but always friends to virtue, we wish that England were entitled to call you her sons.’

‘Ah, my country, (exclaimed Saint Pierre,) it is now that I tremble for you! Edward could only win your cities, but Philippa conquers hearts.’

'Brave Saint Pierre, (said the queen,) wherefore 'look you so dejected? ‘Ah, madam! (replied St. Pierre,) when I meet with such another opportunity of dying, I shall not regret that I survived this day.’

ALBERT AND ELWEENA.

[Page]

O'ER evening skies the queen of night

Had spread her silver beam,

That ting'd the neighb'ring hills with light,

Or sported in the stream.

No peasants, wand'ring through the plains,

On sounds melodious hung,

All still, but where her love-lorn strains

Sweet Philomela sung.

To hear thy tender woes display'd,

Sweet songstress of the grove,

The melancholy Albert stray'd,

A prey to hopeless love.

Fast o'er his health's declining bloom

A wasting languor flew;

So noon-tide suns, with fervid beam;

Exhale the morning dew.

'Twas bright Elweena, matchless maid,

Whose beauties fann'd the flame▪

And taught him 'neath the lonely shade,

In sighs to breathe her name.

In absence oft he sought relief,

And vow'd to love no more;

[Page]But absence sharpen'd ev'ry grief,

That pierc'd his soul before.

In equal pain Elweena sigh'd,

And mutual love express'd;

But, ah! her father's cruel pride

Forbade them to be bless'd.

Young Albert's innocence and truth

He could not disapprove;

But fortune plac'd the luckless youth

Beneath his daughter's love.

Such worth might well esteem inspire,

It almost won his praise;

But av'rice quell'd the kindling fire,

Compassion strove to raise.

Soft o'er the morn of Albert's life

Had fortune smil'd serene;

How bless'd the youth, till bitter strife

Revers'd the happy scene!

He with his widow'd mother dwelt,

In solitude obscure;

And every shock of fate she felt

He help'd her to endure.

Long since the fatal, news had pass'd

The mourning village o'er,

That her brave husband breath'd his last

On India's distant shore.

[Page]

But added to her hapless doom

Was now her Albert's grief;

She saw him wither in his bloom,

Nor could she yield relief:

For, with a heart devoid of blame,

He liv'd to joy no more;

And now resolv'd, for wealth and fame,

To search some foreign shore.

The night was come, the fatal night,

Replete with tender pain;

Doom'd, in his native land, the light

Ne'er to behold again.

And now the pensive mourner stray'd,

No gleam of hope he knew;

He went to bid his charming maid

A long, a last adieu!

As o'er her form soft sorrow stole,

Her thoughts you might descry;

It seem'd as if her spotless soul

Beam'd from her azure eye.

No more her cheek that glow express'd,

Which health had once display'd,

While, careless, o'er her lily breast

Her auburn tresses play'd.

'Alas!' she cry'd, and clasp'd his hand,

And press'd it to her heart;

[Page]'And do the cruel Fates command?

'And must we, Albert, part?'

'We must,' o'erwhelm'd in grief, he said,

'We must, Elweena dear!

'But, e'er I go, afflicted maid,

'Accept my vow sincere.

'Whene'er through foreign lands I roam,

'Whatever change I see,

'Still, turning to my native home,

'My heart shall dwell with thee.'

He said, and o'er Elweena's breast

The briny torrent fell;

A thousand times her hand he press'd,

And bade as oft farewell.

They part, and through the mournful grove,

Her maid's Elweena bore;

Each cast a lingiring look of love,

Till they could view no more.

Now softly o'er the dewy plain

Night's dusky shadows stole;

While anguish, love, and cruel pain,

Oppress'd young Albert's soul.

His mother, gently on his breast,

Reclin'd her drooping head;

The weeping youth she fondly press'd,

And mutual sorrows shed.

[Page]

While strangers to each peaceful smile,

They mourn'd their luckless fate,

An aged pilgrim, spent with toil,

Approached the cottage gate.

The mournful youth, in humble plight,

Address'd the rev'rend sage;

Who ask'd a shelter for the night,

To rest his drooping age.

Full welcome to their humble shed,

The hospitable pair

With lib'ral hand the viands spread,

And bade the stranger share.

With pain he mark'd the cruel grief,

That prey'd on either heart;

Which (anxious to extend relief)

He begg'd them to impart.

With livid cheek, and tearful eye,

The pensive Albert rose,

And told, but, oh! with many a sigh,

The story of his woes.

His life, his birth, his father's name,

His mother's tender care;

But, still more sad, the fatal flame

He bore Elweena fair.

The good old man with transport flew,

And press'd the youth, and smil'd▪

[Page]He cried, 'Support me, heavens! I view

My long-lost wife and child!

''Twas on no distant Indian-shore

'Thy father sunk to rest;

'But now returns with ample store,

'To make his Albert bless'd.

'And thou, dear partner of my soul,

'Whom oft my fancy drew;

'Nor time, nor absence, could controul

'The pangs I felt for you!

'Then chase all sorrow from your breast,

'Secure from bitter strife;

'Myself will sooth to balmy rest

'The ev'ning of your life.'

He ceas'd; and to his constant fair

Enraptur'd Albert flew;

And left the long-divided pair,

To tell their joys anew.

The blissful news Elweena told,

And made her sire relent;

Nor more to Albert's passion cold,

Nor more deny'd consent.

And when the azure-vested day

Dawn'd o'er the smiling land,

In mutual bliss, serenely gay,

They join'd the nuptial band.

CROMA. AN ANCIENT POEM FROM OSSIAN.

[Page]

If there be ought of presage in the mind,

This day will be remarkable in my life

By some great act, or of my days the last.

IT was the voice of my love! seldom art thou in the dreams of Malvina! Open your airy halls, fathers of Toscar of shields! Unfold the gates of your clouds: The steps of Malvina are near. I have heard a voice in my dream. I feel the fluttering of my soul. Why didst thou come, O blast! from the dark rolling face of the lake? Thy rustling wing was in the tree; the dream of Malvina fled. But she beheld her love, when his robe of mist flew on the wind. A sunbeam was on his skirts; they glittered like the gold of the stranger. It was the voice of my love; seldom comes he to my dreams!

But thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina, son of mighty Ossian! my sighs arise with the beams of the East; my tears descend with the drops of night. I was a lovely tree, in thy presence, Oscar! with all my branches round me; but thy death came like a blast from the desert, and laid my green head [Page] low. The Spring returned with its showers; no leaf of mine arose! The virgins saw me silent in the hall: they touched the harp of joy. The tear was on the cheek of Malvina; the virgins beheld me in my grief. Why art thou sad, they said, thou first of the maids of Lutha? Was he lovely as the beam of the morning, and stately in thy sight?

Pleasant is thy song in Ossian's ear, daughter of streamy Lutha! Thou hast heard the music of departed bards, in the dream of thy rest, when sleep fell on thine eyes, at the murmur of Moruth.— When thou didst return from the chace, in the day of the Sun, thou hast heard the music of bards, and thy song is lovely. It is lovely, O Malvina! but it melts the soul. There is a joy in grief, when peace dwells in the breast of the sad. But sorrow wastes the mournful, O daughter of Toscar; and their days are few! They fall away, like the flower on which the sun hath looked in his strength, after the mildew has passed over it, when its head is heavy with the drops of the night. Attend to the tale of Ossian, O maid! He remembers the days of his youth!

The King commanded; I raised my sails; and rushed into the bay of Croma; into Croma's sounding bay, in lovely Inisfail. High on the coast arose the towers of Crothar, King of Spears; Crothar renowned in the battles of his youth; but age dwelt then around the chief. Rothmar had raised the sword against the hero; and the wrath of Fingal burned. He sent Ossian to meet Rothmar [Page] in war; for the Chief of Croma was the friend of his youth. I sent the bard before me with songs. I came into the hall of Crothar. There sat the Chief amidst the arms of his fathers; but his eyes had failed. His grey locks waved around a staff, on which the warrior leaned. He hummed the songs of other times, when the sound of our arms reached his ears. Crothar rose, stretched his aged hand, and blessed the son of Fingal.

Ossian! said the hero, the strength of Crothar's arms has failed. O could I lift the sword as in the day that Fingal fought at Strutha! He was the first of men! but Crothar had also his fame. The King of Morven praised me; he placed on my arm the bossy shield of Calthar, whom the King had slain in his wars. Dost thou not behold it on the wall, for Crothar's eyes have failed! Is thy strength like thy father's, Ossian? Let the aged feel thine arm!

I gave my arm to the King; he felt it with his aged hands; the sigh rose in his breast, and his tears came down. Thou art strong, my son, he said; but not like the King of Morven! but who is like the hero among the mighty in war! Let the feast of my hall be spread; and let my bards exalt the song. Great is he that is within my walls, ye sons of echoing Croma! The feast is spread; the harp is heard; and joy is in the hall. But it was joy covering a sigh, that darkly dwelt in every breast. It was like the faint beam of the moon spread on a cloud in heaven. At length the music ceased; and the aged King of Croma spoke: [Page] He spoke without a tear, but sorrow swelled in the midst of his voice.

Son of Fingal; beholdest thou not the darkness of Crothar's joy? My soul was not sad at the feast, when my people lived before me. I rejoiced in the presence of strangers, when my son shone in the hall. But Ossian, he is a beam that is departed. He left no streak of light behind. He is fallen, son of Fingal! in the wars of his father. Rothmar, the chief of grassy Tromlo, heard that these eyes had failed; he heard that my arms were fixed in the hall, and the pride of his soul arose! He came towards Croma; my people fell before him. I took my arms in my wrath; but what could sightless Crothar do? My steps were unequal; my grief was great. I wished for days that were past. Days! wherein I fought and won in the field of blood. My son returned from the chase; the fair-haired Fovar-gormo. He had not lifted his sword in battle, for his arm was young. But the soul of the youth was great; the fire of valour burned in his eyes. He saw the disordered steps of his father; and his sigh arose. King of Croma, he said; is it because thou hast no son? is it for the weakness of Favor-gormo's arm, that thy sighs arise? I begin, my father, to feel my strength. I have drawn the sword of my youth; and I have bent the bow. Let me meet this Rothmar, with the sons of Croma: Let me meet him, O my father! I feel my burning soul. And thou shalt meet him, I said, son of the sightless Crothar! But let others advance before thee, that I may hear [Page] the tread of thy feet at thy return; for my eyes behold thee not, fair-haired Fovar-gormo!

He went; he met the foe; he fell. Rothmar advances to Croma. He, who flew my son is near, with all his pointed spears.

This is no time to fill the shell, I replied; and took my spear! My people saw the fire of my eyes; they all rose around. Through night we strode along the heath. Grey morning rose in the East. A green narrow vale appeared before us; nor wanting was it in green winding streams. The dark host of Rothmar are on its banks, with all their glittering arms. We fought along the vale. They fled. Rothmar sunk beneath my sword! Day had not descended in the West, when I brought his arms to Crothar. The aged hero felt them with his hands; and joy brightened over all his thoughts.

The people gather to the hall. The shells of the feast are heard. Ten harps are strung; five bards advance, and sing by turns the praise of Ossian. They poured forth their burning souls; and the string answered to their voice. The joy of Croma was great; for peace returned to the land. The night came on with silence; the morning returned with joy. No foe came in darkness, with his glittering spear. The joy of Croma was great; for the gloomy Rothmar had fallen!

I raised my voice for Fovar-gormo, when they laid the chief in earth. The aged Crothar was there, but his sigh was not heard. He searched for the wound of his son, and found it in his breast. [Page] Joy rose in the face of the aged. He came and spoke to Ossian. King of Spears! he said; my son has not fallen without his fame. The young warrior did not fly; but met death, as he went forward in his strength. Happy are they, who die in youth, when their renown is heard! The feeble will not behold them in the hall, nor smile at their trembling hands. Their memory shall be honoured in song; the young tear of the virgin will fall: But the aged wither away by degrees; the fame of their youth, while yet they live, is all forgotten. They fall in secret. The sigh of their son is not heard. Joy is around their tomb; the stone of their fame is placed without a tear. Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is around them.

AN ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. GRAY.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,

The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

[Page]

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r

The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such, as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,

Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-trees shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,

Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow, twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care:

Nor children run to lisp their fire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their teams afield;

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

[Page]Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Await, alike, th' inevitable hour;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,

Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire:

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,

Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;

Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear.

Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desart air.

[Page]

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest;

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th'applause of list'ning senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes.

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd:

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife

Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;

Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th'unletter'd muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply:

[Page]And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, ling'ring, look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires:

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,

E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

If, chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate.

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,

'Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,

'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,

'That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

'His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,

'And pore upon the brook that bubbles by.

'Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn,

'Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove;

'Now drooping, woeful man, like one forlorn,

'Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love,

[Page]

'One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill,

'Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree;

'Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

'The next, with dirges due, in sad array,

'Slow thro' the church-yard path we saw him borne;

'Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,

'Grav'd on the stone beneath you aged thorn.'

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,

A youth to fortune and to fame unknown;

Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,

And melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

Heav'n did a recompence as largely send:

He gave to mis'ry all he had, a tear;

He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

(There they alike in trembling hope repose)

The bosom of his Father and his God.

THE BARON ST. BRUNNE. A PROVENÇAL TALE.

[Page]

'Who is he, with voice unblest,

'That calls me from the bed of rest?'

GRAY.

THERE lived, in the province of Bretagne, a noble Baron, famous for his magnificence and courtly hospitalities. His castle was graced with ladies of exquisite beauty, and thronged with illustrious knights; for the honors he paid to feats of chivalry invited the brave of distant countries to enter his lists, and his court was more splendid than those of many princes. Eight minstrels were retained in his service, who used to sing to their harps romantic fictions, taken from the Arabians, or adventures of chivalry, that befel knights during the crusades, or the martial deeds of the Baron, their lord; while he, surrounded by his knights and ladies, banqueted in the great hall of his castle, where the costly tapestry, that adorned the walls with pictured exploits of his ancestors, the casements of painted glass, enriched with armorial bearings, the gorgeous banners that waved along the roof, the sumptuous canopies, the profusion [Page] of gold and silver that glittered on the side-boards, the numerous dishes, that covered the tables, the number and gay liveries of the attendants, with the chivalric and splendid attire of the guests, united to form a scene of magnificence, such as we may not hope to see in these degenerate days.

Of the Baron, the following adventure is related. One night having retired late from the banquet to his chamber, and dismissed his attendants, he was surprised by the appearance of a stranger of a noble air, but of a sorrowful and dejected countenance. Believing, that this person had been secreted in the apartment, since it appeared impossible he could have lately passed the anti-room, unobserved by the pages in waiting, who would have prevented this intrusion on their lord, the Baron, calling loudly for his people, drew his sword, which he had not yet taken from his side, and stood upon his defence. The stranger slowly advancing, told him that there was nothing to fear; that he came with no hostile design, but to communicate to him a terrible secret, which it was necessary for him to know.

The Baron, appeased by the courteous manners of the stanger, after surveying him for some time in silence, returned his sword into the scabbard, and desired him to explain the means, by which he had obtained access to the chamber, and the purpose of this extraordinary visit.

Without answering either of these enquiries, the stranger said, that he could not then explain himself, [Page] but that, if the Baron would follow him to the edge of the forest, at a short distance from the castle walls, he would there convince him, that he had something of importance to disclose.

This proposal again alarmed the Baron, who could scarcely believe, that the stranger meant to draw him to so solitary a spot, at this hour of the night, without harbouring a design against his life, and he refused to go, observing, at the same time, that, if the stranger's purpose was an honourable one, he would not persist in refusing to reveal the occasion of his visit, in the apartment where they were.

While he spoke this, he viewed the stranger still more attentively than before, but observed no change in his countenance, or any sympton, that might intimate a consciousness of evil design. He was habited like a knight, was of a tall and majestic stature, and of dignified and courteous manners. Still, however, he refused to communicate the subject of his errand in any place, but that he had mentioned, and, at the same time, gave hints concerning the secret he would disclose, that awakened a degree of solemn curiosity in the Baron, which at length induced him to consent to follow the stranger, on certain conditions.

'Sir Knight,' said he, ‘I will attend you to the forest, and will take with me only four of my people, who shall witness our conference.’

To this, however, the Knight objected.

'What I would disclose,' said he with solemnity, ‘is to you alone. There are only three living [Page] persons, to whom the circumstance is known; it is of more consequence to you and your house, than I shall now explain. In future years you will look back to this night with satisfaction or repentance, accordingly as you now determine. As you would hereafter prosper—follow me; I pledge you the honour of a knight, that no evil shall befal you;—if you are contented to dare futurity, remain in your chamber, and I will depart as I came.’

'Sir Knight,' replied the Baron, ‘how is it possible, that my future peace can depend upon my present determination?’

'That is not now to be told,' said the stranger, ‘I have explained myself to the utmost. It is late; if you follow me, it must be quickly;—you will do well to consider the alternative.’

The Baron mused, and, as he looked upon the knight, he perceived his countenance assume a singular solemnity.

The Baron paced his apartment, for some time, impressed by the last words of the stranger, whose extraordinary request he feared to grant, and feared also to refuse. At length he said, ‘Sir Knight, you are utterly unknown to me; tell me yourself, is it reasonable, that I should trust myself alone with a stranger, at this hour, in a solitary forest? Tell me, at least, who you are, and who assisted to secrete you in this chamber.’

The knight frowned at these latter words, and was a moment silent; then, with a countenance somewhat stern, he said,

[Page] ‘I am an English knight; I am called Sir Bevys of Lancaster—and my deeds are not unknown at the Holy City, whence I was returning to my native land, when I was benighted in the neighbouring forest.’

'Your name is not unknown to fame,' said the Baron, 'I have heard of it.' (The knight looked haughtily.) ‘But why, since my castle is known to entertain all true knights, did not your herald announce you? Why did you not appear at the banquet, where your presence would have been welcomed, instead of hiding yourself in my castle and stealing to my chamber, at midnight!’

The Stranger frowned, and turned away in silence; But the Baron repeated the questions.

'I come not,' said the knight, ‘to answer enquiries, but to reveal facts. If you would know more, follow me, and again I pledge the honour of a Knight, that you shall return in safety, Be quick in your determination—I must be gone.’

After some further hesitation, the Baron determined to follow the stranger, and to see the result of his extraordinary request; he therefore again drew forth his sword, and, taking up a lamp, bade the knight lead on. The latter obeyed, and opening the door of the chamber they passed into the anti-room, where the Baron, surprised to find all his pages asleep, stopped, and, with hasty violence, was going to reprimand them for their carelessness, when the knight waved his hand, and looked so expressively upon the Baron, that the latter restrained his resentment and passed on.

[Page]The knight, having descended a staircase, opened a secret door, which the Baron had believed was known only to himself, and, proceeding through several narrow and winding passages, came, at length, to a small gate, that opened beyond the walls of the castle. Meanwhile the Baron followed in silence and amazement, on perceiving that these secret passages were so well known to a stranger, and felt inclined to return from an adventure, that appeared to partake of treachery, as well as danger. Then considering that he was armed, and observing the courteous and noble air of his conductor, his courage returned, he blushed, that it had failed him for a moment, and he resolved to trace the mystery to its source. He now found himself on the heathy platform, before his castle, where, looking up, he perceived lights glimmering in the different casements of the guests, who were retiring to sleep; and while he shivered in the blast, and looked on the dark and desolate scene around him, he thought of the comforts of his warm chamber, rendered cheerful by the blaze of wood, and felt, for a moment, the full contrast of his present situation.

The wind was strong, and the Baron watched his lamp with anxiety, expecting every moment to see it extinguished; but, though the flame wavered, it did not expire, and he still followed the stranger, who often sighed as he went, but did not speak.

When they reached the borders of the forest, the knight turned and raised his head, as if he [Page] meant to address the Baron, but then, closing his lips in silence, he walked on.

As they entered beneath the dark and spreading bows, the Baron, affected by the solemnity of the scene, hesitated whether to proceed, and demanded how much further they were to go. The knight replied only by a gesture, and the Baron, with hesitating steps and a suspicious eye, followed through an obscure and intricate path, till, having proceeded a considerable way, he again demanded whither they were going, and refused to proceed unless he was informed.

As he said this, he looked at his own sword, and at the knight alternately, who shook his head, and whose dejected countenance disarmed the Baron, for a moment, of suspicion.

‘A little further is the place, whither I would lead you,’ said the stranger; ‘no evil shall befall you—I have sworn it on the honour of a knight.’

The Baron, reassured, again followed in silence, and they soon arrived at a deep recess of the forest, where the dark and lofty chestnuts entirely excluded the sky, and which was so overgrown with underwood, that they proceeded with difficulty.— The knight sighed deeply as he passed, and sometimes paused; and having at length reached a spot, where the trees crowded into a knot, he turned, and with a terrific look, pointing to the ground, the Baron saw there the body of a man, stretched at its length, and weltering in blood; a ghastly wound was on the forehead, and death appeared already to have contracted the features.

[Page]The Baron, on perceiving the spectacle, started in horrour, looked at the knight for explanation, and was then going to raise the body, and examine if there were yet any remains of life; but the stranger, waving his hand, fixed upon him a look so earnest and mournful, as not only much surprised him, but made him desist.

But what were the Baron's emotions, when, on holding the lamp near the features of the corpse, he discovered the exact resemblance of the stranger his conductor, to whom he now looked up in astonishment and enquiry? As he gazed, he perceived the countenance of the knight change and begin to fade, till his whole form gradually vanished from his astonished sense! While the Baron stood fixed to the spot, a voice was heard to utter these words:

‘The body of Sir Bevys of Lancaster, a noble Knight of England, lies before you. He was, this night, waylaid and murdered, as he journeyed from the Holy City towards his native land. Respect the honour of knighthood and the law of humanity; inter the body in Christian ground, and cause his murderers to be punished. As you observe, or neglect this, shall peace and happiness, or war and misery, light upon you and your house forever!’

The Baron, when he recovered from the awe and astonishment, into which this adventure had thrown him, returned to his castle, whither he caused the body of Sir Bevys to be removed; and, on the following day, it was interred, with the honours of knighthood, in the chapel of the castle, attended by all the noble knights and ladies, who graced the court of the Baron St. Brunne.

THE FATE OF ATHWOLD AND ELFRIDA.

[Page]

'DO you not see yon castle fair,

'That stands upon the brow?

'Where many a blast has shook the trees,

'Waving them to and fro.

'My love lives in you castle fair,

'That stands upon the brow.

'Where many a blast has shook the trees,

'Waving them to and fro.

'My love, he is a valiant knight,

'And beauteous to behold;

'And many a lady sighs for him,

'With lands and heaps of gold.

'My love, he has a honey'd tongue,

'And lacks not land or gold;

'But he will have a lady fair,

'And beateous to behold▪

'My love, he has a honey'd tongue,

'And takes me on his knee;

'And sweetly speaks, and sweetly smiles,

'And sweetly kisses me.

[Page]

'The haughty Earl, his father, bold,

'Vow'd, me he should not wed;

'But my love vow'd, he surely would,

'When he approach'd my bed.

'Then up betimes, my virgins all,

'And braid my yellow hair,

'And ere I hear his bugle horn,

'Make me look fresh and fair.

'And tie the bracelets round my arms,

'Which my young Earl hath sent;

'They're precious gifts, they're tokens true,

'That I shall ne'er repeat.

'Then lie thee still, my precious babe,

'I feel thee spring for joy,

'That ere to-morrow's sun shall set,

'Thou'lt be thy father's boy.

'Then lie thee still, my precious babe,

'Thou'lt be no bastard born;

'Stir not, nor start, till thou shalt hear

'The young E [...]'s bugle horn.

'And when thou hear'st his bugle horn,

'Then spring, my babe, for joy;

'Thy mother then shall be a bride,

'And thou thy father's boy.

'I would to-morrow night were come,

'And I repos'd in bed,

[Page]'And my silk curtains drawn around,

'Though the old Earl be dead.

'I would to-morrow night were come,

'The young Earl in my arms;

'That I might bless his love and truth,

'And fear no future harms.

'I would to-morrow night were come,

'That I might certain be,

'My precious babe a father had,

'To dandle on his knee.

'How can you sleep, my virgins fair,

'How can you sleep so sound?

'The noisy owl from yonder wall

'Makes the old porch resound.

'Away, away, thou noisy owl,

'And cease thy horrid din;

''Tis not thy cheerful sound I want,

'To welcome this day in.

'Away, away, thou noisy owl,

'Disturb not thus my rest;

'Thy boding sounds, thy dismal song,

'Alarm my anxious breast.

'And sleep you still, my virgins fair?

'And don't you hear the bell,

'With hollow voice and iron tongue▪

'The midnight hour to tell?

[Page]

'Sleep on, sleep on, my virgins fair,

'For innocence can sleep,

'Despight of owls, or bells, or ghosts,

'While guilt must wake and weep.

'Ah me! who stands at my bed's foot?

'Earl Athwold, love, is't you?

'Nay, prithee, stay till 'morrow night,

'When I'm your bride so true.

'The wind is bleak, the moon is dark,

'The frost creeps o'er the grass,

'How didst thou ope the iron gate,

'And leap the deep morass?

'How deadly pale thou look'st, my love,

'I fear thou art not well;

'Speak to me, life, I'll call my maids,

'I'll ring the chamber bell.

'Why dost thou sigh, why look so sad?

'Ah me! why these alarms?

'How cold thou seem'st; come to me, love,

'Come, warm thee in my arms.

'Nay, prithee, prithee, speak, my love,

'Nay, look not such a look;

'For just so look'd my brother dear,

'When tak'n from the cold brook.

'Then, prithee, one soft kiss, my life,

'I will not bid thee stay;

[Page]'What means my love? where dost thou point?

'Why beckon me away?

'O go not thus—stay, Athwold, stay!

'Virgins, awake, awake!

'See where he glides, hark that sad sigh,

'Hark! the foundations shake.

'Awake, awake, companions dear,

'My sister virgins all,

'And ring aloud the chamber bell,

'Our lady loud doth call.

'Alas! what ails our lady dear?

'And wherefore does she shake?

'And why did she with voice so sad,

'So fearfully awake?'

'Did you see nought, my virgin's fair,

'Did ye not hear a bell,

'That with a deep and solemn sound,

'Rung out a sad death knell:

'Nought have we seen, our lady dear,

'Nor have we heard a bell,

'That with a deep and solemn sound,

'Rung out a sad death knell.

'Now Christ preserve your Athwold safe.

'And safe make you his bride;

'As sure he has not been this night,

'Standing at your bed side.'

[Page]

'Now Christ preserve my Athwold safe,

'And safe make me his bride;

'For sure I am, I saw him now,

'Standing at my bed side.

'The gates are clos'd, the draw-brige up,

'And yestern Athwold went,

'To the bold Baron Orgar's house,

'That live's by silver Trent.

'To the bold Baron Orgar's house,

'With whom to-day he'll come,

'With bugle horn, and merry men,

'To fetch his fair maid home.

'Then haste ye, bring my robes so white,

'I can no longer sleep;

'Tho' I'm to be a bride to-day,

'I cannot chuse, but weep.

'And haste ye, bring my kerchief too,

'With which my Athwold dear

'Oft, after he hath kiss'd my cheek,

'Hath wip'd away the tear.

'Why com'st thou not, my Athwold dear?

'The twilight leaves the sky;

'Come bless me with thy honey'd tongue,

'Or I shall surely die.

'Swift let me hear thy horse's hoofs

'Come batt'ring o'er the ground,

[Page]'And thy sweet sounding bugle horn,

'That makes the hills resound.

'Ah me! the winds begin to roar;

'Why doth the tempest rise?

'Why doth the thunder's dreadful din

'Disturb the peaceful skies?

'Red runs the rapid Derwent stream,

'Its angry spirits shriek;

'The blood runs chill around my heart,

'And pale—pale paints my cheek.

'Red runs the rapid Derwent stream,

'How shall my lover pass?

'Though in the night he op'd the gates,

'And leap'd the deep morass.

'Red runs the rapid Derwent stream,

'Its angry spirits foam;

'Oh! Christ foresend my Athwold safe,

'To fetch his fair bride home.

'Rejoice, my virgins, do'nt you hear

'The woods and hills resound?

'Do you not hear the horse's hoofs

'Come batt'ring o'er the ground?

'Now woe betide the lazy wight,

'That watches at the gate;

'Why turns he not the iron key,

'That makes Earl Athwold wait?

[Page]

'Rejoice, rejoice, my darling babe,

'Now thou'rt thy mother's joy,

'For now thy father dear is come,

'To make thee his own boy.'

She ran to meet her Earl so dear,

She tore her silken band,

She stumbled at the threshold step,

And bruis'd her lily hand.

She ran to meet her Earl so dear,

She trembled at the door,

And three large drops of her life's blood,

Came trickling to the floor.

She ran to meet her Earl so dear,

And smiling was her look;

She met a pale corpse at the door,

Tak'n from the cold, cold brook.

She ran to meet her Earl so dear,

She met him at the door;

A pale corpse taken from Derwent stream,

And not a smiling wooer.

They bore the body on a bier,

They laid it by her side:

She look'd, she sigh'd, she kiss'd his cheek,

And look'd, and shriek'd, and di'd.

In one low grave they both repose,

Yet oft a pensive shade

[Page]Is seen to glide among the tow'rs,

And with the twilight fade.

Oh! be their early fault forgot,

Their soft offence forgiv'n;

And let the erring world remit

What pardon meets in Heav'n.

ADVENTURES OF A KNIGHT. A TALE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.

Ye powers of darkness and of hell,

Propitious to the magic spell,

Who rule in silence o'er the night,

Be present now—

FRANCIS.

TOWARDS the latter end of the reign of Henry VIII. Sir Gawen, a man of some fortune and considerable curiosity, fond of enterprise, and insatiate of knowledge, travelled through the northern counties of England. The following single adventure is still extant among the family writings, and is still recorded by his posterity.

[Page]It was towards sun-set, (saith the manuscript) when Sir Gawen, after having traversed a very lone and unfrequented path, arrived at the edge of a thick and dark forest; the sky was suddenly overcast, and it began to rain, the thunder rolled at a distance, and sheets of livid lightning flashed across the heath. Overcome with fatigue and hunger, he rode impatiently along the borders of the forest, in hopes of discovering an entrance, but none was to be found. At length, just as he was about to dismount, with an intention of breaking the fence, he discerned as he thought, something moving upon the heath, and, upon advancing towards it, it proved to be an old woman gathering peat, and who, overtaken by the storm, was hurrying home as fast as her infirm limbs would carry her.

The sight of a human creature filled the heart of Sir Gawen with joy, and hastily riding up, he enquired how far he had deviated from the right road, and where he could procure a night's lodging. The old woman now slowly lifted up her palsied head, and discovered a set of features, which could scarcely be called human; her eyes were red, piercing, and distorted, and, rolling horribly, glancing upon every object but the perform by whom she was addressed, and, at intervals, they omitted a fiery disagreeable light; her hair, of a dirty grey, hung matted with filth in large masses upon her shoulders, and a few thin portions rushed abrupt and horizontally from the upper part of her forehead, which was much wrinkled, and of a parchment hue; her cheeks were hollow, withered, and [Page] red with a quantity of acrid rheum; her nose was large, prominent and sharp, her lips thin, skinny and livid, her few teeth black, and her chin long and peaked, with a number of bushy hairs depending from its extremity; her nails also were acute, crooked and bent over her fingers, and her garments ragged and fluttering in the wind, displayed every possible variety of colour. The knight was a little daunted, but the old woman having mentioned a dwelling at some distance, and offering to lead the way, the pleasure received from this piece of news effaced the former impression, and getting from his horse, he laid hold of the bridle, and they slowly moved over the heath.

The storm had now ceased, and the moon rising gave presage of a fine night, just as the old woman, taking a sudden turn, plunged into the wood by a path narrow and almost choaked up with a quantity of briar and thorn. The trees were thick, and save a few glimpses of the moon, which now and then poured light on the uncouth features of his companion, all was dark and dismal; the heart of Sir Gawen misgave him; neither spoke, and the knight pursued his guide merely by the noise she made in hurrying through the bushes, which was done with a celerity totally inconsistent with her former decrepitude. At length the path grew wider, and a faint blue light, which came from a building at some distance, glimmered before them; they now left the wood, and issued upon a rocky and uneven piece of ground; the moon struggling through a cloud, cast a doubtful and uncertain [Page] light, and the old woman, with a leer, which made the very hair of Sir Gawen stand an end, told him that the dwelling was at hand. It was so; for a Gothic castle, placed on a considerable elevation, now came in view; it was a large massy structure, much decayed, and some parts of it in a totally ruinous condition; a portion, however, of the keep, or great tower, was still entire, as was also the entrance to the court or inclosure, preserved probably by the ivy, whose fibres crept round with solicitous care. Large fragments of the ruin were scattered about, covered with moss, and half sunk in the ground, and a number of old elm trees, through whose foliage the wind sighed with a sullen and melancholy sound, dropped a deep and settled gloom, that scarce permitted the moon to stream by fits upon the building.

Sir Gawen drew near; ardent curiosity, mingled with awe, dilated his bosom, and he inwardly congratulated himself upon so singular an adventure, when turning round to question his companion, a glimpse of the moon poured full upon his eye so horrid a contexture of feature, so wild and preternatural a combination, that, smote with terrour and unable to move, a cold sweat trickled from every pore, and immediately this infernal being, seizing him by the arm, and hurrying him over the draw-bridge to the great entrance of the keep, the portcullis fell with a tremendous sound, and the knight, starting as it were from a trance, drew his sword in act to destroy his treacherous guide, when instantly a horrible and infernal laugh [Page] burst from her, and in a moment the whole castle was in an uproar, peal after peal issuing from every quarter, till at length growing faint, they died away, and a dead silence ensued.

Sir Gawen, who, during this strange tumult, had collected all his scattered powers, now looked round him with determined resolution; his terrible companion had disappeared, and the moon shining full upon the portcullis, convinced him that any escape that way was impracticable; the wind sighed through the elms; the scared owl, uttering his discordant note, broke from the rustling bough, and a dim twinkling light beamed from a loop-hole near the summit of the great tower. Sir Gawen entered the keep, having previously reasoned himself into a state of cool fortitude, and bent up every power to the appalling enterprise. He extended his sword before him, for it was dark, and proceeded carefully to search around, in hopes either of discovering some aperture, which might lead to the vestibule or staircase, or of wreaking his vengeance on the wretch, who had thus decoyed him. All was still as death: but as he strode over the floor, a dull, hollow sound issued from beneath, and rendered him apprehensive of falling through into some dismal vault, from which he might never be able to extricate himself. In this situation, dreading the effect of each light footstep, a sound, as of many people whispering, struck his ear; he bent forward listening with eager attention, and as it seemed to proceed from a little distance before him, he determined to follow it: he did so, [Page] and instantly fell through the mouldering pavement, whilst at the same time peals of horrid laughter again burst with reiterated clamour from every chamber of the castle. Sir Gawen rose with considerable difficulty, and much stunned with the fall, although fortunately the spot he had dropped upon was covered with a quantity of damp and soft earth, which gave way to his weight. He now found himself in a large vault, arched in the Gothic manner, and supported by eight massy pillars, down whose sides the damp moisture ran in cold and heavy drops, the moon shining with great lustre through three iron-grated windows, which, although rusty with age, were strong enough to resist the efforts of Sir Gawen, who, after having in vain tried to force them, looked around for his sword, which during the fall had started from his grasp, and in searching the ground with his fingers, he laid hold of, and drew forth the fresh bones of an enormous skeleton, yet greasy and moist from the decaying fibres: he trembled with horror— a cold wind brushed violently along the surface of the vault, and a ponderous iron door, slowly grating on its hinges, opened at one corner, and disclosed to the wandering eye of Sir Gawen a broken staircase, down whose steps a blue and faint light flashed by fits, like the lightning of a summer's eve. Appalled by these dreadful prodigies, Sir Gawen felt, in spite of all his resolution, a cold and deathlike chill pervade his frame, and kneeling down, he prayed fervently to that power, without whose mandate no being is let loose upon another, and [Page] feeling himself more calm and resolved, he again began to search for his sword, when a moonbeam falling on the blade, at once restored it to its owner.

Sir Gawen having thus resumed his wonted fortitude and resolution, held a parley with himself, and perceiving no other way by which he could escape, boldly resolved to brave all the terrors of the staircase, and, once more recommending himself to his Maker, began to ascend. The light still flashed, enabling him to climb those parts which were not broken or decayed. He had proceeded in this manner a considerable way, mounting, as he supposed, to the summit of the keep, when suddenly a shrill and agonizing shriek issued from the upper part of it, and something rudely brushing down, grasped him with tremendous strength; in a moment he became motionless, cold as ice, and felt himself hurried back by some irresistible being; but just as he had reached the vault, a spectre of so dreadful a shape stalked by within it, that straining every muscle, he sprang from the deadly grasp: the iron door rushed in thunder upon its hinges, and a deep hollow groan resounded from beneath. No sooner had the door closed, than yelling screams and sounds, which almost suspended the very pulse of life, issued from the vault, as if a troop of hellish furies, with their chains united, were dashing them in writhing frenzy, and howling to the uproar. Sir Gawen stood petrified with horror, a stony fear ran to his very heart, and dismayed every sense about him; he stared wide with his long locks upstanding [Page] stiffly, and the throbbing of his heart oppressed him. The tumult at length subsiding, Sir Gawen recovered some portion of strength, which he immediately made use of to convey himself as far as possible from the iron door, and presently reaching his former elevation on the staircase, which, after ascending a few more steps, terminated in a winding gallery. The light, which had hitherto flashed incessantly, now disappeared, and he was left in almost total darkness, except that now and then the moon threw a few cool rays through some broken loop-holes, heightening the horrour of the scene. He dreaded going forward, and fearfully looked back, lest some yelling fiend should again plunge him into the vault. He stood suspended with apprehension; a mournful wind howled through the apartments of the castle, and listening, he thought he heard the iron door grate upon its hinges; he started with terrour, the sweat stood in big drops upon his forehead, his knees smote each other, and he rushed forward with desperate despair, till having suddenly turned a corner of the gallery, a taper, burning with a faint light, gleamed through a narrow dark passage: Sir Gawen approached the light; it came from an extensive room, the folding doors of which were wide open: he entered; a small taper in a massy silver candlestick stood upon a table in the middle of the room, but gave so inconsiderable an illumination, that the one end was wrapped in palpable darkness, and the other scarcely broken in upon by a dim light, that streamed through a large ramified [Page] window, covered with thick ivy. An arm-chair, shattered and damp with age, was placed near the table, and the remains of a recent fire were still visible in the grate. The wainscot, of black oak, had formerly been hung with tapestry, and several portions still clung to those parts, which were near the fire; they possessed some vivacity of teint, and with much gilding, yet apparent on the chimney-piece, and several mouldering reliques of costly frames and paintings, gave indisputable evidence of the ancient grandeur of the place.

Sir Gawen closed the folding doors, and, taking the taper, was about to survey the room, when a deep hollow groan from the dark end of it smote cold upon his heart; at the same time the sound, as of something falling with a dead weight, echoed through the room. Sir Gawen replaced the taper, the flame of which was agitated, now quivering, sunk, now streaming, flamed aloft, and as the last pale portion died away, the scarce distinguished form of some terrific being floated slowly by, and again another dreadful groan ran deepening through the gloom. Sir Gawen stood for some time incapable of motion, at length summoning all his fortitude, he advanced with his sword extended to the darkest part of the room: instantly burst forth in fierce irradiations a blue sulphureous splendour, and the mangled body of a man distorted with the agony of death, his very fibres racked with convulsion, his beard and hair stiff and matted with blood, his mouth open, and his eyes protruding from their marble sockets, [Page] rushed on the fixed and maddening senses of Sir Gawen, whose heart had beat no more, had not a hiss, as of ten thousand fiends, loud, horrible, roused him from the dreadful scene; he started, uttering a wild shriek, his brain turned round, and running he knew not whither, burst through the folding doors.

Darkness again spread her sable pall over the unfortunate Sir Gawen, and he hurried along the narrow passage with a feeble and faultering step. His intellect shook, and, overwhelmed with the late appalling objects, had not yet recovered any degree of recollection, and as he wandered in a dream, a confused train of horrible ideas passing unconnected through his mind: at length, however, memory resumed her function, resumed it but to daunt him with harrowing suggestions; the direful horrors of the room behind, and of the vault below, were still present to his eyes, and as a man whom hellish fiends had frightened, he stood trembling, pale, and staring wild.

All was now silent and dark, and he determined to wait in this spot the dawn of day; but a few minutes had scarce elapsed, when the iron door, screaming on its hinges, bellowed through the murmuring ruin. Sir Gawen nearly fainted at the sound, which pausing for some time, again swelled upon the wind, and at last died away in shrill melancholy shrieks; again all was silent, and again the same fearful noise struck terrour to his soul. Whilst he was thus agitated with horrour and apprehension, a dim light streaming from behind, accompanied [Page] with a soft, quick, and hollow tread, convinced Sir Gawen that something was pursuing him, and struck with wildering fear, he rushed unconscious down the steps; the vault received him, and its portal swinging to their close, sounded as the sentence of death. A dun, faetid smoke filled the place, in the centre of which arose a faint and bickering flame. Sir Gawen approached and beheld a corse suspended over it by the neck, its fat dropped, and a flame flashing through the vault, gleamed on a throng of hideous and ghastly features, that now came forward through the smoke. Sir Gawen, with the desperate valour of a man, who sees destruction before him, ran furious forward; an universal shriek burst forth; the corse dropped into the fire, which rising with tenfold brilliance, placed full in view the dreadful form of his infernal guide, dilated into horrour itself; her face was as pale as death, her eyes were wide open, dead and fixed, a horrible grin sat upon her features; her lips black, and half putrid, were drawn back, disclosing a set of large blue teeth, and her hair, standing stiffly erect, was of a withered red. Sir Gawen felt his blood freeze within him, his limbs forgot to move, the face, enlarging as it came, drew near, and, swooning, he fell forward on the ground.

Slow passed the vital fluid through the bosom of Sir Gawen, scarce did the heart vibrate to its impulse; on his pallid forehead sat a chilly sweat and frequent spasms shook his limbs; but at length returning warmth gave some vigour to his [Page] frame, the energy of life became more suffused, a soothing languor stole upon him, and on opening his eyes, rushed neither the images of death or the rites of witchcraft, but the soft, the sweet and tranquil scenery of a summer's moon-light night. Enraptured with this sudden and unexpected change, Sir Gawen rose gently from off the ground, over his head towered a large and majestic oak, at whose foot, by some kind and compassionate being he concluded he had been laid. Delight and gratitude dilated his heart, and advancing from beneath the tree, whose gigantic branches spread a large extent of shade, a vale, beautiful and romantic, through which ran a clear and deep stream, came full in view; he walked to the edge of the water, the moon shone with mellow lustre on its surface, and its banks fringed with shrubs, breathed a perfume more delicate than the odours of the East. On one side, the ground, covered with a vivid, soft, and downy verdure stretched for a considerable extent to the borders of a large forest, which sweeping round, finally closed up the valley, on the other, it was broken into abrupt and rocky masses swarded with moss, and from whose clefts grew thick and spreading trees, the roots of which, washed by many a fall of water, hung bare and matted from their craggy beds.

Sir Gawen forgot in this delicious vale, all his former sufferings, and giving up his mind to the pleasing influence of curiosity and wonder, he determined to explore the place by tracing the windings of the stream. Scarce had he entered upon [Page] this plan, when music of the most ravishing sweetness filled the air, sometimes it seemed to float along the valley, sometimes it stole along the surface of the water, now it died away among the woods, and now with deep and mellow symphony it swelled upon the gale. Fixed in astonishment, Sir Gawen scarce ventured to breathe; every sense, save that of hearing, seemed quite absorbed, and when the last faint warblings melted on his ear, he started from the spot, solicitous to know from what being those more than human strains had parted; but nothing appeared in view; the moon full and unclouded, shone with unusual lustre, the white rocks glittered in her beam, and, filled with hope, he again pursued the windings of the water, which conducting to the narrowest part of the valley, continued their course through the wood. Sir Gawen entered by a path, smooth, but narrow and perplexed, where, although its branches were so numerous that no preference could be given, or any direct route long persisted in, yet every turn presented something to amuse▪ something to sharpen the edge of research. The beauty of the trees, through whose interstices the moon gleamed in the most picturesque manner: the glimpses of the water, and the notes of the nightingale, who now began to fill the valley with her song, were more than sufficient to take off the sense of fatigue, and he wandered on still eager to explore, still panting for further discovery. The wood now became more thick and obscure, and at length almost dark, when the path taking suddenly [Page] an oblique direction, Sir Gawen found himself on the edge of a circular lawn, whose teint and softness were beyond compare, and which seemed to have been lightly brushed by fairy feet. A number of fine old trees, around whose boles crept the ivy and the woodbine, rose at irregular distances, here they mingled into groves, and there separate, and emulous of each other, they shook their airy summits in disdain. The water, which had been for some time concealed, now murmured through a thousand beds and visiting each little flower, added vigour to its vegetation, and poignancy to its fragrance. Along the edges of the wood and beneath the shadows of the trees, an innumerable host of glow-worms lighted their inocuous fires, lustrous as the gems of Golconda, and Sir Gawen, desirous yet longer to enjoy the scene, went forward with light footsteps on the lawn; all was calm, and, except the breeze of night, that sighed soft and sweetly through a world of leaves, a perfect silence prevailed. Not many minutes, however, had elapsed, before the same enchanting music, to which he had listened with so much rapture in the vale, again arrested his ear, and presently he discovered on the border of the lawn, just rising above the wood, and floating on the bosom of the air, a being of the most delicate form; from his shoulders streamed a tunic of the tenderest blue, his wings and feet were clothed in downy silver, and in his grasp he had a wand, white as the mountain snow. He rose swiftly in the air, his brilliance became excessive from the lunar rays, his [Page] song echoed through the vault of night, but having quickly diminished to the size and appearance of the evening star, it died away, and the next moment he was lost in aether. Sir Gawen still fixed his eye on that part of the heavens, where the vision had disappeared, and shortly had the pleasure of again seeing the star-like radiance, which in an instant unfolded itself into the full and fine dimensions of the beauteous being, who having collected dew from the cold vales of Saturn, now descended rapidly towards the earth, and waving his wand, as he passed athwart the woods, a number of like form and garb, flew round him, and all alighting on the lawn, separated at equal distances on its circumference, and then shaking their wings, which spread a perfume through the air, burst into one general song. Sir Gawen, who apprehensive of being discovered, had retreated within the shadow of some mossy oaks, now waited with eager expectation the event of so singular a scene. In a few moments a bevy of elegant nymphs, dancing two by two, issued from the wood on the right, and an equal number of warlike knights, accompanied by a band of minstrels, from that of the left. The knights were clothed in green; on their bosoms shone a plate of burnished steel, and in their hands they grasped a golden targe and lance of beamy lustre. The nymphs, whose form and symmetry were beyond whatever poets dream, were dressed in robes of white, their zones were azure, dropt with diamonds, and their light brown hair decked with roses hung in ample ringlets. So quick, so [Page] light and airy was their motion, that the turf, the flowers shrunk not to the gentle pressure, and each smiling on her favourite knight, he slung his brilliant arms aside, and mingled in the dance.

Whilst thus they flew in rapid measures over the lawn. Sir Gawen, forgetting his situation, and impatient to salute the assembly, involuntarily stepped forward, and instantaneously a shrill and hollow gust of wind murmured through the woods, the moon dipt into a cloud, and the knights, the dames and aerial spirits vanished from his view, leaving the amazed Sir Gawen to repent at leisure of his precipitate intrusion; scarce, however, had he time to determine what he should pursue, when a gleam of light flashed suddenly along the horizon, and the beauteous being, whom he first beheld in the air, stood before him; he waved his snowy wand, and pointing to the wood, which now appeared sparkling with a thousand fires, moved gently on. Sir Gawen felt an irresistible impulse which compelled him to follow, and having penetrated the wood, he perceived many bright rays of light, which, darting like the beams of the sun, through every part of it, most beautifully illuminated the shafts of the trees. As they advanced forwards the radiance became more intense and converged towards the centre; and the fairy being turning quickly round, commanded Sir Gawen to kneel down and having squeezed the juice of an herb into his eyes, bade him now proceed, but that no mortal eye, unless its powers of vision were increased, could endure the glory that would shortly burst [Page] upon them. Scarce had he uttered these words, when they entered an amphitheatre; In its centre was a throne of ivory inlaid with sapphires, on which sat a female form of exquisite beauty, a plain coronet of gold obliquely crossed her flowing hair, and her robe of white sattin hung negligent in ample folds. Around her stood five and twenty nymphs clothed in white and gold, and holding lighted tapers; beyond these were fifty of the aerial beings, their wings of downy silver stretched for flight, and each a burning taper in his hand; and lastly, on the circumference of the amphitheatre shone one hundred knights in mail of tempered steel, in one hand they shook aloft a large targe of massy diamond, and in the other flashed a taper. So excessive was the reflection, that the targes had the lustre of a hundred suns, and when shaken, sent forth screams of vivid lightning; from the gold, the silver, and the sapphires rushed a flood of tinted light, that mingling, threw upon the eye a series of revolving hues.

Sir Gawen impressed with awe, with wonder and delight, fell prostrate on the ground, whilst the fairy spirit advancing, knelt and presented to the queen a chrystal vase. She rose, she waved her hand, and smiling, bade Sir Gawen to approach. 'Gentle stranger,' she exclaimed, ‘let not fear appal thine heart for to him, whom courage, truth and piety have distinguished, our friendship and our love is given. Spirits of the blest we are, our sweet employment is to befriend the wretched and the weary, to lull the torture of [Page] anguish, and the horrour of despair. Ah! never shall the tear of innocence or the plaint of sorrow, the pang of injured merit, or the sigh of hopeless love, implore our aid in vain. Upon the moonbeam do we float, and light as air, pervade the habitations of men, and hearken, O favoured mortal! I tell thee, spirits pure from vice are present to thy inmost thoughts; when terrour and when madness, when spectres and when death surrounded thee, our influence put to flight the ministers of darkness; we placed thee in the moon-light vale, and now upon thy head I pour the planetary dew, from Hecate's dread agents, it will free thee from wildering fear and gloomy superstition.’

She ended, and Sir Gawen, impatient to express his gratitude, was about to speak, when suddenly the light turned pale, and died away, the spirits fled, and musick soft and sweet was heard remotely in the air. Sir Gawen started, and in place of the refulgent scene of magic, he beheld a public road, his horse cropping the grass, which grew upon its edge, and a village at a little distance, on whose spire the rising sun had shed his earliest beams.

A FAIRY TALE, IN THE ANCIENT ENGLISH STYLE.

[Page]

IN Britain's Isle and Arthur's days,

When midnight fairies daunc'd the maze,

Liv'd Edwin of the Green;

Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth,

Endow'd with courage, fense and truth,

Tho' badly shap'd he been.

His mountain back mote well be said,

To measure high against his head,

And lift itself above.

Yet spite of all that nature did

To make his uncouth form forbid,

This creature dar'd to love.

He felt the charms of Edith's eyes,

Nor wanted hope to gain the prize,

Could ladies look within;

But one Sir Topaz dress'd with art,

And, if a shape could win a heart,

He had a shape to win.

Edwin (if right I read my song)

With slighted passion pac'd along

[Page]All in the moony light:

'Twas near an old enchanted Court,

Where sportive fairies made resort,

To revel out the night.

His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd,

'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost,

That reach'd the neighbour town;

With weary steps he quits the shades,

Resolv'd, the darkling dome he treads,

And drops his limbs adown.

But scant he lays him on the floor,

When hollow winds remove the door,

A trembling rocks the ground:

And (well I ween to count aright)

At once a hundred tapers light,

On all the walls around.

Now sounding tongues assail his ear,

Now sounding feet approachen near,

And now the sounds increase,

And from the corner where he lay,

He sees a train prosusely gay

Come pranckling o'er the place.

But (trust me, gentles) never yet

Was dight a masking half so neat,

Or half so rich before;

The country lent the sweet perfumes,

The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes,

The town its silken store.

[Page]

Now whilst he gaz'd, a gallant drest

In flaunting robes above the rest,

With awful accent cry'd;

'What mortal, of a wretched mind,

'Whose sighs infect the balmy wind,

'Has here presum'd to hide?'

At this the swain, whose vent'rous soul

No fears of magick art controul,

Advanc'd in open sight;

'Nor have I cause of dreed,' he said,

'Who view, by no presumption led,

'Your revels of the night.

''Twas grief for scorn of faithful love,

'Which made my steps unweeting rove

'Amid the nightly dew.'

''Tis well,' the gallant cries again,

'We fairies never injure men,

'Who dare to tell us true.

'Exalt thy love-dejected heart,

'Be mine the task, or ere we part,

'To make thee grief resign;

'Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce,

'Whilst I with Mab my partner daunce,

'Be little Mable thine.'

He spoke, and all a sudden there▪

Light make flouts in wanton air;

The monarch leads the queen:

[Page]The rest their fairy partners sound,

And Mable trimly tript the ground

With Edwin of the Green.

The dauncing past, the board was laid,

And siker such a feast was made,

As heart and lip desire;

Withouten hands the dishes fly,

The glasses with a wish come nigh,

And with a wish retire.

But now to please the fairy king,

Full ev'ry deal they laugh and sing,

And antic feats devise;

Some wind and tumble like an ape,

And other some transmute their shape,

In Edwin's wond'ring eyes.

'Till one at last that Robin hight,

(Renown'd for pinching maids by night)

Has hent him up aloof;

And full against the beam he flung,

Where by the back the youth he hung.

To spraul unneath the roof.

From thence, Reverse my charm,' he crys,

'And let it fairly now suffice,

'The gambol has been shown.'

But Oberon answers with a smile,

'Content thee, Edwin, for a while,

The 'vantage is thine own.'

[Page]

Here ended all the phantome play;

They smelt the fresh approach of day,

And heard a cock to crow:

The whirling wind that bore the crowd,

Has clap'd the door, and whistled loud,

To warn them all to go.

Then screaming all at once they fly,

And all at once the tapers die;

Poor Edwin falls to floor:

Forlorn his state, and dark the place,

Was never wight in sike a case,

Through all the land before.

But soon as Dan Apollo rose,

Full jolly creature home he goes,

He feels his back the less,

His honest tongue and steady mind

Han rid him of the lump behind,

Which made him want success.

With lusty livelyhed he talks,

He seems a dauncing as he walks,

His story soon took wind;

And beauteous Edith sees the youth,

Endow'd with courage, sense and truth,

Without a bunch behind.

The story told, Sir Topaz mov'd,

(The youth of E [...]lyth erst approv'd)

To see the revel scene:

[Page]At close of eve, he leaves his home,

And wends to find the ruin'd dome,

All on the gloomy plain.

As there he bides, it so befell,

The wind came rustling down a dell,

A shaking seized the wall:

Up spring the tapers as before,

The fairies bragly foot the floor,

And musick fills the hall.

But certes sorely sunk with woe,

Sir Topaz sees the Elphin show,

His spirits in him die:

When Oberon crys, 'A man is near,

'A mortall passion, cleeped fear,

'Hangs flagging in the sky.'

With that Sir Topaz (hapless youth!)

In accents fault'ring ay for ruth

Intreats them pity graunt;

For als he been a mister wight,

Betray'd by wand'ring in the night,

To tread the circle [...] haunt.

'Ah! lozel vile,' at once they roar,

'And little skill'd of Fairy lore,

'Thy cause to come we know:

'Now has thy kestrell courage fell

'And fairies, since a lie you tell,

'Are free to work thee woe.'

[Page]

Then Will, who bears the wispy fire

To trail the swains among the mire,

The caitive upward flung;

There, like a tortoise in a shop,

He dangled from the chamber-top,

Where whilome Edwin hung.

The revel now proceeds apace,

Deffly they frisk it o'er the place,

They sit, they drink and eat;

The time with frolic mirth beguile,

And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while,

'Till all the rout retreat.

By this the starrs began to wink,

They skriek, they fly, the tapers sink,

And down ydrops the knight.

For never spell by fairy laid

With strong enchantment bound a glade,

Beyond the length of night.

Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay,

'Till up the welkin rose the day,

Then deem'd the dole was o'er:

But wot ye well his harder lot?

His seely back the bunch has got,

Which Edwin lost afore.

This tale a sybil nurse ared;

She softly strok'd my youngling head,

And when the tale was done,

[Page]'Thus some are born, my son,' (she crys)

'With base impediments to rise,

'And some are born with none.

'But virtue can itself advance

'To what the fav'rite fools of chance

'By fortune seem design'd;

'Virtue can gain the odds of fate,

'And from itself shake off the weight

'Upon th'unworthy mind.'

THE CAVE OF MODRED. A BRITISH STORY.

WHEN the all conquering sword of the Romans had penetrated into the Southern part of Wales, and ensanguined the hostile plain with the blood of her most distinguished heroes, Modred, the sage, sought a retreat from the desolating rage of war; he was a Druid, renowned for his piety and wisdom; yet he had lived to see the holy altar besprinkled with the blood of its priests, and the sacred groves polluted by the crimes of a licentious soldiery!

[Page]The asylum he chose was a spacious cave, divided by the hand of nature into a variety of apartments: an obscure path led to it by a gentle descent, and by a variety of intricate windings seemed to pronounce it inaccessible, but to those whom the friendly hand of the Druid guided: thus sequestered, it formed a retreat for innocence and virtue.

Here the tender virgin fled to escape violation, and the modest matron insult; and here the widow and the fatherless sought protection and consolation, here too the hardy veteran, covered with wounds, oftimes repaired from the battle, and healed by the sage's pious care, returned with renewed strength and vigour to the fight. Every morn and eve, Modred was seen prostrate beneath a venerable grove of oak, which graced the side of a hill, that rose at a small distance from his habitation; there he erected the sacred altar, and agreeably to the custom of his revered ancestors, laid on it the sacred oblation of meal. Thus passed his days in prayer, contemplation, and acts of benevolence. His drink was from a clear streamlet, that distilled from the rock, out of which his rude dwelling was formed, and his food salubrious herbs, which grew within the precincts of his habitation.— Such was Modred, the Druid; in whom the simplicity of childhood, and the wisdom of old age, were observed to unite.

One day having wandered beyond the bounds he usually prescribed himself, in pursuit of medicinal herbs, he observed the ground to be distained with several drops of blood, and perceiving, a [Page] few paces further, that it widened into a tract of considerable dimensions, his humanity prompted him to follow it. It led him to a spot of ground, on which a person in armour lay extended; he appeared to be in a swoon, and his beaver being up, Modred could discern that he was in the flower of his age.

The Druid perceived by his armour, that he belonged to the Roman army; but compassion for the helpless state in which he beheld him, caused him, at that instant, to forget all animosity; he raised him in his arms, and applied a sovereign cordial, that he always carried about him, to his lips, a few drops of which greatly revived him, but he was nevertheless so extremely exhausted from loss of blood, that he in vain attempted to rise upon his feet. Modred, finding the stranger incapable of rising, without other assistance than he was able to give, hastened back to the cavern, and returned with all speed, accompanied by Oscar:— Oscar was the most valiant of all the British youths, who fearless lifted the sword in defence of liberty. His courage had been manifest in many battles, which he had sought with the common enemy, and it was united with clemency and generosity. By the assistance of this youth, the stranger was supported to Modred's cavern; but as he was a Roman, they first took the precaution to blind-fold him, lest, being an enemy, he should make observations relative to the situation of the place, which might hereafter prove to their disadvantage.

[Page]Having conducted him into the cavern, they took the bandage from his eyes, unbraced his armour, and laid him on a couch of the softest moss; the Druid then examined his wounds, which he found by care might speedily be healed, and applying to them some herbs, which he knew to be of the most sovereign efficacy, left him awhile to his repose. An hour being elapsed, he renewed his visit, and found the stranger so much recovered by the remedies applied to his wounds, together with a gentle sleep, from which, on Modred's entrance he awoke, that he was able, in a faint voice, to enquire into whose hands he had fallen; but presently recollecting they were Britons, he testified by his countenance, that he expected little mercy at their hands.

The Druid, guessing at what passed in his mind, endeavoured to dispel his apprehensions: 'Youth,' said he, ‘you are in the hands of those, whom your nation calls barbarians, but though strangers to the specious arts used by civilized nations to gloss over the basest designs, the Britons are not unacquainted with the virtues of hospitality and humanity. They love victory, but they delight not in blood; dispel your fears, therefore, and rest assured, that while you remain in the cave of Modred, the Druid, you shall be secure from danger or insult.’

In the morning, the Druid found his guest wonderfully recovered; who informed him, that he was an officer in the Roman army; that he had left the camp, which was stationed within a day's march of that place, in company with five [Page] other of the troop; their design being, he confessed, to make discoveries concerning the state of the enemy; but his men being, as he imagined, suborned by a brother officer, between whom and himself, there had been some trifling difference, they had basely turned their arms against him, and left him for dead on the spot, where the Druid first discovered him. He expressed the warmest acknowledgements for the kind treatment he had received, and, at Modred's request, followed him to the outward part of the cave, where a number of persons, of different sex and age, were assembled, being that morning returned from sacrifice.

Among these, the superiour beauty of the fair Elsimena, arrested the attention of the young Roman. Her stature arose considerably above her companions, and, like her features, was formed with the most exact symmetry; a thousand beauties played round her mouth; her cheek disclosed a tincture pure as the opening rose; and her hair floated over her shoulders, in all the wild negligence of nature. From the playful hours of infancy, Elsimena had known no other parent, than Modred; to his care, a mother's dying breath had bequeathed her, and the pious sage religiously discharged the sacred trust reposed in him. He watched over her with the attention and care of a fond parent, and received from Elsimena the grateful return of filial tenderness and obedience. Oscar had long resigned his heart at the shrine of Elsimena's beauty, nor was the fair maid insensible of his [Page] merit; on the contrary, Oscar beheld her affections captive; she burned with an equal flame, and a short period was to see them united.

Oscar, not without uneasiness, beheld his mistress exposed to the rapturous gaze of the young Roman; he observed that her charms touched his soul; and feared his noble mien and gallant deportment might cause Elsimena to draw between them a comparison not to his own advantage; but these modest apprehensions were dissipated, when he observed the coolness and reserve with which she replied to his civilities; and how solicitous she was to disengage herself from his conversation. Claudius, for that was the name of the Roman, became every moment more enamoured of Elsimena; in the simple attire of a British maid, his heart confessed that she eclipsed the fairest Roman; but he had the mortification to find that she was insensible to every thing he could urge in behalf of his passion, and that her heart was solely devoted to Oscar.

Three days insensibly glided away, which the enamoured Claudius, happy in the presence of Elsimena, thought no more than as many hours; but the Druid finding him restored to his former vigour, reminded him that it was time to depart: 'We have now,' said Modred, ‘discharged the debt, which humanity exacted from us, in your behalf; we have received you beneath our roof, and the sacred laws of hospitality, which we revere, forbid us to exert to your disadvantage, that power which we derive not from the strength of our arms, or the chance of war, but by the private [Page] calamity of our enemy; but now that you no longer claim our sufference, it is time that you depart, since we can no longer entertain you but as the enemy of our country, the base enslaver of our rights and liberties: as such, a Briton cannot, without reproach, hold amicable converse with you.’

The young Roman expressed the highest sense of the Druid's generosity, and lamented that he was constrained to bear arms against a country to which he was indebted for his life, and, what was still dearer, his liberty.

While Claudius thus expressed himself, the Druid tied a bandage over his eyes, in the same manner, as when he first brought him to the cave, and then, with a generosity scarcely to be paralleled, consigned him to the care of Oscar, who waited to conduct him in safety to the place where they found him.

During the time that Claudius was entertained in the cave of Modred, the Britons having received intelligence that the Romans were on their march to attack them, were making great preparations for a vigorous defence: on the third day, the armies encamped within sight of each other, and on the morning of the fourth, were drawn up in order for battle.

Elsimena having, with an aching heart, received the farewell of her beloved Oscar, retired to the pious Druid, who, beneath the covert of a consecrated grove, (which, as it stood on a rising ground, commanded a distant view of the plain, where the [Page] two armies were to engage) offered sacrifice to the gods for the success of the British arms.

The two armies engaged with equal fury, and for a long time it was doubtful on which side victory would terminate: Elsimena, from the confines of the grove, beheld her lover rush into the midst of the battle, with a courage and resolution truly heroic; but when he leaped from the chariot to engage the enemy sword in hand, she stretched her aching eyes in vain, to distinguish him from the croud of gallant heroes, who united against the common foe.

The fight was long and desperate, but the superiour number of the Romans at length prevailed; the flower of the warlike Silures were slain, or taken prisoners, and the rest obliged to save themselves by flight.

Elsimena anxiously enquired of the Britons, who fled toward the hills for shelter from the victorious enemy, concerning her lover, and with anguish heard the gallant youth had fallen among the slain; frantic with grief, she snatched a sword from one of them: 'How! my brave countrymen,' said she, ‘will you suffer the gallant heroes, who fought with you this day, in defence of our liberties, to fall unrevenged? For my part, I am resolved to fell my life dearly, and not till I have myself had the consolation of a dying sword in the blood of our enemies.’ Saying thus, like an arrow from a bow, she descended the hill, and urged on by despair, rushed into the midst of the enemy, who had now gained the foot of it, in pursuit of the flying [Page] Britons, resolving, if she could not revenge the death of her lover, at least to perish in the attempt.

The Britons, animated by the conduct of Elsimena, once more faced the enemy; ashamed of being surpassed in courage by a woman, they attacked them with redoubled fury, and though the superiour numbers of the latter rendered all hope of victory abortive, to the great loss of the Romans, they fought till either they were slain, or made prisoners. The Druid was, in the mean while, not an inactive spectator of this scene; animated with a glorious enthusiasm, he seized the reins of a chariot, and vaulting into the seat, drove, with a desperate fury, into the midst of the fight, cutting down all before him, and repeatedly discharging darts upon the enemy, till, overpowered by numbers, he was constrained to yield himself their prisoner.

But to return again to our fair heroine; urged on by despair, she attempted to rid herself of a life, which, since Oscar was slain, could no longer afford her pleasure; But Claudius, the young Roman, who had been entertained by the Druid, fortunately observed her, and made a sign to his men, to surround and convey her prisoner to his tent; which was accordingly done, notwithstanding her efforts to prevent it, by endeavouring to put an end to her existence: but what was the excess of her joy, when in the tent, to which she was conducted by the Roman troops, she beheld her beloved Oscar! He was reclined on a superb sopha, and from the wounds, which he had received in battle, [Page] was extremely weak and faint; so that the unexpected sight of his mistress a prisoner, and in the tent of his rival, raised in his breast such violent emotions, that they were nearly fatal to him. Nor was Elsimena less agitated to behold her lover, contrary to her expectations, alive; yet a prisoner and apparently on the brink of the grave. She sunk at his feet in a swoon, out of which it was some time before she was recovered by the attendants, who, by the orders of their master, treated her with the utmost respect and attention; but what afterwards contributed greatly to her recovery was, to find from the surgeon, who had examined the wounds of her lover, that they were not mortal.

Elsimena having, at the request of Oscar, informed him by what means she fell into the hands of the enemy, was in return acquainted by him, that she was in the tent of the stranger, who had sojourned with them in the Druid's cave; who, he had learned, was son to the Roman General; he also informed her, that it was entirely owing to the humanity of Claudius, he owed his life. ‘Overpowered,’ said he, ‘by the enemy, I sunk down covered with wounds, and faint with loss of blood, when the generous Roman hastily advanced to my assistance; his own soldiers bore me to this tent, where I have been treated with a respect, rather due to the victor than the vanquished. Thus has he rendered me his debtor for a life, which must, in future, prove a burthen to me.’

[Page]'Have better thoughts, my Oscar,' said Elsimena, supposing he alluded to the prospect of a tedious captivity; ‘who can tell but the grateful Roman may design the generous treatment we receive as a prelude to the freedom he means to offer you.’ ‘Indulge not that flattering thought, my Elsimena,’ said the youth, ‘which, should it prove a true presage, can afford to me but small consolation. Do not I see thee captive to my rival? to one, who is too powerfully awake to thy charms, to forego the possession of them: O cruel thought! it wrings my very soul.’

I shall pass over the many tender melancholy things, which passed between the lovers on this subject, (which they could the more freely utter, as they found their attendants were not familiar with the Celtic tongue) as also the solemn protestations which Elsimena made, to preserve the faith she had plighted to Oscar inviolate, whether life or death awaited her, and inform the reader, that the Romans having gained a complete victory over the Britons, Claudius returned to the tent where Elsimena and Oscar were. He approached them both with the most obliging and respectful air, and addressing himself to Oscar, though his eyes insensibly inclined toward the fair captive—'Fortune,' said he, ‘is not always the friend to valour; if so, Oscar would this day have been a conqueror; blush not, gallant youth; the Romans have little to boast of a conquest, which redounds equally to the honour of the vanquished and the victor; but here indeed,’ said he, turning to Elsimena, ‘[Page]is a prize, that may well swell the pride of conquest! Weep not, beautiful Elsimena,’ continued ‘he, you are in the hands of one, who, though inflamed by your beauty, will not forget the respect due to your virtue and misfortunes.’

Little more passed at that time, Claudius being summoned to the tent of his father; who, having in the action been slightly wounded by a javelin, had ordered enquiry to be made among the prisoners for the Briton, who threw it; and further to aid the discovery, had offered life and freedom to the owner. The next day the javelin was exposed, in the tent of the Roman General, but as the Britons fought, for the most part, with darts and swords, few appeared to review it, much less to own it.

News, however, was at length brought to the General, that one of the prisoners confessed himself to be the man, who threw it. The Roman commander ordered him to be brought into his presence, and having dismissed his attendants, asked him many questions concerning the manner in which he came by it. 'Sir,' said Modred, (for it was in truth that venerable sage) ‘it once belonged to a fair unfortunate, who has long since descended to the dust.’ The General, whose curiosity was excited by this reply, requested, with emotion, to know further particulars; which the Druid thus proceeded to relate. ‘When Aulus Didius,’ said he, ‘succeeded the gallant Ostorius, who gained immortal honour by the conquest of our monarch, the valiant Caractatus, in the command [Page] of the Roman forces; Ethelda, the daughter of a gallant warrior, who has since fallen in defence of our liberties, was made captive by a young commander, who led a numerous legion against our nation. The conqueror, struck with her beauty, and respecting her misfortunes, strove to lighten her captivity by the most generous treatment; but, alas! in so doing, he imposed on her more lasting chains. She no longer viewed him but with the eyes of love, and a passion, too strong to be erased by time, took possession of her heart. The young conqueror, as I before observed, was not insensible of her charms; but Ethelda knew too well what was due to her birth and sex to yield on dishonourable terms; she repelled the solicitation of her lover with a firmness that at once awed and increased his flame. Convinced of her merit, he at length offered her his hand, which the fair captive had not power to refuse. That very hour, she became his wife; but a final separation, in a short time after, took place. On their march to join the Roman General, they were surprised by a body of our troops; led on by the father of Ethelda, they routed the enemy and rescued the prisoners, which were taken in the former skirmish. Ethelda, from a rising ground, beheld the contest with inconceivable horrour; not knowing for the success of which to direct her prayers to Heaven; the liberties, and perhaps the lives, of her father and countrymen, depending on the one side, and, on the other, those of the man, for whom she had enstranged herself from both.’

[Page] ‘The engagement was obstinate and bloody, but victory was on the point of terminating in favour of our arms, when the Romans were relieved by a troop of horse; but not before the unfortunate Ethelda had seen both her father and her husband fall.’

‘This reinforcement of the Romans threw the Britons into confusion; they fled with precipitation, and escaped the sword of the enemy under covert of the night. Ethelda fled, not knowing whither, till her strength failing, she sunk down at the door of a poor widow, who received her into the humble dwelling, and set before her some refreshment; but it was two days before she could be prevailed upon either to eat or speak; after this, she became more calm, and related to the good woman the calamities, that had befallen her and caused her grief; she also declared it as her determination, never more to unite with society, and joyfully accepted the poor widow's offer of abiding in her cottage, and partaking the small comforts her humble lot afforded. Ethelda died two years after, having first given birth to a female infant.’

'I had often,' continued Modred, ‘observed her at our Holy Sacrifices, where she constantly appeared covered with a veil, which totally conconcealed her person from the eyes of men; curiosity prompted me to enquire into her story, which I learned first from the woman, at whose house she sojourned, and afterwards from Ethelda herself; for it is necessary, Sir, to inform you, [Page] that although animated by the glorious cause of liberty, I for once ventured to raise the hostile sword in defence of my country, my office is to speak comfort to the afflicted, to utter divine mysteries, and to recommend universal peace and concord to mankind; being, to be plain, of the sacred order of Druids.’

‘My office gave me free access to Ethelda, who readily made me the confident of her misfortunes, and with her last breath, recommended her infant daughter to my protection. On her death, I took the little lisper home to my abode; and when the fury of war forced me to seek shelter in these mountains, she was the companion of my flight, and for eighteen years has been the solace of my declining age; but, alas! my Elsimena is either numbered among the dead, or must waste her blooming years in an irksome captivity.’

The Roman commander asked, with an emotion that caused Modred to suspect he was prompted by other motives, than mere curiosity, in his enquiries, what were his reasons for supposing, that the daughter of Ethelda was either numbered among the dead, or a captive. The sage then informed him of all that he knew concerning Elsimena; how, on being told her lover had fallen in the battle, she rushed, sword in hand, into the midst of the enemy; how, by the intrepidity of her conduct, the flying troops were inspired with courage once more to face the enemy, and to revenge the death of their brave companions; and lastly, that it had been rumoured she was a prisoner in the tent of Claudius, [Page] the General's son. Then reverting to the former part of his discourse, 'That javelin, my lord,' said he, ‘with which it was my fortune to wound you, the wretched mother of Elsimena, previous to the fatal engagement, which bereft her of all she held dear, concealed in her garments, for the purpose of putting an end to her existence, should she live to see either her parent or husband slain. But that Almighty Power, who permitted her affliction, endued her with fortitude to bear it. The weapon once belonged to her husband, and in her exile she preserved it as a precious relic sacred to his remembrance. On her death, it fell into my hand; since which, for the same reason, I have kept it as belonging to one, in whose misfortunes I was deeply interested.’

'Yesterday,' continued Modred, ‘instigated by an impulse, for which I cannot account, I armed myself with it; and, when inspired by the example of my brave countrymen, I ascended the warlike chariot, resolving to yield up my life in defence of our liberties, having expended my darts, as a last effort, I threw the javelin.’

'Wonderful and mysterious,' said the Roman, ‘are the ways of Providence! in me, venerable Modred, behold the father of Elsimena, and once the husband of the unfortunate Ethelda!’

'Mysterious Heaven!' said the Druid, ‘can it really be so?’

'I fell, indeed,' said the General, ‘among the slain, but was not mortally wounded; the brave fellows, who fought by my side, bore me from [Page] the field of battle, and a short time restored me to my former vigour; but my blooming bride was forever lost. I caused strict search to be made after her, but all was in vain; since, till this day, I could never obtain the least tidings of her. The javelin, with which I was yesterday wounded, I remembered once to have been mine, it having, for several ages, been handed down in our family from father to son, as a relic of antiquity. I recollected the period when I lost it, and thought it might have been thrown by a Briton, who had fought in that engagement, which forever separated me from Ethelda; methought it might lead to a discovery of her, or at least inform me concerning the manner of her death. This, venerable Modred, was the cause of my enquiry, and Heaven doubtless inspired me with the thought, that it might restore to me the pledge of my Ethelda's love.’

While this discourse passed between the Roman commander and the venerable Druid, a scene nearly as interesting was acting in the tent of Claudius. The grateful youth, having discovered to his father that the generous Britons, to whom he was indebted for his life and liberty, were among the prisoners, received his permission to offer them rewards suitable to the signal service they had done him.

'Generous Oscar,' said Claudius, 'it is time to convince you, that ingratitude does not form a part of the Roman character; abide with us, gallant youth, enrol yourself among the friends of ‘[Page]Rome, and in return they will bestow on you the highest honours; you are silent, Oscar; but your countenance tells me, you treat our proffered friendship with disdain. Well then, since it is so, Claudius alone must pay the debt he owes; from this moment, gallant youth, you are free, and blush not to receive life and freedom from one, who to your generosity is indebted for the power of bestowing either. Oscar, you are silent; I would do much to purchase your esteem, your friendship; six British prisoners, whom you shall name, will I also add: still are you silent!’

'Claudius,' said the youth, ‘a Briton's heart must speak in his countenance; for the lives and liberties of his friends, Oscar offers you the return of a grateful heart; but, for his own, Claudius, can he offer thanks for life and freedom, when robbed of all that can render either desirable?’

'Oscar,' said the young Roman, ‘I understand you; this fair maid is the object, to which we both aspire; we both love Elsimena, and the happiness of one (so say our passions) must be founded on the despair of the other. Must it then be so, Oscar? No; you shall see that a Roman can soar above the low pursuits of self-gratification, that his pride and confidence rests not alone in the strength of his arms, nor in the conquest of cities, but in the subjection of his passions. You possess the heart of Elsimena; fortune has given me a right over her person, but it is a right which I scorn to avail myself of. Take her, gallant youth, receive the fair Els [...]mena, even [Page] from the hand of thy rival, and henceforth remember that the Romans fight, not to tyrannize over and enslave, but to civilize mankind.’ Saying this, he took the hand of Elsimena, and united it with that of her beloved Oscar.

The joy of both was, for some minutes, absorbed in admiration; that Claudius, in the ardour of youth, when the affections are unused to yield to the curb of reason, in the height of prosperity, which is so seldom tempered by moderation, should thus nobly square his conduct by the most rigid rules of virtue; thus nobly yield up the object of his love into the arms of another, struck them with an awe, which, for some moments, deprived them of utterance. They threw themselves at the feet of Claudius, who having once made the painful sacrifice, experienced from it a satisfaction, infinitely surpassing that which any sensual gratification could have bestowed.

Affairs were in this posture, when a message arrived from the General, requesting the attendance of his son, and the two prisoners, who were entertained in his tent. For, upon enquiry, he had learned that they were really Elsimena and Oscar.

Claudius, who supposed his father's summons to proceed merely from a curiosity to see and honour those, to whom he was indebted for the life and liberty of his son, immediately proceeded with them to his tent. When they entered, they were inexpressibly delighted to find the venerable Druid; who, in his turn, received no less joy at beholding the young pair. He presented Elsimena [Page] to the Roman commander, who embraced her with a warmth truly parental, and with delight scarcely to be equalled, viewed the beauties of her form, promising a mind equally noble and perfect.

Claudius and the young Britons, as the reader will conclude, were at a loss to comprehend the cause of this seemingly mysterious behaviour, till they were informed of it by Modred; who, at the request of the General, related to them the particulars of Ethelda's story. Elsimena then threw herself at the feet of her sire, to testify her entire obedience to his will. The passion, which Claudius lately entertained for her person, was now changed into brotherly love; he embraced her with the tenderest and purest affection, and rejoiced sincerely in having gained so charming a sister. Joy was diffused over every countenance, excepting that of Oscar, who greatly feared Elsimena was once more on the point of being snatched from his arms; but his fears vanished, when, at the request of his son, the Roman commander joined his hand with that of his mistress.

Such was the joy, which pervaded the breast of the noble Roman, on receiving to his arms so lovely an image of his lost Ethelda, and such was his gratitude to the venerable Druid, who had for so many years cherished and protected her, and, to whom he was beside indebted for the life of his son, that he promised to grant him whatever he should ask in favour of his countrymen. Modred availed himself of this generous offer, by requesting the lives and liberties of all, who had, the day before, [Page] been made prisoners; which was accordingly granted.

Through the influence of the Druid, Elsimena and Claudius, an honourable and advantageous peace was soon concluded between the Romans and the warlike Britons, who inhabited that part of the country.

The eyes of the venerable Druid were, in a good old age, closed by his beloved Elsimena; who, with Oscar, lived a series of years in uninterrupted peace and happiness.

ARMINE AND ELVIRA. A LEGENDARY TALE. IN TWO PARTS.

PART THE FIRST.

A HERMIT on the banks of Trent,

Far from the world's bewildering maze,

To humbler scenes of calm content,

Had fled from brighter, busier days.

[Page]

If haply from his guarded breast

Should steal the unsuspected sigh,

And memory, an unbidden guest,

With former passion fill'd his eye:

Then pious hope and duty prais'd

The wisdom of th' unerring sway;

And while his eye to heaven he rais'd,

Its silent waters sunk away.

Life's gayer ensigns once he bore—

Ah! what avails the mournful tale?

Suffice it, when the scenes were o'er,

He fled to the sequester'd vale.

'What tho' the joys I lov'd so well,

'The charms,' he cry'd, 'that youth has known,

'Fly from the Hermit's lonely cell!

'Yet is not Armine still my own?

'Yes, Armine, yes, thou valu'd youth!

''Midst ev'ry grief thou still art mine;

'Dear pledge of Winifreda's truth,

'And solace of my life's decline!

'Tho' from the world and worldly care▪

'My wearied mind I mean to free,

'Yet ev'ry hour that Heav'n can spare,

'My Armine, I devote to thee.

'And sure that Heav'n my hopes shall bless,

'And make me fam'd for virtues fair,

[Page]'And happy too, if happiness

'Depends upon a parent's prayer:

'Last hope of life's departing day,

'In whom its future scenes I see!

'No truant thought shall ever stray

'From this lone hermitage and thee.'

Thus to his humble fate resign'd,

His breast each anxious care foregoes;

All but the care of Armine's mind,

The dearest task a parent knows!

And well were all his cares repaid;

In Armine's breast each virtue grew,

In full maturity display'd,

To fond affection's anxious view.

Nor yet neglected were the charms,

To polish'd life that grace impart;

Virtue, he knew, but feebly warms,

Till science humanize the heart.

And when he saw the lawless train

Of passions in the youthful breast,

He curb'd them not with rigid rein,

But strove to soothe them into rest.

'Think not, my son, in this,' he cry'd,

'A father's precept shall displease:

'No; be each passion gratify'd,

'That tends to happiness or ease.

[Page]

'Nor shall the ungrateful task be mine,

'Their native gen'rous warmth to blame,

'That warmth of reason's suffrage join

'To point the object and the aim.

'This suffrage wanting, know, fond boy,

'That ev'ry passion proves a foe:

'Tho' much it deals in promis'd joy,

'It pays, alas! in certain woe.

'Complete ambition's wildest scheme;

'In power's most brilliant robes appear;

'Indulge in fortune's golden dream;

'Then ask thy breast, if peace be there:

'No: it shall tell thee, peace retires,

'If once of her lov'd friends depriv'd;

'Contentment calm, subdu'd desires,

'And happiness that's self-deriv'd.'

To temper thus the stronger fires

Of youth he strove, for well he knew,

Boundless as thought tho' man's desires,

The real wants of life were few.

And oft revolving in his breast,

Th' insatiate love of wealth or fame,

He, with no common care oppress'd,

To fortune thus would oft exclaim:

'O fortune! at thy crouded shrine,

'What wretched worlds of suppliants bow!

[Page]'Forever hail'd thy power divine,

Forever breath'd the serious vow.

'With tott'ring pace and feeble knee,

'See age advance in shameless haste,

'The palsy'd hand is stretch'd to thee,

'For wealth he wants the power to taste.

'See, led by hope, the youthful train,

'Her fairy dreams their hearts have won;

'She points to what they ne'er shall gain,

'Or dearly gain—to be undone.

'Must I too form the votive prayer,

'And wilt thou hear one suppliant more▪

'His prayer, O Fortune, deign to hear,

'To thee, who never pray'd before.

'O may one dear, one favour'd youth,

'May Armine still thy power disclaim:

'Kneel only at the shrine of truth,

'Count freedom wealth, and virtue fame!

Lo! to his utmost wishes blest,

The prayer was heard; and freedom's flame,

And truth, the sunshine of the breast,

Were Armine's wealth, were Armine's fame.

His heart no selfish cares confin'd,

He felt for all that feel distress,

And, still benevolent and kind,

He bless'd them, or he wish'd to bless.

[Page]

For what tho' Fortune's frown deny,

With wealth to bid the sufferer live,

Yet Pity's hand can oft supply

A balm she never knew to give:

Can oft with lenient drops assuage

The wounds no ruder hand can heal,

When grief, despair, distraction, rage.

While death the lips of love shall seal.

Ah! then, his anguish to remove,

Depriv'd of all his heart holds dear,

How sweet the still surviving love

Of friendship's smile, of pity's tear!

This knew the Sire: he oft would cry,

'From these, my son, O ne'er depart;

'These tender charities, that tie

'In mutual league the human heart.

'Be thine those feelings of the mind,

'That wake at honour's, friendship's call;

'Benevolence, that unconfin'd,

'Extends her liberal hand to all.

'By sympathy's untutor'd voice,

'By taught her social laws to keep;

'Rejoice, if human heart rejoice,

'And weep, if human eye shall weep.

'The heart, that bleeds for others woes,

'Shall feel each selfish sorrow less;

[Page]'His breast, who happiness bestows,

'Reflected happiness shall bless.

'Each ruder passion still withstood,

'That breaks o'er virtue's sober line,

'The tender, noble, and the good

'To cherish and indulge, be thine.

'And yet, my Armine, might I name

'One passion, as a dangerous guest;

'Well may'st thou wonder, when I blame

'The tenderest, noblest, and the best.

'Nature, 'tis true, with love design'd

'To smooth the race our fathers ran;

'The savage of the human kind

'By love was soften'd into man.

'As feels the ore the searching fire,

'Expanding and refining too,

'So sairer glow'd each fair desire,

'Each gentler thought so gentler grew.

'How chang'd, alas! those happier days!

'A train how different now succeeds!

'While sordid avarice betrays,

'Or empty vanity misleads.

'Fled from the heart each nobler guest,

'Each genuine feeling we forego;

'What nature planted in the breast,

'The flowers of love are weeds of woe.

[Page]

'Hence all the pangs the heart must feel,

'Between contending passions tost,

'Wild jealousy's avenging steel,

'And life and fame and virtue lost!

'Yet falling life, yet sading fame,

'Compar'd to what his heart annoy,

'Who cherishes a hopeless flame,

'Are terms of happiness and joy▪

'Ah! then the soft contagion fly!

'And timely shun th' alluring bait!'

The rising blush, the downcast eye,

Proclaim'd—the precept was too late.

PART THE SECOND.

DEEP in the bosom of the wood.

Where art had form'd the moated isle,

An antique castle tow'ring stood.

In Gothic grandeur rose the pile.

Here Raymond, long in arms renown'd,

From scenes of war would oft repair;

His bed an only daughter crown'd,

And smil'd away a father's care.

[Page]

By nature's happiest pencil drawn,

She wore the vernal morning's ray:

The vernal morning's blushing dawn,

Breaks not so beauteous into day.

Her breast, impatient of controul,

Scorn'd in its silken chains to lie.

And the soft language of the soul

Flow'd from her never-silent eye.

The bloom, that open'd on her face,

Well seem'd an emblem of her mind,

Where snowy innocence we trace,

With blushing modesty combin'd.

To these resistless grace impart,

That look of sweetness, form'd to please.

That elegance, devoid of art,

That dignity that's lost in ease.

What youth so cold could view unmov'd,

The maid, that ev'ry beauty shar'd?

Her Armine saw, he saw, he lov'd,

He lov'd—alas! and he despair'd!

Unhappy youth! he sunk opprest,

For much he labour'd to conceal

That gentlest passion of the breast,

Which all can feign, but few can feel.

Ingenuous fears suppress'd the flame,

Yet still he own'd its hidden power:

[Page]With transport dwelling on her name,

He sooth'd the solitary hour.

'How long,' he cry'd, 'must I conceal

'What yet my heart could wish were known?

'How long the truest passion feel,

'And yet that passion fear to own?

'Ah! might I breathe my humble vow!

'Might she too deign to lend an ear!

'Elvira's self should then allow

'That Armine was at least sincere.

'Wild wish! to deem the matchless maid,

'Would listen to a youth like me,

'Or that my vows could e'er persuade,

'Sincere and constant tho' they be.

'Ah! what avails my love or truth?

'She listens to no lowly swain;

'Her charms must bless some happier youth,

'Some youth of fortune's titled train.

'Then go, fallacious hope! adieu!

'The flattering prospect I resign!

'And bear, from my deluded view,

'The bliss that never must be mine.

'Yet will the youth, who'er he be,

'In truth or tenderness excel?

'Or, will he on thy charms like me

'With fondness never-dying dwell?

[Page]

'Will he with thine his hopes unite?

'With ready zeal thy thoughts improve?

'With fond attention and delight,

'Each wish prevent, each fear remove?

'Will he, still faithful to thy charms,

'For constant love be long rever'd?

'Nor quit that bliss within thy arms,

'By every tender tie endear'd?

'What tho' his boastful heart be vain

'Of all that birth or fortune gave?

'Yet is not mine, though rude and plain,

'At least as noble and as brave?

'Then be its tender suit preferr'd!

'Its tender sighs Elvira hear!

'In vain I sigh—but sigh unhear'd;

'Unpity'd falls this lonely tear!'

Twice twelve revolving moons had past;

Since first he caught the fatal view;

Unchang'd by time his sorrows last,

Uncheer'd by hope his passion grew.

That passion to indulge he sought,

In Raymond's groves, the deepest shade;

There fancy's haunting spirit brought

The image of his long-lov'd maid.

But, hark! what more than mortal sound

Steals on attention's raptur'd ear!

[Page]The voice of harmony around

Swells in wild whispers soft and clear.

Can human hand a tone so fine

Sweep from the string with touch profane?

Can human lip with breath divine

Pour on the gale so sweet a strain?

'Tis she—the source of Armine's woe—

'Tis she—whence all his joy must spring—

From her lov'd lips the numbers flow,

Her magic hand awakes the string.

Now, Armine, now thy love proclaim,

Thy instant suit the time demands;

Delay not—tumult shakes his frame!

And lost in ecstacy he stands!

What magic chains thee to the ground?

What star malignant rules the hour,

That thus in fix'd delirium drown'd,

Each sense intranc'd hath lost its power?

The trance dispel! awake! arise!

Speak what untutor'd love inspires!

The moment's past—thy wild surprise

She sees, nor unalarm'd retires.

'Stay, sweet illusion! stay thy flight!

''Tis gone! Elvira's form it wore—

'Yet one more glimpse of short delight!

'Tis gone—to be beheld no more!

[Page]

'Fly, loit'ring feet! the charm pursue,

'That plays upon my hopes and fears!

'Ha! no illusion mocks my view;

''Tis she—Elvira's self appears!

'And shall I on her steps intrude?

'Alarm her in these lonely shades?

'O stay, fair nymph! no russian rude

'With base intent your walk invade.

'Far gentler thoughts—' his fault'ring tongue,

By humble diffidence restrain'd,

Paus'd in suspense—but thus ere long,

As love impell'd, its power regain'd.

'Far gentler thoughts that form inspires;

'With me far gentler passions dwell;

'This heart hides only blameless fires,

'Yet burns with what it fears to tell.

'The fault'ring voice that fears controul,

'Blushes that inward fires declare,

'Each tender tumult of the soul

'In silence owns Elvira there.'

He said; and as the trembling dove,

Sent forth to explore the wat'ry plain,

Soon fear'd her flight might fatal prove,

And sudden sought her ark again.

His heart recoil'd; as one that ru'd

What he too hastily confest,

[Page]And all the rising soul subdu'd,

Sought refuge in his inmost breast.

The tender strife Elvira saw

Distrest; and as some parent mild,

When arm'd with words and looks of awe,

Melts o'er the terrours of her child.

Reproof prepar'd and angry fear

In soft sensations died away:

They felt the force of Armine's tear,

And fled from pity's rising sway.

'That mournful voice, that modest air,

'Young stranger, speak the courteous breast,

'Then why to these rude scenes repair,

'Of shades the solitary guest?

'And who is she, whose fortunes bear

'Elvira's melancholy name?

'O may those fortunes prove more fair,

'Than her's, who sadly owns the same!

'Ah! gentle maid, in mine survey

'A heart,' he cries, 'that's your's alone!

'Long has it own'd Elvira's sway,

'Tho' long unnotic'd and unknown.

'On Sherwood's old heroic plain,

'Elvira grac'd the festal day,

'There, foremost of the youthful train,

'Her Armine bore the prize away.

[Page]

'There first that form my eye survey'd,

'With future hopes that fill'd my heart;

'But ah! beneath that frown they fade—

'Depart, vain, vanquish'd hopes! depart.'

He said; and on the ground his eyes

Were fix'd abash'd: the attentive maid,

Lost in the tumult of surprise,

The well-remember'd youth survey'd.

The transient colour went and came,

The struggling bosom sunk and rose,

The trembling tumults of her frame

The strong-conflicting soul disclose.

The time, the scene, she saw with dread,

Like Cynthia setting glanc'd away,

But scatter'd blushes, as she fled,

Blushes, that spoke a brighter day.

A friendly shepherd's neighbouring shed

To pass the live-long night he sought,

And hope, the lover's downy bed,

A sweeter charm than slumber brought.

On every thought Elvira dwelt,

The tender air, the aspect kind,

The pity that he found she felt,

And all the angel in her mind.

No self-plum'd vanity was there,

With fancy'd consequence elate;

[Page]Unknown to her the haughty air

That means to speak superior state.

Her brow no keen resentments arm,

No swell of empty pride she knew,

In trivial minds that take the alarm,

Should humble love aspire to sue.

Such love, by flattering charms betray'd,

Shall yet, indignant, soon rebel,

And, blushing for the choice he made,

Shall fly where gentler virtues dwell.

'Tis then the mind, from bondage free,

And all its former weakness o'er,

Asserts its native dignity,

And scorns what folly priz'd before.

The scanty pane the rising ray

On the plain wall in diamonds threw,

The lover hail'd the welcome day,

And to his fav'rite scene he flew.

There soon Elvira bent her way,

Where long her lonely walks had been,

Nor less had the preceding day,

Nor Armine less endear'd the scene.

Oft, as she pass'd, her rising heart

Its strongest tenderness confess'd,

And oft she lingered to impart,

To some soft shade, her secret breast.

[Page]

'How slow the heavy hours advance,'

She cry'd, 'since that eventful day,

'When first I caught the fatal glance,

'That stole me from myself away!

'Ah! youth belov'd! tho' low thy birth,

'The noble air, the manly grace,

'That look, that speaks superior worth,

'Can fashion, folly, fear, erase?

'Yet sure from no ignoble stem

'Thy lineage springs, though now unknown:

'The world censorious may condemn,

'But, Armine, I am thine alone.

'To splendour only do we live?

'Must pomp alone our thoughts employ?

'All, all that pomp and splendour give

'Is dearly bought with love and joy!

'But oh!—the favour'd youth appears—

'In pensive grief he seems to move;

'My heart forebodes unnumber'd fears;

'Support it, pity, virtue, love!

'Hither his foot-steps seem to bend—

'Come, resolution, to my aid!

'My breast what varying passions rend!

'Averse to go—to stay, afraid!'

'Dear object of each fond desire

'That throbs tumultuous in my breast!

[Page]'Why with averted glance retire?

'At Armine's presence why distrest?

'What tho' he boasts no titled name,

'No wide extent of rich domain?

'Yet must he feed a fruitless flame,

'Must truth and nature plead in vain?'

'Think not,' she said, 'by forms betray'd,

'To humbler worth my heart is blind;

'For soon shall every splendor fade,

'That beams not from the gifted mind.

'But first thy heart explore with care,

'With faith its fond emotions prove,

'Lurks no unworthy passion there?

'Prompts not ambition bold to love!'

'Yes, lovely maid,' the youth replies,

'A bold ambition prompts my breast,

'The tow'ring hope that love supplies,

'The wish in blessing to be blest.

'The meaner prospects I despise

'That wealth, or rank, or pow'r bestow;

'Be your's the grov'ling bliss ye prize,

'Ye sordid minds, that stoop so low!

'Be mine the more refin'd delights

'Of love, that banishes controul,

'When the fond heart with heart unites,

'And soul's in unison with soul.'

[Page]

Elvira blush'd the warm reply,

(To love a language not unknown)

The milder glories fill'd her eye,

And there a softer lustre shone.

The yielding smile, that's half supprest,

The short quick breath, the trembling tear,

The swell tumultuous of the breast,

In Armine's favour all appear.

At each kind glance their souls unite,

While love's soft sympathy imparts

That tender transport of delight,

That beats in undivided hearts.

Respectful to his lips he prest

Her yielded hand;—in haste away

Her yielded hand she drew distrest,

With looks that witness'd wild dismay?

'Ah! whence, fair excellence! those fears?

'What terror unforeseen alarms?'

'See where a father's frown appears'—

She said and sunk into his arms.

'My daughter!—Heav'ns!—it cannot be—

'And yet it must—O dire disgrace!

'Elvira have I liv'd to see

'Clasp'd in a peasant's vile embrace!

'This daring guilt let death repay'—

His vengeful arm the javelin threw;

[Page]With erring aim it wing'd its way,

And far, by fate averted, flew.

Elvira breathes—her pulses beat,

Returning life illumes her eye;

Trembling a father's view to meet,

She spies a reverend hermit nigh.

'Your wrath,' she cries, 'let tears assuage,

'Unheeded must Elvira pray!

'O let an injur'd father's rage

'This hermet's sacred presence stay!

'Yet deem not, lost in guilty love

'I plead to save my virgin fame;

'My weakness virtue might approve,

'And smile on nature's holy flame.'—

'Oh! welcome to my hopes again,

'My son,'—the raptur'd hermit cries,

'I sought thee sorrowing on the plain,'

And all the father fill'd his eyes.

'Art thou,' the raging Raymond said,

'Of this audacious boy, the sire?

'Curse on the dart that idly sped,

'Nor bade his peasant soul expire?'

'His peasant soul!'—indignant fire

Flash'd from the conscious father's eye,

'A gallant Earl is Armine's sire,

'And know, proud chief, that Earl am I▪

[Page]

'Tho' here within the hermit's cell,

'I long have liv'd unknown to fame,

'Yet crouded camps and courts can tell—

'Thou too hast heard of Egbert's name.

'Ha! Egbert!—he, whom tyrant rage

'Forc'd from his country's bleeding breast?

'The patron of my orphan age,

'My friend, my warrior, stands confest!

'But why?'—'The painful story spare▪

'That prostrate youth,' said Egbert, 'see;

'His anguish asks a parent's care,

'A parent, once who pity'd thee!'

Raymond, as one, who glancing round,

Seems from some sudden trance to start,

Snatch'd the pale lovers from the ground,

And held them trembling to his heart.

Joy, gratitude, and wonder shed

United tears for Hymen's reign,

And nature her best triumph led,

For love and virtue join'd her train.

SIR REGINALD DE CUTHBERT. A ROMANCE ELUCIDATED.

[Page]

Truth lies not long conceal'd in mystery;

Clearly to Reason she reveals her light,

And Errours vanish like a mist before her.

SAVAGE.

SIR Reginald de Cuthbert, a noble knight who had long fought valiantly under the banners of the Holy Cross, when the armies were going to retire to their respective quarters for the winter, applied to the general for leave to return home. Crowned with glory, and arrayed with honour, Sir Reginald sought retirement in the land of his fathers; intending to dedicate the remainder of his days to the service of his God, in defence of whose name he had so often engaged in the horror of battle.

The many perilous adventures the knight encountered on his way from the Holy Land, we find not recorded in history, until his arrival at the borders of a dreary forest on the confines of Germany. The twilight was spreading over the hemisphere, when Sir Reginald entered what at first [Page] appeared to him a small wood, which he now found extended itself by degrees into an immense and almost impenetrable forest. The knight pricked forward with great impatience, till the shades of night, which fell heavily over the forest, in some measure arrested his progress; the narrow winding path grew more and more intricate; the clouds, which seemed charged with thunder, passed slowly along the heavens; the wind now arose and whistled hollow through the branches, the rain began to rattle amidst the trees, and a tremendous storm seemed to be fast approaching, while the darkness of night surrounded him with all its horrors.

At length, overcome with fatigue and impeded by the bushes and underwood, the knight alighted from his horse, and threw himself upon the ground; but soon arose, and securing his trusty steed, walked slowly onward in hopes of finding some solitary cottage, which might afford him shelter from the 'pelting of the pitiless storm.' Ere the knight had measured many paces, he perceived a light, which, from its lofty situation, at first appeared to his deluded eye a brilliant star; he was, however, soon undeceived, and joy reanimated his drooping spirits, in a few moments he found himself at the gate of a castle. The knight knocked violently at the castle gate. ‘Who is there?’ some body; whom he could not see, snarlled with a rough voice from above. ‘In the name of all the blessed saints,’ exclaimed Sir Reginald, ‘I conjure you to open quickly the gate to a traveller, [Page] who hast lost his way in the forest, and is piteously beaten by the tempest.’ No answer was returned, but the gate was opened by an unseen hand. The entrance was still and gloomy as the grave. The knight groped his way through the dark. 'Come!' roared the same rough voice he had heard before; at the same time, a hand, cold as ice, pulled him along. Sir Reginald shuddered violently, and was going to retire, when the gate was shut after him with a thundering noise.

Perceiving that all retreat was cut off, he bade defiance to his fate, and resolved to meet the worst as a man. After advancing a few paces, the icy hand was drawn back. The knight stopped to wait till it should again lay hold of him, and lead him farther; but waited in vain; he groped around, expecting to find his guide, whom he fancied to be near, but he was gone. Not a footstep or the most distant sound was heard through the whole building. Not a single ray of light broke through the dismal darkness, which surrounded him, yet he proceeded with extended arms and advanced about thirty steps, when something impeded his passage, he endeavoured to examine it with his hand, but it seemed suddenly to start back; he once more stretched out his hand, and felt a heap of skulls and bones. Horror and a chilly tremor shook his whole frame. The awful stillness, which surrounded him, was still uninterrupted.

The knight was fixed to the ground, wildly staring through the impenetrable darkness. At length [Page] a hollow broken sound was heard, which seemed at a great distance. After a long pause, it vibrated in his ear a second time. The idea that he had nothing more to lose, and that every means of effecting an escape from that residence of horror was cut off, entirely subdued his fear, and prompted him to follow that sound. A few paces brought him to a stone staircase. Having descended five steps, a doleful groan seemed to proceed from a room not far distant. The knight advanced slowly, and with the utmost circumspection, musing on his perilous situation, when at once he felt the passage obstructed by a door, which opened without difficulty. The room to which it led was also a residence of darkness and dismal silence. The knight was resolved to enter it boldly. Fortunately he examined the entrance with his foot, before he proceeded, and found with unspeakable horror, that it was bottomless. The hollow dismal sound again struck his ear from a small distance. He shuddered violently, and staggered onward. Every thing was now lonely and silent all around; at length he came to a second staircase, ascended seven steps, and then descended as many, when his eyes suddenly beheld a faint glimmer of light, which seemed to emerge from below, at a great distance. Coming nearer, the knight observed that he was standing on the brink of a deep abyss, from which the glimmer broke forth. An old half rotten staircase led down; he however resolved to risk every thing, and pulling off his shoes to avoid making a noise, began to descend. When [Page] he came to the eighth step, the hollow sound was again repeated: the knight stopped a moment, and then went on with returning courage. When he had reached the middle, the light suddenly disappeared, and impenetrable darkness surrounded him once more. He stopped to consider what could be done, when a stone got loose beneath his feet, and rolled down with a thundering noise against the door of the vault. ‘Who disturbs my rest?’ the hollow, well known voice exclaimed. Sir Reginald was rivetted to the ground in dread expectation; terror sealed his lips. The door of the vault opened slowly, and a pale white figure appeared, with a candle in one hand. It advanced two steps, lifted up one hand in a menacing manner, and disappeared. The sight of this dreadful apparition almost petrified him on the spot, his senses seemed to forsake him, and the blood congealed within his veins.

The knight having recovered a little the use of his senses, with difficulty regained the top of the steps, and from thence perceived a passage quite different from the other, and following it he arrived at the foot of a spiral staircase. He ascended many steps, at length a partition impeded him, he pushed forcibly against it with his right hand, and shivered a glass pane into a thousand pieces. 'Who is there?' a rough voice exclaimed. At the same time a door opened, and a most alarming discourse filled the knight with dismal apprehensions. 'Have you sharpened the knife?' one of the talkers asked. 'Yes, it is bright and sharp,' [Page] replied another voice, ‘his blood shall flow abundantly.’ With these words the door burst open. Horror and despair now winged Sir Reginald's steps. He flew down the staircase, and had scarcely reached the bottom, when he was suddenly seized by the ice-cold hand, which he had felt on his entrance in that abode of terror. Here the knight's senses fled, and he dropped down in a swoon.

When Sir Reginald opened his eyes, he found himself in a splendid room, lying at his ease on a superb bed, and a girl with two servants sitting by the bed-side, chaffing his temples. 'Where am I?' were the first sounds he uttered. They assured him, he was in good hands; on enquiring to whom the castle belonged, he was informed it was the property of the Lady Countess of Darbis, who would see him in the morning. An excellent supper was soon after placed on the table, and the servants retired after he had finished his meal.

When left to himself, the knight began to muse on the adventures of that eventful and alarming evening. A thousand ideas crouded upon his imagination, and no clue could be found to extricate himself from the mazes of wonder and astonishment in which he was lost, the fearful apprehension of whose power he was in, and what would become of him, lay heavy on his heart; impatient to have the mystery of his situation unfolded, and yet dreaded that period. Hope and fear crouded alternately upon his soul, until at length he fell asleep, overcome by fatigue of body and mind.

[Page]Sir Reginald awoke at ten o'clock in the morning, and after breakfast, was conducted by a page through three magnificent apartments; in the fourth, the lady of the castle, dressed in black, with a veil of the same colour, was seated on a sofa. She rose on his entering the room, and courtsied very civilly, then retook her seat. After a long pause, the knight said something in a faultering accent, which was meant as an excuse for his intruding visit. The lady kindly bade him welcome to her castle, and moreover desired him to be seated. This kindness dispelled all perplexity, and gave him new courage; he related his adventures of the preceding evening, at which the lady of the castle smiled often, and promised the knight, that the whole mysterious adventure should be elucidated. After dinner, the servants were called into the room, and Sir Reginald found every strange event, that had filled him with such terror, so natural, that he even blushed at his childish fears. The ice-cold hand—the skulls and bones —the spectre, &c. were found to be the necessary appendages to every castle. The cold hand belonged to the phlegmatic porter. He drew his hand suddenly back, because the knight trembled violently and struggled to disengage himself, and was obliged to return and light the torch, which the wind had extinguished. Sir Reginald, with staggering steps, had reached a remote part of the castle, where the Countess had erected a kind of Mausoleum to her deceased husband; and his hand had touched the skulls and bones it was decorated [Page] with. The groans and sighs, which he heard, came from an old domestic, who had a violent tooth-ache. When the stone rolled down, she went out of the cellar, where she was suffered to lie, to see who was there; she threatened him with her hand, and went back, because she mistook him for one of the servants, and fancied the stone had been thrown down on purpose to frighten her. The door, which led to the bottomless room, belonged to an old cellar, where the steps had been destroyed by the ravages of time, and which the servants had left open by carelessness. The room on the spiral staircase, where the knight had broken the glass pane, was inhabited by the cook and butler. Their discourse, part of which he overheard, concerned a hog, which was to be killed the next day. When he was hurrying down the staircase, the porter received him in his arms, to prevent his falling, and carried him, during his swoon, to the apartment, where he recovered the use of his senses.

Sir Reginald was ashamed that this accidental concurrence of circumstances could have rendered him so ridiculously fearful and cowardly. ‘This adventure,’ said the knight to himself, ‘shall teach me to bridle my impetuous imagination, to examine every thing uncommon by the torch of reason, and thus to guard my understanding against the dangerous delusions of a lively impetuous fancy.’

THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH.
FIT THE FIRST*.

[Page]

DARK was the night, and wild the storm,

And loud the torrent's roar;

And loud the sea was heard to dash

Against the distant shore.

Musing on man's weak hapless state,

The lonely hermit lay;

When, lo! he heard a female voice

Lament in sore dismay.

With hospitable haste he rose,

And wak'd his sleeping fire;

And, snatching up a lighted brand,

Forth hied the reverend sire.

All sad beneath a neighbouring tree

A beauteous maid he found,

Who beat her breast, and with her tears

Bedewed the mossy ground.

[Page]

'O weep not, lady, weep not so;

'Nor let vain fears alarm:

'My little cell shall shelter thee,

'And keep the safe from harm.'

'It is not for myself I weep,

'Nor for myself I fear;

'But for my dear and only friend,

'Who lately left me here.

'And while some sheltering bower he sought

'Within this lonely wood,

'Ah! sore I fear his wandering feet

'Have slipt in yonder flood.'

'O! trust in Heaven,' the hermit said,

'And to my cell repair:

'Doubt not but I shall find thy friend,

'And ease thee of thy care.'

Then climbing up his rocky stairs,

He scales the cliff so high;

And calls aloud, and waves his light

To guide the stranger's eye.

Among the thickets long he winds,

With careful steps and slow:

At length a voice return'd his call,

Quick answering from below:

'O tell me, father, tell me true,

'If you have chanc'd to see

[Page]'A gentle maid I lately left

'Beneath some neighbouring tree:

'But either I have lost the place,

'Or she hath gone astray;

'And much I fear this fatal stream

'Hath snatch'd her hence away.'

'Praise Heaven, my son,' the hermit said;

'The lady's safe and well:'

And soon he join'd the wandering youth,

And brought him to his cell.

Then well was seen these gentle friends;

They lov'd each other dear:

The youth he press'd her to his heart;

The maid let fall a tear.

Ah! seldom had their host, I ween,

Beheld so sweet a pair:

The youth was tall, with manly bloom;

She slender, soft, and fair.

The youth was clad in forest green,

With bugle-horn so bright;

She in a silken robe and scarf,

Snatch'd up in hasty flight.

'Sit down, my children,' says the sage▪

'Sweet rest your limbs require:'

Then heaps fresh fuel on the hearth,

And mends his little fire.

[Page]

'Partake,' he said, 'my simple store,

'Dried fruits, and milk, and curds;'

And, spreading all upon the board,

Invites with kindly words.

'Thanks, father, for thy bounteous fare.'

The youthful couple say;

Then freely ate, and made good cheer,

And talk'd their cares away.

'Now say, my children (for perchance

'My counsel may avail),

'What strange adventure brought you here

'Within this lonely dale?'

'First tell me, father,' said the youth,

'(Nor blame mine eager tongue)

'What town is here? What lands are these?

'And to what lord belong?'

'Alas! my son,' the hermit said,

'Why do I live to say,

'The rightful lord of these domains

'Is banish'd quite away?

'Ten winters now have shed their snows

'On this my lowly hall,

'Since valiant Hotspur (so the North

'Our youthful lord did call)

'Against Fourth Henry Bolingbroke

'Led up his Northern powers,

[Page]'And, stoutly fighting, lost his life,

'Near proud Salopia's towers.

'One son he left, a lovely boy,

'His country's hope and heir;

'And, oh! to save him from his foes,

'It was his grandsire's care.

'In Scotland safe he plac'd the child

'Beyond the reach of strife;

'Nor long before the brave old Earl

'At Bramham lost his life.

'And now the Percy name, so long

'Our Northern pride and boast,

'Lies hid, alas! beneath the cloud;

'Their honour's rest and lost.

'No chieftain of that noble house

'Now leads our youth to arms;

'The bordering Scots despoil our fields,

'And ravage all our farms.

'Their halls and castles, once so fair,

'Now moulder in decay;

'Proud strangers now usurp their lands,

'And bear their wealth away.

'Not far from hence, where yon full stream

'Runs winding down the lea,

'Fair Warkworth lifts her lofty towers,

'And overlooks the sea.

[Page]

'Those towers, alas! now stand forlorn,

'With noisome weeds o'erspread,

'Where feasted lords and courtly dames,

'And where the poor were fed.

'Meantime far off, mid Scottish hills

'The Percy lives unknown;

'On strangers bounty he depends,

'And may not claim his own.

'O! might I with these aged eyes

'But live to see him here,

'Then should my soul depart in bliss!'—

He said, and dropt a tear.

'And is the Percy still so lov'd

'Of all his friends and thee?

'Then bless me, father,' said the youth,

'For I, thy guest, am He.'

Silent he gaz'd; then turn'd aside

To wipe the tears he shed;

And, lifting up his hands and eyes,

Pour'd blessings on his head:

'Welcome, our dear and much lov'd lord,

'Thy country's hope and care:

'But who may this young lady be,

'That is so wondrous fair?'

'Now, father, listen to my tale,

'And thou shalt know the truth:

[Page]'And let thy sage advice direct

'My unexperienc'd youth.

'In Scotland I've been nobly bred

'Beneath the Regent's hand,

'In feats of arms, and every lore

'To fit me for command.

'With fond impatience long I burn'd

'My native land to see;

'At length I won my guardian friend,

'To yield that boon to me.

'Then up and down, in hunter's garb,

'I wander'd as in chace,

'Till in the noble Neville's house,

'I gain'd a hunter's place.

'Some time with him I liv'd unknown,

'Till I'd the hap so rare,

'To please this young and gentle dame,

'That baron's daughter fair.'

'Now, Percy,' said the blushing maid,

'The truth I must reveal;

'Souls great and generous, like to thine,

'Their noble deeds conceal.

'It happen'd on a summer's day,

'Led by the fragrant breeze,

'I wander'd forth to take the air,

'Among the green-wood trees.

[Page]

'Sudden, a band of rugged Scots,

'That near in ambush lay,

'Moss-troopers from the border side,

'There seiz'd me for their prey.

'My shrieks had all been spent in vain;

'But Heaven, that saw my grief,

'Brought this brave youth within my call,

'Who flew to my relief.

'With nothing but his hunting spear

'And dagger in his hand,

'He sprung like lightning on my foes,

'And caus'd them soon to stand.

'He fought till more assistance came:

'The Scot's were overthrown:

'Thus freed me, captive, from their bands,

'To make me more his own.'

'O happy day!' the youth reply'd;

'Blest were the wounds I bare!

'From that fond hour she deign'd to smile,

'And listen to my prayer.

'And when she knew my name and birth,

'She vow'd to be my bride;

'But, oh! we fear'd, alas! the while,

'Her princely mother's pride:

'Sister of haughty Bolingbroke,

'Our house's ancient foe,

[Page]'To me, I thought, a banish'd wight,

'Could ne'er such favour show.

'Despairing then to gain consent;

'At length to fly with me,

'I won this lovely timorous maid;

'To Scotland bound are we.

'This evening, as the night drew on,

'Fearing we were pursu'd,

'We turn'd adown the right hand path,

'And gain'd this lonely wood:

'Then lighting from our weary steeds,

'To shun the pelting shower,

'We met thy kind conducting hand,

'And reach'd this friendly bower.'

'Now rest ye both,' the hermit said,

'A while your cares sorego:

'Nor, lady, scorn my humble bed;

'—We'll pass the night below.*

Notes

*

Fit was the word used by old minstrels to signify a part or division of their historical songs.

↵

*

Adjoining to the cliff, which contains the chapel of the hermitage, are the remains of a small building, in which the hermit dwelt. This consisted of one lower apartment, with a little bed-chamber over it, and is now in ruins.

↵

THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH.
FIT THE SECOND.

[Page]

LOVELY smil'd the blushing morn,

And every storm was fled;

But lovelier far, with sweeter smile,

Fair Eleanor left her bed.

She found her Henry all alone,

And cheer'd him with her sight;

The youth, consulting with his friend,

Had watch'd the live-long night.

What sweet surprise o'erpower'd her breast!

Her cheek with blushes dyed,

When fondly he besought her there

To yield to be his bride!

'Within this lonely hermitage,

'There is a chapel meet:

'Then grant, dear maid, my fond request,

'And make my bliss complete.'

'O Henry! when thou deign'st to sue,

'Can I thy suit withstand?

[Page]'When thou, lov'd youth, hast won my heart.

'Can I refuse my hand?

'For thee I left a father's smiles,

'And mother's tender care;

'And whether weal or woe betide,

'Thy lot I mean to share.'

'And wilt thou then, O gen'rous maid!

'Such matchless favour show,

'To share with me, a banish'd wight,

My peril, pain, or woe?

'Now Heaven, I trust, hath joys in store

'To [...]rown thy constant breast;

'For, now, fond hope assures my heart

'That we shall soon be blest.

'Not far from hence stands Coquet Isle,

'Surrounded by the sea;

'There dwells a holy friar, well known

'To all thy friends and thee.*

''Tis father Bernard, so rever'd

'For every worthy deed;

'To Raby castle he shall go,

'And for us kindly plead.

[Page]

'To fetch this good and holy man

'Our reverend host is gone;

'And soon, I trust, his pious hands

'Will join us both in one.'

Thus they in sweet and tender talk

The lingering hours beguile:

At length they see the hoary sage

Come from the neighbouring isle.

With pious joy and wonder mix'd

He greets the noble pair,

And, glad, consents to join their hands,

With many a fervent prayer.

Then strait to Raby's distant walls

He kindly wends his way:

Meantime in love and dalliance sweet

They spend the livelong day.

And now, attended by their host,

The hermitage they view'd,

Deep hewn within a craggy cliff,

And over-hung with wood.

And near a slight of shapely steps,

All cut with nicest skill,

And piercing thro' a stony arch,

Ran winding up the hill.

There deck'd with many a flower and herb

His little garden stands;

[Page]With fruitful trees in shady rows,

All planted by his hands.

Then, scoop'd within the solid rock,

Three sacred vaults he shows;

The chief a chapel, neatly arch'd,

On branching columns rose.

Each proper ornament was there,

That should a chapel grace;

The lattice for confession fram'd,

And holy-water vase.

O'er either door a sacred text

Invites to godly fear;

And in a little scutcheon hung

The cross, and crown, and spear.

Up to the altar's ample breadth,

Two easy steps ascend;

And near a glimmering solemn light,

Two well-wrought windows lend.

Beside the altar rose a tomb

All in the living stone:

On which a young and beauteous maid

In goodly sculpture shone.

A kneeling angel, fairly carv'd,

Lean'd hovering o'er her breast;

A weeping warrior at her feet;

And near to these her crest.

[Page]

The cliff, the vault, but chief the tomb,

Attract the wondering pair:

Eager they ask, what hapless dame

Lies sculptur'd here so fair?

The hermit sigh'd, the hermit wept;

For sorrow scarce could speak:

At length he wip'd the trickling tears,

That all bedew'd his cheek.

'Alas! my children, human life

'Is but a vale of woe;

'And very mournful is the tale,

'Which ye so fain would know.

Notes

*

In the little island of Coquet, near Warkworth, are still the ruins of a cell, which belonged to the Bendictine monks of Tinemouth-Abbey.

↵

THE HERMIT's TALE.

'Young lord, thy grand-sire had a friend,

'In days of youthful fame;

'Yon distant hills were his domains:

'Sir Bertram was his name.

'Where'er the noble Percy fought,

'His friend was at his side;

'And many a skirmish with the Scotts

'Their early valour try'd.

'Young Bertram lov'd a beauteous maid,

'As fair as fair might be;

[Page]'The dew-drop on the lily's cheek

'Was not so fair as she;

'Fair Widdrington the maiden's name,

'Yon towers her dwelling-place;

'Her sire an old Northumbrian chief

'Devoted to thy race.

'Many a lord, and many a knight,

'To this fair damsel came:

'But Bertram was her only choice;

'For him she felt a flame.

'Lord Percy pleaded for his friend:

'Her father soon consents:

'None but the beauteous maid herself

'His wishes now prevents.

'But she with studied, fond delays

'Defers the blissful hour;

'And loves to try his constancy,

'And prove her maiden power.

'That heart, she said, is lightly priz'd,

'Which is too lightly won;

'And long shall rue that easy maid,

'Who yields her love too soon.

'Lord Percy made a solemn feast

'In Alnwick's princely hall;

'And there came lords, and there came knights,

'His chiefs and barons all.

[Page]

'With wassel, mirth, and revelry,

'The castle rung around:

'Lord Percy call'd for song and harp,

'And pipes of martial sound.

'The minstrels of thy noble house,

'All clad in robes of blue,

'With silver crescents on their arms,

'Attend in order due.

'The great achievements of thy race

'They sung: their high command:

'How valiant Manfred o'er the seas

'First led his Northern band.

'Brave Galfred next to Normandy

'With venturous Rollo came;

'And from his Norman castles won

'Assumed the Percy name.

'They sung, how in the conqueror's fleet,

'Lord William shipp'd his powers,

'And gain'd a fair young Saxon bride

'With all her lands and towers.

'Then journeying to the Holy Land,

'There bravely fought and di'd;

'But first the silver crescent won,

'Some Paynim Soldan's pride.

'They sung how Agnes, beauteous heir,

'The queen's own brother wed,

[Page]'Lord Josceline, sprung from Charlemagne,

'In princely Brabant bred.

'How he the Percy name reviv'd,

'And how his noble line

'Still foremost in their country's cause

'With godlike ardour shine.

'With loud acclaims the list'ning croud

'Applaud the master's song;

'And deeds of arms and war became

'The theme of every tongue.

'Now high heroic acts they tell;

'Their perils past recal:

'When, lo! a damsel, young and fair,

'Stepp'd forward thro' the hall.

'She Bertram courteously address'd;

'And kneeling on her knee;

'Sir knight, the lady of thy love

'Hath sent this gift to thee.

'Then forth she drew a glittering helm

'Well-plated many a fold,

'The casque was wrought of temper'd steel,

'The crest of burnish'd gold.

'Sir knight, thy lady sends thee this,

'And yields to be thy bride,

'When thou hast prov'd this maiden gift,

'Where sharpest blows are try'd.

[Page]

'Young Bertram took the shining helm,

'And thrice he kiss'd the same:

'Trust me, I'll prove this precious casque

'With deeds of noblest fame.

'Lord Percy, and his barons bold,

'Then fix upon a day

'To scour the marches, late opprest,

'And Scottish wrongs repay.

'The knights assembled on the hills

'A thousand horse and more:

'Brave Widdrington, tho' sunk in years,

'The Percy standard bore.

'Tweed's limpid current soon they pass,

'And range the borders round:

'Down the green slopes of Tiviotdale

'Their bugle-horns resound.

'As when a lion in his den

'Hath heard the hunter's cries,

'And rushes forth to meet his foes;

'So did the Douglas rise.

'Attendant on their chief's command,

'A thousand warriors wait:

'And now the fatal hour drew on

'Of cruel, keen debate.

'A chosen troop of Scottish youths

'Advance before the rest;

[Page]'Lord Percy mark'd their gallant mien,

'And thus his friend address'd.

'Now, Bertram, prove thy lady's helm;

'Attack yon forward band;

'Dead or alive I'll rescue thee,

'Or perish by their hand.

'Young Bertram bow'd with glad assent,

'And spurr'd his eager steed,

'And, calling on his lady's name,

'Rush'd forth with whirlwind speed.

'As when a grove of sapling oaks

'The livid lightning rends;

'So fiercely, 'mid the opposing ranks,

'Sir Bertram's sword descends.

'This way and that he drives the steel,

'And keenly pierces thro';

'And many a tall and comely knight,

'With furious force he slew.

'Now closing fast on ev'ry side,

'They hem Sir Bertram round;

'But, dauntless, he repels their rage,

'And deals forth many a wound.

'The vigour of his single arm

'Had well nigh won the field;

'When, ponderous, fell a Scottish axe,

'And clove his lifted shield.

[Page]

'Another blow his temples took,

'And rest his helm in twain;

'That beauteous helm, his lady's gift!

'—His blood bedew'd the plain.

'Lord Percy saw his champion fall

'Amid th'unequal fight;

'And now, my noble friends, he said,

'Let's save this gallant knight.

'Then rushing in, with stretch'd out shield,

'He o'er the warrior hung;

'As some fierce eagle spreads her wing

'To guard her callow young.

'Three times they strove to seize their prey,

'Three times they quick retire.

'What force could stand his furious strokes,

'Or meet his martial fire?

'Now gathering round on every part,

'The battle rag'd amain;

'And many a lady wept her lord,

'That hour untimely slain.

'Percy and Douglas, great in arms,

'There all their courage show'd;

'And all the field was strew'd with dead,

'And all with crimson flow'd.

'At length the glory of the day

'The Scotts reluctant yield,

[Page]'And, after wond'rous valour shown,

'They slowly quit the field.

'All pale, extended on their shelds,

'And weltering in his gore,

'Lord Percy's knights their bleeding friend

'To Wark's fair castle bore.*

'Well hast thou earn'd my daughter's love,

'Her father kindly said;

'And she herself shall dress thy wounds,

'And tend thee in thy bed.

'A message went; no daughter came;

'Fair Isabel ne'er appears;

'Beshrew me, said the aged chief,

'Young maidens have their fears.

'Cheer up, my son; thou shalt her see,

'So soon as thou canst ride;

'And she shall nurse thee in her bower;

'And she shall be thy bride.

'Sir Bertram at her name reviv'd;

'He blest the soothing sound:

'Fond hope supply'd the nurse's care,

'And heal'd his ghastly wound.'

Notes

*

Wark Castle, a fortress belonging to the English, and of great note in ancient times, stood on the Southern bank of the river Tweed, not far from Kelso. It is now almost entirely destroyed.

↵

THE HERMIT OF WARKWORTH.
FIT THE THIRD.

[Page]

'ONE early morn, while dewy drops

'Hung trembling on the tree,

'Sir Bertram from his sick-bed rose;

'His bride he would go see.

'A brother he had, in prime of youth,

'Of courage firm and keen;

'And he would tend him on the way,

'Because his wounds were green.

'All day o'er moss and moor they rode,

'By many a lonely tower;

'And 'twas the dew-fall of the night

'E'er they drew near her bower.

'Most drear and dark the castle seem'd,

'That wont to shine so bright;

'And long and loud Sir Bertram call'd,

'E'er he beheld a light.

'At length her aged nurse arose,

'With voice so shrill and clear:

'What wight is this, that calls so loud,

'And knocks so boldly here?

[Page]

''Tis Bertram calls, thy lady's love,

'Come from his bed of care:

'All day I've ridden, o'er moor and moss,

'To see thy lady fair.

'Now out alas! (she loudly shriek'd)

'Alas! how may this be?

'For six long days are gone and past,

'Since she set out to thee.

'Sad terror seiz'd Sir Bertram's heart,

'And ready was he to fall;

'When now the draw-bridge was let down,

'And gates were open'd all.

'Six days, young knight, are past and gone,

'Since she set out to thee;

'And sure, if no sad harm had happ'd,

'Long since thou wouldst her see.

'For when she heard thy grievous chance,

'She tore her hair, and cried,

'Alas? I've slain the comeliest knight,

'All thro' my folly and pride!

'And now to atone for my sad fault,

'And his dear health regain,

'I'll go myself, and nurse my love,

'And soothe his bed of pain.

'Then mounted she her milk white steed

'One morn at break of day;

[Page]'And two tall yeomen went with her

'To guard her on her way.

'Sad terror smote Sir Bertram's heart,

'And grief o'erwhelm'd his mind:

'Trust me, said he, I ne'er will rest

''Till I thy lady find.

'That night he spent in sorrow and care;

'And with sad boding heart,

'Or ever the dawning of the day,

'His brother and he depart.

'Now, brother, we'll our ways divide,

'O'er Scottish hills to range:

'Do thou go North, and I'll go West;

'And all our dress we'll change.

'Some Scottish earle hath seiz'd my love,

'And borne her to his den;

'And ne'er will I tread English ground

''Till she is restor'd again.

'The brothers strait their paths divide,

'O'er Scottish hills to range;

'And hide themselves in quaint disguise,

'And oft then dress they change.

'Sir Bertram clad in gown of grey,

'Most like a palmer poor,

'To halls and castles wanders round,

'And begs from door to door.

[Page]

'Sometimes a minstrel's garb he wears,

With pipes so sweet and shrill;

'And wends to every tower and town;

'O'er every dale and hill.

'One day as he sat under a thorn

'All sunk in deep despair,

'An aged pilgrim pass'd him by,

'Who mark'd his face of care.

'All minstrels yet that ever I saw,

'Are full of game and glee:

'But thou art sad and woe begone!

'I marvel whence it be!

'Father, I serve an aged lord,

'Whose grief afflicts my mind;

'His only child is stol'n away,

'And fain I would her find.

'Cheer up, my son; perchance (he said)

'Some tidings I may bear:

'For oft when human hopes have fail'd,

'Then heavenly comfort's near.

'Behind yon hills so steep and high,

'Down in a lowly glen,

'There stands a castle fair and strong,

'Far from th' abode of men.

'As late I chanc'd to crave an alms

'About this evening hour,

[Page]'Methought I heard a lady's voice

'Lamenting in the tower.

'And when I ask'd, what harm had happ'd,

'What lady sick there lay?

'They rudely drove me from the gate,

'And bade me wend away.

'The tidings caught Sir Bertram's ear;

'He thank'd him for his tale;

'And soon he hasted o'er the hills,

'And soon he reach'd the vale.

'Then drawing near those lonely towers,

'Which stood in dale so low,

'And sitting down beside the gate,

'His pipes he 'gan to blow.

'Sir porter, is thy lord at home

'To hear a minstrel's song?

'Or may I crave a lodging here,

'Without offence or wrong?

'My lord, he said, is not at home

'To hear a minstrel's song:

'And should I lend thee lodging here,

'My life would not be long.

'He play'd again so soft a strain;

'Such power sweet sounds impart;

'He won the churlish porter's ear,

'And mov'd his stubborn heart.

[Page]

'Minstrel, he said, thou play'st so sweet;

'Fair entrance thou shouldst win;

'But, alas! I am sworn upon the rood

'To let no stranger in.

'Yet, minstrel, in yon rising cliff

'Thou'lt find a sheltering cave;

'And here thou shalt my supper share.

'And there thy lodging have.

'All day he sits beside the gate,

'And pipes both loud and clear:

'All night he watches round the walls.

'In hopes his love to hear.

'The first night, as he silent watch'd,

'All at the midnight hour,

'He plainly heard his lady's voice

'Lamenting in the tower.

'The second night the moon shone clear,

'And gilt the spangled dew;

'He saw his lady through the grate;

'But 'twas a transient view.

'The third night, wearied out, he slept

''Till near the morning tide;

'When, starting up, he seiz'd his sword,

'And to the castle hied.

'When, lo! he saw a ladder of ropes

'Depending from the wall;

[Page]'And o'er the mote was newly laid

'A poplar strong and tall.

'And soon he saw his love descend

'Wrapt in a tartan plaid;

'Assisted by a sturdy youth

'In highland garb yclad.

'Amaz'd, confounded at the sight,

'He lay unseen and still;

'And soon he saw them cross the stream,

'And mount the neighb'ring hill.

'Unheard, unknown of all within,

'The youthful couple fly.

'But what can 'scape the lover's ken,

'Or shun his piercing eye?

'With silent steps he follows close

'Behind the flying pair,

'And saw her hang upon his arm

'With fond familiar air.

'Thanks, gentle youth, she often said;

'My thanks thou well hast won:

'For me what wiles hast thou contriv'd?

'For me what dangers run?

'And ever shall my grateful heart

'Thy services repay:—

'Sir Bertram would no further hear;

'But cried, Vile traitor, stay!

[Page]

'Vile traitor, yield that lady up!

'And quick his sword he drew.

'The stranger turn'd in sudden rage,

'And at Sir Bertram flew.

'With mortal hate their vigorous arms

'Gave many a vengeful blow:

'But Bertram's stronger hand prevail'd,

'And laid the stranger low.

'Die, traitor, die!—A deadly thrust

'Attends each furious word.

'Ah! then fair Isabel knew his voice,

'And rush'd beneath his sword.

'O stop, she cried, O stop thy arm!

'Thou dost thy brother slay!—'

And here the hermit paus'd and wept:

His tongue no more could say.

At length he cried, 'Ye lovely pair,

'How shall I tell the rest!—

'E'er I could stop my piercing sword,

'It fell, and stabb'd her breast.'

'Wert thou thyself that hapless youth?

'Ah! cruel fate!' they said.

The hermit wept, and so did they:

They sigh'd; he hung his head.

'O blind and jealous rage,' he cried,

'What evils from thee flow?'

[Page]The hermit paus'd; they silent mourn'd;

He wept, and they were woe.

'Ah! when I heard my brother's name,

'And saw my lady bleed,

'I rav'd, I wept, I curst my arm,

'That wrought the fatal deed.

'In vain I clasp'd her to my breast,

'And clos'd the ghastly wound;

'In vain I press his bleeding corpse,

'And rais'd it from the ground.

'My brother, alas! spake never more:

'His precious life was flown.

'She kindly strove to soothe my pain,

'Regardless of her own.

'Bertram, she said, be comforted,

'And live to think on me:

'May we in heaven that union prove,

'Which here was not to be!

'Bertram, she said, I still was true;

'Thou only hadst my heart:

'May we hereafter meet in bliss!

'We now, alas! must part.

'For thee I left my father's hall,

'And flew to thy relief;

'When, lo! near Chiviot's fatal hills

'I met a Scottish chief.

[Page]

'Lord Malcolm's son, whose proffer'd love

'I had refus'd with scorn;

'He slew my guards, and seiz'd on me

'Upon that fatal morn;

'And in these dreary hated walls

'He kept me close confin'd;

'And fondly sued and warmly press'd,

'To win me to his mind.

'Each rising morn increas'd my pain,

'Each night increas'd my fear;

'When, wandering in this Northern garb,

'Thy brother found me here.

'He quickly form'd this brave design

'To set me, captive, free;

'And on the moor his horses wait

'Tied to a neighb'ring tree.

'Then haste, my love, escape away,

'And for thyself provide;

'And sometimes fondly think on her,

'Who should have been thy bride.

'Thus, pouring comfort on my soul

'Even with her latest breath,

'She gave one parting fond embrace,

'And clos'd her eyes in death.

'In wild amaze, in speechless woe,

'Devoid of sense, I lay:

[Page]'Then sudden, all in frantic mood,

'I meant myself to slay:

'And, rising up in furious haste,

'I seiz'd the bloody brand:

'A sturdy arm here interpos'd,

'And wrench'd it from my hand.

'A croud, that from the castle came,

'Had miss'd their lovely ward;

'And seizing me, to prison bare,

'And deep in dungeon barr'd.

'It chanc'd that on that very morn

'Their chief was prisoner ta'en:

'Lord Percy had us soon exchang'd,

'And strove to soothe my pain.

'And soon those honour'd dear remains

'To England were convey'd;

'And there within their silent tombs,

'With holy rites were laid.

'For me, I loath'd my wretched life,

'And long to end it thought;

'Till time, and books, and holy men▪

'Had better counsels taught.

'They rais'd my heart to that pure source,

'Whence heavenly comfort flows:

'They taught me to despise the world,

'And calmly bear its woes.

[Page]

'No more the slave of human pride,

'Vain hope, and sordid care;

'I meekly vow'd to spend my life

'In penitence and prayer.

'The bold Sir Bertram now no more,

'Impetuous, haughty, wild;

'But poor and humble Benedict,

'Now lowly, penitent, mild;

'My lands I gave to feed the poor,

'And sacred altars raise;

'And here, a lonely Anchoret,

'I came to end my days.

'This sweet sequester'd vale I chose,

'These rocks and hanging grove;

'For ost beside that murmuring stream

'My love was wont to rove.

'My noble friend approv'd my choice;

'This blest retreat he gave:

'And here I carv'd her beauteous form,

'And scoop'd this holy cave.

'Full fifty winters, all forlorn,

'My life I've linger'd here;

'And daily o'er this sculptur'd saint

'I drop the pensive tear.

'And thou, dear brother of my heart,

'So faithful and so true,

[Page]'The sad remembrance of thy fate

'Still makes my bosom rue!

'Yet not unpity'd pass'd my life,

'Forsaken or forgot,

'The Percy and his noble sons

'Would grace my lowly cot.

'Oft the great Earl from toils of state,

'And cumbrous pomp of pow'r,

'Would gladly seek my little cell,

'To spend the tranquil hour.

'But length of life is length of woe;

'I liv'd to mourn his fall:

'I liv'd to mourn his godlike sons,

'And friends and followers all.

'But thou, the honours of thy race,

'Lov'd youth, shalt now restore;

'And raise again the Percy name

'More glorious than before.

He ceas'd; and on the lovely pair

His choicest blessings laid:

While they with thanks and pitying tears

His mournful tale repaid.

And now what present course to take

They ask the good old sire;

And, guided by his sage advice,

To Scotland they retire.

[Page]

Meantime their suit such favour found.

At Raby's stately hall,

Earl Neville and his princely spouse

Now gladly pardon all.

She suppliant at her * nephew's throne,

The royal grace implor'd:

To all the honours of his race,

The Percy was restor'd.

The youthful Earl still more and more

Admir'd his beauteous dame:

Nine noble sons to him she bore,

All worthy of their name.

Notes

*

King Henry V. Anno 1440.

↵

THE TREASURY OF WIT.

[Page]

A ROGUE'S MODESTY.

A CULPRIT, who was on the point of suffering an ignominious death for his depredations on mankind, unwillingly permitted Jack Ketch to put the halter about his neck; but being equipped with it, he thus remonstrated with the minister of justice:—'I wish, Mr. John,' (touching the cord) ‘I say, I wish, Mr. John, you could find a more eligible situation for me, for really I do not like this line of life.’

A KICK FOR A BITE.

IN the course of a very severe engagement between an English privateer and a French one, the English boatswain had both his legs taken off by a shot; and as he lay in that plight, called [Page] out to his Captain, to request that he would ram both his legs into a cannon, and fire them off at the French, that he might have the satisfaction of one kick at them before he died.

THE RETORT.

MR. COLT, superintendent of the canal at Fort Stanwix, being provoked at an Irishman, gave him a sturdy kick.—'By St. Patrick,' retorted the Hibernian, ‘if you kick so, while you are a Colt, what will you do, when you come to be a Horse.’

ANECDOTE OF DR. RADCLIFFE.

DR. Radcliffe was not a more rigid observer of the aphorisms of Hyppocrates, than of the precepts of Bacchus; he was almost equally devoted to the god of physic and the god of wine. One evening, as he was sacrificing at the shrine of the purple god, in a tavern, a gentleman entered in great haste, and almost breathless— ‘Doctor, my wife is at the point of death, make haste, come with me.’ ‘Not until I have finished my bottle, however,’ replied the doctor. The man, who happened to be a fine athletic fellow, finding intreaty [Page] useless, snatched up the doctor, hoisted him on his back, and carried him out of the tavern. The moment he set the doctor upon his legs, he received from him, in a very emphatic manner, the following threat:— ‘Now, you rascal, I'll cure your wife in revenge.’ The doctor (as the story adds) kept his word.

THE REPLY.

A LAWYER once pleaded with great ability the cause of his client for near an hour. When he had done, his antagonist, with a supercilious sneer, said, he did not understand a word the other had said—Who neatly replied, ‘I believe so, Sir, for I was speaking LAW.’

REAL COURAGE.

THE brave Crillon, one of the greatest captains of Henry the Fourth, was hearing a discourse upon the passions, and the preacher giving a very pathetic description of the scourging of our Saviour—the warrior was moved even to tears, rose up, and laying his hand on his sword, exclaimed, ‘O! where wast thou, Crillon? Where wast thou?’

[Page]

IMAGINARY COURAGE.

A GENTLEMAN, who assisted the Count de Cabra in putting on his armour before a battle, perceiving him tremble in a pitiful manner, asked, what caused that strange emotion. The Count answered, ‘My flesh trembles at the prodigious danger into which my undaunted soul will certainly lead it.’

LAST WORDS OF DON FRANCIS.

PERICO de Ayala, the buffoon of the Marquis de Villena, came to see Don Francis, the buffoon of Charles the Fifth, when he lay on his death-bed. Perico, seeing him in so bad a way, said, ‘Brother Don Francis, I request you by the great friendship, which has always subsisted between us, that when you go to Heaven (which I believe must be very soon, since you have always lived such a pious life) you will beseech God to have mercy on my soul.’ Francis answered— 'Tie a thread on this finger, that I may not forget it.' These were his last words; and he instantly expired.

[Page]

GREAT CONSOLATION FOR THE LOSE OF AN EYE.

A POOR clown, losing an eye, by the unskilful management of Seraphini, a quack doctor, went to reproach him for stripping him of his money, and also depriving him of his sight, and threatened to lay the case before the chief magistrates of the city. Dr. Seraphini put himself in a great passion, and exclaimed, ‘You scoundrel, you rascal, would you presume to have two eyes forsooth, when honest men, nay, the Magistrates themselves, and even princes have no more!’ The clown, terrified beyond measure, asked the doctor's pardon, and thought himself lucky to escape with one eye.

THE MAN OF FORTITUDE.

AN Italian Doctor of Law, seeing a criminal, who was condemned to be publicly whipped through the streets, walking very slowly during the operation, asked him why he did not hasten, that he might have fewer stripes; adding many learned arguments to prove that the slower he walked, the more he must suffer. To which the criminal, standing entirely still notwithstanding they were beating him on every side, and looking the Doctor in the face, replied with the greatest composure, ‘When you are whipped through the street, you may walk as you please, and I will thank you to allow me the same liberty.’

[Page]

DON SANCHO IN DISTRESS.

THERE is no country, in which so many names of baptism are given as in Spain.— A poor Spaniard, who had no company, save that of a lean old horse, came to a little village in England, where there was but one inn. It was past midnight, and it rained abundantly. Having knocked at the door, the landlord opened a window, and asked who was there; 'It is,' answered the Spaniard, ‘Don Sancho Alfonzo Ramirez Juan Pedro Carlos Francisco Domingo, de Rohas, de Stuniga, de las Fuentes.’ The landlord, who knew he had but one bed to spare, answered bluntly, that he had no room for so many; and returned to his bed, leaving the Spaniard to travel eight miles further in the rain, to find a lodging for all his names.

A PROPHECY FULFILLED.

SAM Foote, being in a church, where the singing was performed in a wretched manner, observed to Mr. Quin, that the prophecy of Amos was now fulfilled, where he says, ‘And the songs of the temple shall be howlings.’

[Page]

A MILITARY ANECDOTE.

A GERMAN peasant, newly enlisted in the army, was scarcely arrived at the regiment, when he was sent with others upon a skirmishing party; and approaching a wood in which a party of the French were posted, who immediately fired upon the Germans, and while the musket balls were flying very thick, the honest peasant stepped out of the ranks, making a sign to the enemy to desist, at the same time bawled out— ‘Why what the devil are you firing for, do'nt you see there are people a coming?’

PREACHING WELL APPLIED.

A CERTAIN Bishop had a servant, whom he ordered one festival day to go to a butcher, who was called David, for a piece of meat; and then to come to church, where the Bishop was to preach. The Bishop, in his sermon, bringing authorities, from the scriptures, to prove his discourse, in this manner, 'ISAIAH says thus, 'JEREMIAH says thus, EZEKIEL says thus; at last, happening to turn towards the door, just as his servant come in, went on, 'and what says DAVID?' Upon which the servant roared out, ‘DAVID swears that if you do not pay what you owe him, you never need send to his stall again.’

[Page]

PRAYING MADE EASY.

A VERY devout fellow not being able to please his nice piety, in his prayers used only to repeat the alphabet, and then to add, O Lord ‘God, put these letters into syllables, and these syllables into words, and these words into sentences, that may be most for my real good.’

A DISPUTABLE FACT.

A GENTLEMAN of Modena, not very rich, was obliged to take a very stupid fellow for his servant, who was a dull and sleepy dog. His master going one day to visit a friend, who lived a little way from the town, alighted at the gate of the house, and desired Martin, his servant, to hold his horse, till he came back. He was no sooner gone, than Martin, holding the bridle in his hand, fell, as usual, into a profound sleep. A poor soldier passing by took a sudden affection for the horse; and seeing the keeper lost in sleep, he slipped the bridle off the horse's head, and leaving it in Martin's hand, mounted the steed and set out a full gallop. After some time, Martin, being awaked by a servant of the house, stupified with surprise, exclaimed, ‘Be I Peter Martin, or be I not? If I am Peter Martin, I have lost a horse; if I am not Peter Martin, I have found a bridle.’

[Page]

COMPARISONS OF DRUNKENNESS.

AS drunk as an owl; as drunk as a sow; as drunk as a beggar; as drunk as the devil; as drunk as a lord. These are the principal comparisons of drunkenness, and the explanation is as follows: A man is as drunk as an owl, when he cannot see; he is as drunk as a sow, when he tumbles in the dirt; he is as drunk as a beggar, when he is very impudent; he is as drunk as the devil, when he is inclined to mischief; and as drunk as a lord, when he is every thing that's bad.

FORTUNE OF A LIAR.

A NOTORIOUS rogue, being to be tried for his life, confessed the robbery he was charged with. The judges hereupon directed the jury to find him guilty, upon his own confession. The jury, having laid their heads together, brought him in not guilty. The judges bid them consider of the case again: but they still brought in their verdict, not guilty. The judges asked the reason; the foreman replied with great solemnity, ‘There is reason enough, we cannot believe him, for we all know him to be one of the greatest liars in the world.’

[Page]

LIBERTY AND EQUALITY.

A blacksmith, of a certain village in the neighbourhood of Paris, was sentenced to die (for asserting, that the English would never admit of a visit from Buonaparte and his army, except they went by land) the chief peasants of the place joined together, and begged of the officer of justice, that the blacksmith might not suffer, because he was necessary to the place, which could not do without a blacksmith, to shoe horses and make their farming utensils, but the officer said, ‘How then can I fulfil my duty?’ To which they answered, ‘We have two weavers in the village, and for so small a place, one is enough; hang the other.’ — The officer of justice, not knowing how to act, applied to the Directory, who returned them orders to act as the majesty of the people demanded; of course the poor weaver was put to death, to the great satisfaction of the blacksmith, notwithstanding the grumbling of the weaver's wife and seven small children.

TEARS OF AFFECTION.

A YOUNG swindler hiring a lodging, said to the landlady, ‘I assure you madam, I am so much liked, that I never left a lodging but my landlady shed tears.’ 'Perhaps, said she, ‘you always went away without paying.’

[Page]

DEAD ALIVE.

CAPTAIN Christie, an Irish officer, who served with considerable credit in America, had the misfortune to be dreadfully wounded in one of the battles there. As he lay on the ground, an unfortunate soldier, who was near him, and was also severely wounded, made a terrible howling, at which Christie exclaimed,: ‘D—mn your eyes, what do you make such a noise for, do you think no body is killed but yourself?’

WONDERFUL POWER OF MAGNETISM.

A GENTLEMAN travelling in foreign parts, happened to be benighted, far from any place of accommodation: to avoid the dreariness of the night, in a strange place, he thought it advisable to seek for some shelter, and having discovered a cave, he dismounted his horse, which he fastened by the bridle on the outside of the cave, and then went in and laid himself down in his clothes, and being much fatigued, fell asleep, nor did he awake till the daylight appeared; when lo! to his great astonishment, he found himself suspended by his heels from the roof of the cave. He made many efforts to free himself from so disagreeable a situation, when at length he shuffled his legs out of his boots and came to the ground, [Page] almost stunned by the fall; when looking up he perceived the cause of this disaster was owing to the cave being formed out of a rock of loadstone, and he unfortunately having steel spurs on, was attracted up in the manner described; and some say the boots are hanging there yet.

A CURE FOR THE ITCH OF DUELLING.

AN old officer of distinction, and of tried valour, refused to accept a challenge sent him by a young adventurer; but returned the following answer: ‘I fear not your sword, but the anger of my God. I dare venture my life in a good cause, but cannot hazard my soul in a bad one. I will charge up to the cannon's mouth, for the good of my country; but I want courage to storm hell.’

A GLIMPSE OF COSMOGRAPHY.

A STRANGER being much addicted to lying, was telling to a gaping croud the many countries and cities he had been in; when one of the company asked him, if he had ever been in Cosmography. The stranger, thinking this the name of some city, said, ‘We saw it at a distance, but could not visit it, being in great haste.’

[Page]

THE WOODEN GOD.

A PORTUGUESE sculptor, who was suspected of free-thinking, was at the point of death. A Jesuit, who came to confess him, holding a crucifix before his eyes, said, ‘Behold that God you have so much offended. Do you recollect him now?’ 'Alas! yes, Father,' replied the dying man; it was I, who made him.'

A RECEIPT, BY WHICH TWO MEN CAN MAKE FIFTY ARMED MEN RUN.

A traveller, relating some wonderful adventures, which happened to him in his travels through Egypt, told the company, that he and his servant made fifty armed Arabs run. Which startling them, his servant observed, there was no great matter in that; 'For,' says he, ‘we ran, and they ran after us.’

AN INDISPUTABLE FACT.

ON the inquest taken on the body of a poor taylor, who lately cut his throat; a journeyman of the deceased was examined touching the evident signs of lunacy betrayed by the deceased, [Page] previous to his committing the horrid act. The journeyman, when after speaking of him as an honest and sober minded person, solemnly declared on his oath, that he never knew his master guilty of such an act before, in all his life.

A SOLDIER'S REPLY.

A soldier passing through a country village, a large mastiff ran at him, and he stabbed the dog with a spear, he had in his hand. The master of the dog carried the soldier before a justice of the peace, who asked him, why he had not rather struck at the dog with the butt end of his weapon. 'So I should,' said the soldier, ‘if the dog had run at me with his tail.’

STORY OF AN ASS, WHO CONTRADICTED HIS MASTER.

A MAN went to borrow an ass of a neighbour, who said the ass was not at home.— Meanwhile the animal happened to bray: upon which the borrower exclaimed, ‘How! did you not tell me the ass was not at home? you certainly meant to deceive, for I hear him bray.’ The other replied, in a great passion, ‘Why neighbour, will you take the ass's word before mine?’

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A HANGING MATTER.

TWO fellows meeting, one asked the other, why he looked so sad. ‘I have very good reason for it,’ answered the other; ‘poor Jack Wilson, the greatest crony, and best friend I had in the world, was hanged but two days ago.’ — 'What had he done?' said the first. 'Alas,' replied the other, ‘he did no more than you or I should have done on the like occasion; he found a halter in a man's pasture, and carried it off.’ 'What!' answered the other, ‘hang a man, for finding a halter? That is hard, indeed.’ ‘To tell the truth of the matter,’ said the other, ‘there was a horse at one end of it.’

A DISQUISITION ON COLOURS.

THREE citizens walking in the fields, one said, ‘We shall have a great year of blackberries; for’ said he, 'the last week I plucked a handful of the finest red blackberries, that I ever saw.' A second person laughed at him, saying red blackberries is a bull. But the third person, with much gravity, justified what the former had said, and very sagely asked, ‘Are not blackberries always red when they are green?’

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A RECEIPT TO PREVENT ANY BAD ACCIDENT BY FALLING FROM A TREE.

A PEASANT, having ascended a chesnut tree, to gather the nuts, fell down and broke his leg. Minaco, a wag, comforting him, said, that if he would follow his advice, he should never have another fall from a tree; the peasant, begging, with great earnestness, to hear the receipt. Minaco said, ‘Never come down, faster than you go up.’

THE MAN OF FEELING.

A SWISS Captain, burying pell-mell in the field of battle both the dead and the wounded, it was represented to him, that some of those, whom he thus buried, were not quite dead, and with care might perhaps recover. 'Poh! poh!' said he, ‘if you take their word for it, there is not a man of them will own himself dead.’

THE MAN OF FAILING.

THE late Colonel Chatres, reflecting on his ill life and character, told Mr. Garrick, that if such a thing, as a good name, was to be purchased [Page] with money, he would freely give ten thousand pounds for one. Mr. Garrick told him, it would certainly be the worst bargain he ever made in his life. 'Why so?' said the honest Colonel.— 'Because,' answered Garrick, ‘you would lose it again in less than a week.’

SURPRISING INSTANCE OF FORGETFULNESS.

A COUNTRY Clergyman meeting a neighbour, who never came to church, although an old fellow of above sixty years of age; the pious priest gave him some severe reproof on that account, and asked him, if he ever read his bible at home. 'No,' replied the old man, 'I cannot read.' 'Now, I dare say,' said the parson, ‘you do not know who made you.’ 'Not I, in good truth,' cried the countryman. A little boy happened to come by at the same time; ‘Who made you, child?’ said the parson. 'God, Sir,' answered the boy. 'Why, look you there,' quoth the honest clergyman, ‘are you not ashamed to hear a child of four or five years old tell me, who made him, when you, that are so old a man, cannot?’ 'Ah!' said the countryman, ‘it is no wonder, that he should remember, he was made but the other day; you must know, it is a long while since I was made.’

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A DOUBTFUL CASE.

A SCHOLAR, meeting a man, said to him, with great seeming surprise, ‘Bless me, Sir, I heard you was dead.’ To which the other answered, ‘Oh! no; it is not true; you see I am still alive.’ The scholar replied, ‘Perhaps you are; but, upon my word, I don't know how to believe you, for he, who told me you were dead, is a man of much more credit than you.’

AN UNACCOUNTABLE WHIM.

A PERSON, happening to call one day upon an old acquaintance, found him exercising his wife with a leather strap; and being hurt at the ungenerous task, undertaken by his friend, he begged him, by all the ties of honour, to forbear; at the same time asking him the occasion of such severe treatment. ‘The occasion is,’ said the enraged husband, ‘she will not be mistress in her own house.’ His friend expressed great astonishment at the answer, and observed, ‘The omission was such as he believed no woman ever gave her husband occasion to thrash her for before.’ 'Ah! by the lord,' said the husband, 'my wife won't be mistress, because she wants to 'be master.

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A VIRGIN'S REQUEST.

A YOUNG blooming girl, being warmly importuned by her lover for the last favour, said to him, ‘I will grant your request, after you have granted mine, which is, for you to give me what you have not, what you cannot have, and yet may easily give me—A HUSBAND.’

FRUITLESS PRECAUTION.

A GREAT philosopher sealed a wine vessel he had, but his servant bored a hole in the bottom, and stole the liquor. He was astonished at the liquor's diminishing, though the seal was entire; and another saying, ‘Perhaps, it is taken out at the bottom,’ the philosopher answered, ‘Most foolish of men, it is not the under part, but the upper that is deficient.’

A REMARKABLE CASE.

A SCHOLAR, wanting money, sold his books, and wrote to his father in the following manner: ‘Rejoice with me, my dear father, for now my books maintain me.’

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NOUGHT'S WIFE.

A MR. Dobson, who was famed for nothing but his stupidity and indolence, as he was going from home one day, was desired by his wife not to be gone so much, as she was afraid to be left alone so much. 'Poh! Poh!' said he, 'nought 'is never in danger. 'I know that, very well,' said she, 'but nought's wife is.'

THE DEAF MAN STUNNED.

ALTHOUGH the infirmities of nature are not proper subjects to be made a jest of, yet when people take a great deal of pains to conceal what every body knows, there is nothing more ridiculous: Of this sort was old Smith, the player, who, being very deaf, did not care any body should know it. Honest Joe Miller, going with a friend one day along Fleet-Street, and seeing old Smith on the other side of the way, told his acquaintance, he should see some sport: so beckoning to Smith with his finger, and stretching open his mouth as wide as he could, as if he halloed to him, though he said nothing, the old fellow came puffing from the other side of the way. ‘What a pox,’ said he, ‘do you make such a noise for? do you mean to stun me, or do you think I am deaf and cannot hear you.’

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TIT FOR TAT.

A COUNTRY fellow was just come to London, gaping about in every shop he came to, at last he came to [...] lottery office, where seeing only one man sitting at a desk, he could not imagine what commodity was sold there; but calling to the clerk, 'Pray Sir,' said he, ‘what do you keep to sell here?’ 'Loggerheads,' cried the clerk. 'Do you,' answered the countryman: ‘by the living jingo, then, you have a special good trade, for I see you have but one loggerhead left.’

REMARKABLE ACCIDENT OF A GUN, WHICH WENT OFF, WITHOUT BEING CHARGED.

A GENTLEMAN in England, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, owned a gun, which was made in such a wonderful manner, and of such a curious construction, that it really went off (upon a thief's coming into the house) although it was not charged. This affair excited great speculation among the learned; but the owner of the gun confessed, it was the thief carried it off, and what was worse, before he had time to charge him with it.

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THE POOR SCHOLAR.

A BEGGAR asking alms under the name of a poor scholar, a gentleman, to whom he applied himself, asked him a question in Latin, the poor fellow, shaking his head, said, he did not understand him: 'Why' said the gentleman ‘did you not just now tell me you were a poor scholar?’ 'Yes,' replied the other, ‘a poor one indeed, Sir, for I do not understand one word of Latin.’

THE BLOODY-MINDED PARSON.

‘YOUR unchristian virulence against me,’ said a clergyman, ‘will cost hundreds of people their lives.’ This menace brought the author into trouble; he was cited to a court of justice, and charged with harbouring the most bloody designs against his fellow subjects. However, it was proved in court that his real meaning was, if he was not allowed to preach, he would practice as a physician.

THE OLD SPORSTMAN OUTWITTED.

A BRIDEGOOM, the first night he was in bed with his bride, said unto her; ‘When I solicited your chastity, if you had condescended, [Page] I would never have made you my wife, for I did it only to try thee.’ 'Faith!' said she, ‘I did imagine as much, but I had been cozened so three or four times before, and I was resolved not to be fooled so again.’

THE GREAT BISHOP'S BEARD.

A BISHOP, being at a table, let some of his victuals drop on his beard, which was most extravagantly long, his new butler said to him with the greatest simplicity, ‘My lord there is something on the beard of your greatness;’ but seeing the austere Bishop frown at him, in the most solemn manner; he immediately thought he had expressed himself improperly, and explained by saying ‘My lord there is something on the greatness of your beard.’

THE GENEROUS CONQUEROR.

TWO men fighting a duel, one overthrew the other, and disarmed him. ‘Now beg your life of me and take it;’ said he, ‘you are now at my mercy.’ 'I will die first:' answered the other. 'Nay, saith,' he replied, ‘if your life is not worth your asking, it is not worth my taking;’ and so he let him depart, with a whole skin.

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ILL EFFECTS OF EARLY RISING.

A father blaming his son for not rising early in the morning, gave him an example of one, who, going abroad early, found a purse of gold. 'Ay, father,' said the son, ‘but was not he abroad earlier, who lost the purse?’

UNFORTUNATE SPECULATION.

A GENTLEMAN lately returned from the East Indies, enquired of his neighbour, after a very particular friend of his, who was hanged soon after he left the country, for forgery, was told that he made some speculations, 'and died soon after. 'And did he continue in the grocery line?' cried the former. 'Oh! no,' (answered the other) 'he was quite in a different line when he died.

THE CONTENTED WIFE.

A VERY beautiful Lady, who had been a celebrated coquette, having married a remakably ugly husband, was ask how it was possible she could put up with such a husband, answered, ‘Gallants ought to be handsome, but husbands as it pleases God.’

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HORSEMANSHIP.

AN Irish sailor, as he was riding, made a stop for a few minutes—The horse in beating off the flies, caught his hind foot in the stirrup; the sailor observing it, said, ‘How now, dobbin, if you are going to get on, I'll get off, for damme if I'll ride double with you.’

EXTREME MODESTY.

A PHYSICIAN went to visit a young lady, daughter of a nobleman. Desiring her arm, to feel her pulse, the damsel from pride, covered the place with the sleeve of her shift. The Physician also drew down his coat sleeve, and applying it, said, 'A linen pulse must have a woolen Physician.'

LAW EXPLAINED.

A POOR fellow, condemned to be hung, told the late Justice Burnet, it was a very hard thing, to be hanged for stealing a horse. ‘No, friend,’ said the Judge, you are not hanged for stealing 'a horse; but that horses may not be stolen.'

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THE PARSON BROUGHT TO TERMS.

THE famous Sir George Rooke, when he was a Captain of Marines, was quartered at a village, where he buried a pretty many of his men; at length the parson refused to perform the ceremony of their interment any more unless he was paid for it; which being told Captain Rooke, he ordered six men of his company to carry the corpse of the soldier then dead, and lay him upon the parson's hall table. This so embarrassed the priest, that he sent the Captain word, if he would fetch the man away, he would bury him and all his company for nothing.

SIGNS OF CIVILIZATION.

THE writer of a modern book of Travels, relating the particulars of his being cast away on an unknown shore, thus concludes:

‘After having walked eleven hours without tracing the print of a human soot, to my great comfort and delight, I saw a man hanging upon a gibbet, my pleasure at seeing this cheering prospect was inexpressible, for it convinced me, that I was in a civilized country.’

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A PERFECT HUNCH-BACK.

A GOOD friar, preaching upon the wonderful power of God, said, he had never created any thing but what was perfect in its kind, a round-shouldered wag, waiting for him at the door, said, ‘Father, I thank you for your sermon; but do you really think that I am perfect in my kind?’ 'Yes,' said the father gravely, ‘you are surely a very perfect hunch-back.’

HOW TO CUT A CHEESE IN THE BEST PLACE.

DANIEL Burgess, supping with a gentlewoman of his acquaintance, and a large uncut Cheshire cheese being brought upon the table; he asked her, where he should cut it. She replied, 'Where you please, Mr. Burgess.' Upon which he gave it to a servant in waiting, bade him carry it to his house, and he would cut it at home.

PRAYER AT SEA.

AN atheistical fellow, in a storm at sea, began to use this rhetoric to God for his life: ‘O Lord, I beseech thee to hear my prayer at this time, for thou knowest I trouble thee but seldom.’

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HISTORICAL ANECDOTE.

THE Marshal de Grammont besieging a place, the Governour capitulated, after a slight resistance. When the Governour walked out, he said to the Marshal, ‘I will confess to you, in confidence, that I only asked to capitulate, because I wanted powder.’ ‘To return your confidence,’ answered the Marshal, I only granted your 'demand, because I wanted ball.'

SUM TOTAL OF A LORD MAYOR'S TALENTS.

KING James the Second passing through Colchester, it was resolved, that the Mayor should compliment him on his arrival. It so happened, that this chief magistrate was eminently stupid (which is looked upon as no strange thing in England). The town-clerk was appointed to attend him at his back, and whisper what he was to say to the King. When they came into his Majesty's presence, the clerk, desiring to encourage the mayor, whispered, ‘Hold up your head and look like a man.’ ‘Hold up your head and look like a man!’ did the mayor bawl to the King. The clerk, astonished, whispered, ‘What the devil do you mean?’ The mayor bawled out, ‘What the devil do you mean?’ The clerk, sweating with fear [Page] and vexation, whispered, 'By Heaven! you will ruin us all.' The mayor immediately repeated, 'By Heaven! you will ruin us all.' The clerk, in a violent rage, said, ‘Oh! you blundering puppy, I wish you had never come here.’ The mayor again bawled, ‘Oh! you blundering puppy, I wish you had never come here.’ The clerk on this immediately took to his heels, and the mayor followed him, leaving the King in a violent fit of laughter, though not without rage.

SPECIMEN OF ENGLISH SKILL IN WIT AND WARFARE.

AN English and a French gentleman had a dispute, which nation most excelled in wit. The English gentleman insisted, that wit was common in England, even among the mob; and to convince the Frenchman of the English superiority, he carried him to Charing-Cross, where a man stood in the pillory, for keeping a disorderly house. The populace, looking on it as an inconsiderable offence, did not throw any thing at him, or ill treat him, as is usual for crimes of a different nature; therefore the fellow was quite easy and unconcerned, and lifted the upper part of the pillory, sometimes higher, and then let it lower again, just to suit himself. Upon which one of the spectators, who stood there with a load upon his head, seeing [Page] the offender so dextrous, said, ‘It is my opinion, this fellow has served his time to the pillory, he is so handy about it.’ To which a droll rogue, in a leather apron, replied, ‘Served his time to it! why you may be sure he has; for do you not see he is set up for himself?’ 'Set up!' says another, ‘How can you say he is set up, when you see he is standing up?’ ‘Why you foolish dog,’ says another, ‘do you not know it is a standing business?’ And now a fellow in a woolen cap calls out to the man in the pillory, 'Harkee, 'Cockey, says he, ‘had you not rather jokes should fly about than the rotten eggs?’ ‘Aye, sure enough, master,’ replies the man in the pillory, ‘though it was on account of some sort of jokes, that I got my head into this hole.’ At this time, a wheelbarrow woman added one more to the assembly; when a blacksmith accosts her with, ‘Well, Moll, what brought you here?’ To which she answered, ‘Curiosity and my legs, Jack; now I hope the fool is answered.’ 'Fool!' says the fellow, ‘what do you mean by that, you slut?’ Why' rejoined she, ‘you must be a fool, because you can neither read nor write.’ 'Very true,' replied the blacksmith, ‘but I can set my mark!’ and immediately striking her in the face, gave her a black eye: this brought on a battle between the blacksmith, and a sailor, who took the woman's part; in a few moments the blacksmith, two colliers and a chimney-sweeper joined in the contest. The French seeing the English fight so like bull-dogs, said 'The English shine in 'WAR, as well as WIT,

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ORATORY.

WHEN Sir Richard Steele was fitting up his great room in York buildings, which he intended for public orations, he happened at a time to be pretty much behindhand with his workmen; and coming one day amongst them, to see how they went forward, he ordered one of them to get into the rostrum and make a speech, that he might observe, how it could be heard. The fellow mounting, and scratching his pate, told him he knew not what to say, for in truth he was no orator. 'Oh!' said Sir Richard, 'no matter for that; speak any thing that comes uppermost. 'Why, here, Sir Richard,' says the fellow, ‘we have been working for you these six weeks, and cannot get one penny of money; pray, Sir, when do you intend to pay us?’ 'Very well, very well,' said Sir Richard, ‘Pray, come down, I have heard enough; I must own, you speak very distinctly, but I cannot say I like your subject.’

THE GOOSE AND HIS LORDSHIP.

A NOBLE lord asked a clergyman, who dined with him, why the goose, if there was one, was always placed next to the parson. ‘Really,’ said the parson, ‘I can give no reason for it; but your question is so odd, that I shall never see a goose again, without thinking of your lordship.’

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A ROGUE CAUGHT IN BAD COMPANY.

THE Duke of Ossona, being Viceroy of Naples, went on board the Spanish gallies, on a festival, to make use of his right of delivering one wretch from punishment. He interrogated many, and asked, why they came there. All excused themselves on various pretences, save one, who confessed his crimes, and said, that his punishment was too light for them. The Duke exclaimed, ‘Here, take away this villain; lest he should corrupt all these honest men!’ and he instantly set him free.

COUNT DE GRANCE.

THE Count de Grancé being wounded in the knee with a musket ball, the surgeons made many incisions in the flesh to find it. The Count losing patience at last, asked them, why they cut and carved him so cruelly? ‘We are seeking the ball;’ said they. ‘Why the devil did you not speak before,’ said the Count, ‘I took it out myself and have it in my pocket.’

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VOLTAIRE.

VOLTAIRE▪ having lampooned a nobleman, was one night in his way home, intercepted by him, and handsomely cudgelled for his licentious wit. Upon which Voltaire applied to the Duke of Orleans, who was then regent, and begged him to do justice in the affair. 'Sir', replied the regent smiling, 'it has been done already.'

THE LINGUIST.

A FELLOW who had picked up a few scraps of the French tongue, and was entirely ignorant of the Latin, accosted a gentleman, in French, 'Quelle heure est il, Monsieur?' [What o'clock is it, Sir?] To which the gentleman answered in Latin, 'Nescio.' [I don't know.] ‘D—mn it,’ said the fellow, ‘I did not think it was near so late!’ and ran off as if he had something of consequence to do.

THE REPOSITORY OF GEUIUS. HUMOROUS AND ENTERTAINING EPIGRAMS.

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TRUE WIT.

TRUE wit is like the brilliant stone

Dug from the Indian mine;

Which boasts two different powers in one,

To cut, as well as shine.

Genius, like that, if polish'd right,

With the same gifts abounds;

Appears, at once, both keen and bright,

And sparkles while it wounds.

THE MORALIST.

AS Tom was one day in deep chat with his friend▪

He gravely advis'd him his manners to mend;

That his morals were bad, he heard it from many.

'They lie,' replied Tom, for I never had any.'

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A COURT AUDIENCE.

OLD SOUTH, a witty churchman reckon'd,

Was preaching once to Charles the second,

But much too serious for a court,

Who at all preaching made a sport.

He soon perceiv'd his audience nod,

Deaf to the zealous man of God!

The preacher stopp'd; began to call,

'Pray, wake the earl of Lauderdale.

'My lord! why, 'tis a monstrous thing!

You snore so loud—You'll wake the King.'

THE KNIGHTS OF THE SHEERS.

QUEEN Bess once in council was given to know,

That a corps of her cavalry fled from the foe;

But in telling the tale, it come out unawares,

That the troops were all taylors, and mounted on mares;

'Nay,' cries the Queen, 'let the rogues run away,

'Since I've neither lost Man nor Horse in the fray.'

THE LAWYER AND CLIENT.

TWO lawyers, when a knotty cause was o'er,

Shook hands, and were as good friends as before.

[Page]'Zounds!' says the honest client,' how come you

'To be such friends, who were such foes just now?'

'Thou fool,' says one, 'we lawyers, tho' so keen,

'Like sheers, ne'er cut ourselves, but what's between.'

UPON A MILL.

THIS house of wheels, sure seems to look,

Much like a monstrous wooden clock;

Yet with this difference one may say,

Clocks tell how much Time steals away,

But Millers manage Toll so well,

Tho' mills clack loud, they never tell!

LORD LYTTLETON TO LADY BROWN.

WHEN I was young and debonnaire,

The Brownest nymph to me was fair;

But now I'm old, and wiser grown,

The fairest nymph to me is Brown.

ON MATRIMONY.

TOM prais'd his friend, who chang'd his state,

For binding fast himself to Kate,

[Page]In union so divine;

'Wedlock's the end of life,' he cried;

'Too true, alas,' said Jack and sigh'd,

''Twill be the end of mine.'

TRUE BENEVOLENCE.

THE other day, says Ned to Joe,

(Near Bedlam's confines passing)

'Whene'er I hear the cries of woe,

'My hand is always open.'

'I own,' says Joe, 'that to the poor,

'(You prove it every minute)

'Your hand is open to be sure;

'But then, there's nothing in it.'

A RHAPSODY.

AS I walk'd by myself, I said to myself,

And myself said again unto me,

'Look to thyself, take care of thyself,

'For nobody cares for thee.'

Then I said to myself, and thus answered myself,

With the self same repartee,

'Look to thyself, or look not to thyself,

''Tis the self same thing to me.'

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THE FRIEND.

THUS, with kind words, Sir Edward cheer'd his friend:

'Dear Dick, thou on my friendship may'st depend;

'I know thy fortune is but very scant;

'But be assur'd, I'll ne'er see Dick in want.'

Dick's soon confin'd—his friend no doubt would free him;

His word he kept—in want he ne'er would see him.

LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S MILTON.

WITH virtue strong as your's had Eve been arm'd,

In vain the fruit had blush'd, or serpent charm'd:

Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought;

Nor had frail Adam fell; nor Milton wrote.

YOUNG TONY'S REASON FOR DRINKING.

QUOTH Hodge to his son, who good swigging did love,

'Each glass that you drink, will your enemy prove.'

Quoth Tony, 'Dear father, we must love our foes.'

So he turn'd up the bottle, and hickup'd, 'kere goes.'

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THE COMPARISON.

JACK eating rotten cheese did say,

'Like Sampson, I my thousands flay.'

'I vow,' quoth Roger, 'so you do,

'And with the self same weapon too.'

THE FASHIONS.

WHAT's fashionable, I'll maintain,

'Is always right,' cries sprightly Jane.

'Ah! would to Heaven,' cries graver Sue.

'What's right were fashionable too.'

THE MODERN COUPLE.

'TWIXT John and his wife, in lieu of affection,

Perpetual contests arose:

In judgment and taste, each assum'd the direction.

And both were proceeding to blows:

When John exclaimed, 'Hold—my error I see,

'Your argument's weighty and true;

'You have taste; for in marriage you made choice 'of me;

'I've none—for I made choice of you.'

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THE KINGS OF EUROPE.

WHY pray, of late, do Europe's kings

No jester in their courts admit?

They're grown such stately solemn things,

To bear a joke, they think not fit.

But tho' each court a jester lacks,

To laugh at monarchs to their face

All mankind, behind their backs,

Supply the honest jester's place.

A REPARTEE.

CRIES Sylvia, to a reverend Dean,

'What reason can be giv'n,

'Since marriage is a holy thing,

'That there is none in heaven?'

'There are no women,' he replied.

She quick returns the jest—

'Women there are, but I'm afraid,

'They can't find a priest.'

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WHAT THIS WORLD IS LIKE.

THIS world is a prison, in every respect,

Whose walls are the heavens in common;

The gaoler is sin, and the prisoners men;

And the fetters are nothing but—women.

SIR TOPEWELL.

WHEN Topewell thought fit from the world to retreat,

As full of Champagne, as an egg's full of meat;

He wak'd in the boat, and to Charon he said,

He would be row'd back—for he was not dead.

'Trim the boat, and sit quiet,' stern Charon replied;

'You may have forgot, you were drunk when you died.'

THE DEAD ALIVE.

A JOVIAL fellow, full of spunk,

The other day, by chance, got drunk.

His friend, who was a knowing crony,

Wish'd to convert him into money;

So putting him into a sack,

He carried him, upon his back,

[Page]Unto a surgeon of great fame,

And for two guineas sold the same.

The bargain closed; the corpse began

To groan, just like a living man!

'Ho!' cried the surgeon, 'what is here,'

'The dead is now alive I fear?'

'It is no matter,' said the vender,

'You buy the body that I render,

'And therefore set your heart at ease,

'For you can kill him, when you please.'

THE FAIR THIEF.

I TELL, with equal truth and grief,

That little Kit's an arrant thief;

Before the urchin well could go,

She stole the whiteness of the snow;

And more—that whiteness to adorn,

She stole the blushes of the morn;

Stole all the softness Aether pours,

On primrose buds, in vernal show'rs.

There's no repeating all her wiles,

She stole the Graces winning smiles;

'Twas quickly seen she robb'd the sky,

To plant a star in either eye;

She pilfer'd orient pearl for teeth,

And stole the cow's ambrosial breath;

The cherry, steep'd in morning dew,

Gave moisture to her lips and hue.

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These were her infant spoils, a store,

To which, in time, she added more;

At twelve, she stole from Cyprus' queen

Her air, and love-commanding mien;

Stole Juno's dignity, and stole,

From Pallas, sense to charm the soul;

She sung—amaz'd the syrens heard,

And, to assert their voice, appear'd:

She play'd—the muses from their hill,

Wonder'd who thus had stole their skill;

Apollo's wit was next her pray,

And then the beams that light the day;

While Jove, her pilfering thefts to crown,

Pronounc'd these beauties all her own;

Pardon'd her crimes, and prais'd her art;

And t' other day she stole—my heart.

Cupid! if lovers are thy care,

Revenge thy votary on the fair;

Do justice on her stolen charms,

And let her prison be—my arms.

FASHIONABLE SONGS, FOR THE YEAR 1798.

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SONG I. ALL FOR A SONG.

A SONG, a song, is the cry of mankind,

All know what to singing belongs;

'Tis interest governs us all, you will find,

And gives us the pitch of our songs.

The miser with riches, who's never content,

Can tell what is right or is wrong,

For he joins in the chorus of twenty per cent.

And owns it a very good song.

Behold next the merchant, the federal lad,

Who hopes that the union is strong,

But says it is money that makes the heart glad,

And hammers away with a song.

The merchant is punctual—to see himself paid,

And wishes for credit that's long,

Yet strike up the ditty of commerce and trade,

How quickly he joins in the song.

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The lawyer and parson do know very well,

The things that to singing belong,

One fingers the fee, ere a word he can tell,

One turns off his flock with a song.

And Washington too, the hero and sage,

To heaven he carols this song:—

'The blessings, which thou to Columbia gave,

'Oh heaven! I pray thee prolong.'

SONG II. ROW, DOW, DOW.

ON Entick's green meadows where innocence reigns,

Where pleasure and plenty forever preside,

I romp'd with the maidens and pretty young swains,

And Ralph fancy'd soon he should call me his bride;

When I first heard the drum, with the row, dow, dow,

Its music was sweeter than soft serenade:

I scorn'd all the rest for the row, dow, dow,

And sigh'd for the Captain with a smart cockade.

The first I e'er saw, he march'd over our green,

His men all behind him, by two and by two;

Such a sight in our village had never been seen,

The men all in ranks were drawn out to view;

When I first heard the drum, with a row, dow, dow,

[Page]Young Cupid awak'd, such a bustle he made,

My heart beat a march, with a row, dow, dow,

And went o'er to the Captain with a smart cockade.

My face took his fancy—he swore at my feet

All his laurels he'd lay, if I'd give him my hand;

No maid could refuse a lover so sweet;

To the church then I march'd by the word of command:

Now I follow the drum, with a row, dow, dow,

Nor e'er have repented the vow that I made;

No music's to me like the row, dow, dow,

No youth like the Captain with a smart cockade.

SONG III. HEATHEN MYTHOLOGY.

SONGS of shepherds in rustical roundelays,

Form'd in fancy and whistl'd on reeds,

Sung to solace young nymphs upon holidays,

Are too unworthy for wonderful deeds.

Sottish Silenus to Phoebus the genius

Was sent by dame Venus, a song to prepare,

In phrase nicely coin'd, and verse quite refin'd,

How the states divine hunted the hare.

Stars quite tir'd with past times Olympical,

Stars and planets that beautiful shone,

[Page]Could no longer endure that men only should

Revel in pleasures, and they but look on.

Round about horned Lucina they swarmed;

And quickly informed her how minded they were,

Each god and goddess to take human bodies,

As lords and ladies to follow the hare.

Chaste Diana applauded the motion,

And pale Proserpina sat down in her place,

To guide the welkin, and govern the ocean,

While Dian conducted her nephews in chace.

By her example, their father to trample,

The earth old and ample, they soon leave the air:

Neptune the water, and wine Liber pater,

And Mars the slaughter, to follow the hare.

Young god Cupid was mounted on Pegasus,

Borrow'd of the Muses with kisses and prayers;

Stern Alcides upon cloudy Caucasus

Mounted a centaur that proudly him bears.

The postilion of the sky, light heeled Sir Mecury,

Made his swift courser fly fleet as the air;

While tuneful Apollo the pastime did follow,

To whoop and to hollow, boys after the hare.

Drowned Narcissus, from his metamorphosis

Rous'd by Echo, new manhood did take.

Snoring Somnus upstarted from Cim'ries:

Before, for a thousand years he did not wake.

There was lame club-footed Mulciber booted;

And Pan, too, promoted on Corydon's mare.

Aeolus flouted; with mirth Momus shouted;

While wise Pallas pouted, yet follow'd the hare.

[Page]

Grave Hymen ushers in lady Astrea,

The humour took hold of Latona the cold.

Ceres the brown, too with bright Cytherea,

And Thetis the wanton, Bellona the bold;

Shamefac'd Aurora, with witty Pandora,

And Maria with Flora did company bear;

But Juno was stated too high to be mated,

Altho', Sir, she hated not hunting the hare.

Three brown bowls of Olympical nectar

The Troy born boy now presents on his knee:

Jove to Phoebus now carouses in nectar,

And Phoebus to Hermes, and Hermes to me▪

Wherewith infused, I piped and mused,

In language unused their sports to declare,

Till the vast house of Jove like the bright spheres did move,

Here's a health, then, to all that love hunting the hare.

SONG IV. TOM TACLL. A much admired song, composed by Mr. Dibdin, in his entertainment of castles in the air.

TOM Tacle was noble, was true to his word;

If merit brought titles, Tom might be my lord,

How gally his bark through life's ocean would sail,

[Page]Truth furnish'd the rigging, and honour the gale;

Yet Tom had a failing, if ever man had,

That as good as he was, made him all that was bad;

He was paltry and pitiful, scurvy and mean,

And the sniv'lingest scoundrel, that ever was seen;

For so said the girls and the landlords 'long shore,

Would you know what his fault was, Tom Tacle was poor.

'Twas once on a time, when we took a galleon,

And the crew touched the agent for cash to some tune,

Tom took a trip to gaol an old messmate to free,

And sour thankful prattlers soon sat on his knee▪

Then Tom was an angel, from heaven down sent,

While they had hands he his goodness should never repent;

Returned from next voyage, he bemoaned his sad case,

To find his dear friend shut the door in his face;

'Why d'ye wonder,' cried one, 'you're serv'd 'right, to be sure;

'Once Tom Tackle was rich, now Tom Tacle is 'poor.'

I ben't, you see, versed in high maxims and such,

But don't this same honour concern poor and rich?

If it don't come from good hearts, I can't see wherefrom;

And d—m me if e'er a tar had a good heart, it was Tom:

Yet some how or other Tom never did right,

None know better the time when to spare or to fight,

[Page]He by finding a leak once preserv'd crew and ship,

Sav'd the commodore's life, then he made such rare flip;

And yet for all this no one could Tom endure,

I fancy as how 'twas, because he was poor.

At last an old shipmate, that Tom might hail land,

Who saw that his heart sail'd too fast for his hand,

In the riding of comfort a mooring to find,

Reef'd the sails of Tom's fortune, that shook in the wind;

He gave him enough through life's ocean to steer,

Be the breeze what it might, steady thus or not near;

His pittance is daily, and yet Tom imparts,

What he can, to his friends; and may all honest hearts,

Like Tom Tacle, have what keeps the wolf from the door,

Just enough to be generous, too much to be poor.

SONG V. TUG AT THE OAR.

O THINK on my fate; once I freedom enjoy'd,

Was happy as happy could be,

But pleasure is fled; even hope is destroy'd,

A captive, alas! on the sea!

[Page]I was tak'n by the foe; 'twas the fiat of fate,

To tear me from her I adore!

When thought brings to my mind my once happy state,

I sigh, while I tug at the oar.

Hard, hard is my fate! oh how galling my chain!

My life's steer'd by misery's chart;

And tho' 'gainst my tyrants I scorn to complain,

Tears gush forth to ease my full heart:

I disdain e'en to shrink, tho' I feel the sharp lash,

Yet my breast bleeds for her I adore.

While around me the unfeeling billows will dash,

I sigh, and still tug at the oar.

How fortune deceives! I had pleasure in tow,

The port where she dwelt we'd in view,

But the wish'd nuptial morn was o'erclouded with woe,

And, dear Anna, I was hurried from you:

Our shallop was boarded, and I borne away,

To behold my dear Anna no more,

But despair wastes my spirits, my form feels decay,

He sigh'd, and expir'd at the oar.

[Page]

SONG VI. THE GIRL OF MY HEART.

IN the world's crooked path, where I've been,

There to share in life's gloom my poor heart,

The sunshine, that soften'd the scene,

Was—a smile from the girl of my heart.

Not a swain, when the lark quits her nest,

But to labour with glee will depart,

If at eve he expects to be blest

With a smile from the girl of his heart.

Come then crosses and cares as they may,

Let my mind still this maxim impart,

That the comfort of man's fleeting day,

Is—a smile from the girl of his heart.

SONG VII. THE GENEROUS LOVER.

I LIKE each girl, that I come near,

Tho' none I love but Mary;

Oh! she's my darling, only dear,

Bewitching little fairy.

I ask'd a kiss, and she look'd down,

Her cheeks are spread with blushes;

[Page]'By Jove,' says I, 'I'll take the town,'

Me back she gently pushes—

I like each girl, &c.

When off 'twas blown, and 'twas my place

To fly for Mary's bonnet,

So charming look'd her lovely face

There I stood gazing on it:

Dress'd all in white she tripp'd from home,

And set my blood a thrilling,

'O, zounds!' says I, 'the French are come,'

Sweet Mary look'd so killing.

I like each girl, &c.

When to our Colonel at review,

A Duchess cry'd, so airy,

'How does your Royal Highness do?'

Says I, 'I thank you, Mary:'

To quick time marching t'other day,

Our fifes play'd Andrew Carey,

To ev'ry girl I gave the way,

In compliment to Mary.

SONG VIII. 'TIS NO FAULT OF MINE.

YOUNG Damon has woo'd me a monstrous long time;

I dare say, 'tis a twelvemonth at least;

[Page]But courtship's so pleasant, when youth's in its prime,

The date of it cannot be guess'd.

Oh, how I did laugh, when I thought I could vex,

Or cause him in anguish to pine!

Indeed, 'tis the fashion with all our kind sex;

So you know it is no fault of mine.

The more constant he grew, the more flippant was I;

In his sighs I enjoy'd fresh delight;

When he ask'd for a kiss, tho' I long'd to comply,

Yet I tortur'd myself out of spite;

When he found me resolv'd all his hopes to perplex,

He forsook me, and left me to pine,

Indeed 'tis the fashion with that cruel sex;

So you know it was no fault of mine.

How short were the moments when Damon was near!

Now each minute's as long as a day,

And winters dark mantle envelopes the year,

Tho' then ev'ry season was May.

I'll seek the dear youth, and heal the keen smart,

Declare I to pity incline;

If then he refuses my hand and my heart,

Why, you know 'twill be no fault of mine.

[Page]

SONG IX. NANCY, OR THE SAILOR'S JOURNAL.

'TWAS past meridian half past four,

By signal I from Nancy parted;

At six she linger'd on the shore,

With uplift hands, and broken hearted:

At seven, while taughtening the fore-stay,

I saw her faint, or else 'twas fancy;

At eight we all got under way,

And bid a long adieu to Nancy.

Night came on, and now eight bells had rung,

While careless sailors, ever cheary,

On the mid watch so jovial sung,

With tempers labour cannot weary.

I little to their mirth inclined,

While tender thoughts rush'd on my fancy,

And my warm sighs increas'd the wind,

Look'd on the moon, and thought of Nancy.

And now arriv'd that jovial night,

When ev'ry true bred tar caroules,

When, o'er the grog, all hands delight

To toast their sweathearts and their spouses.

Round went the can, the jest, the glee,

While tender wishes fill'd each fancy;

[Page]And when, in turn, it came to me,

I heav'd a sigh, and toasted Nancy.

Next morn, a storm came on at four,

At six, the elements in motion,

Plung'd me and three poor sailors more

Headlong within the foaming ocean.

Poor wretches! they soon sound their graves,

For me it may be only fancy,

But love seemed to forbid the waves,

To snatch me from the arms of Nancy.

Scarce the foul hurricane was clear'd,

Scarce winds and waves had ceased to rattle,

When a bold enemy appear'd,

And, dauntless, we prepar'd for battle.

And now, while some lov'd friend or wife,

Like lightning, rush'd on every fancy,

To Providence I trusted life,

And put up a prayer, and thought on Nancy.

At last, 'twas in the month of May,

The crew, it being lovely weather,

At three, A. M. discover'd day,

And England's chalky cliffs together.

At seven, up channel how we bore,

While hopes and fears rush'd on my fancy,

At twelve I gaily jumped ashore,

And to my throbbing heart press'd Nancy.

[Page]

SONG X. POOR TOM, OR THE SAILOR'S EPITAPH.

HERE a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,

The darling of our crew,

No more he'll hear the tempest howling,

For death has broach'd him too.

His form was of the manliest beauty,

His heart was kind and soft,

Faithful below he did his duty,

And now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,

His virtues were so rare,

His friends were many, and true-hearted,

His Poll was kind and fair:

And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,

Ah! many's the time and oft,

But mirth is turn'd to melancholy,

For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,

When he, who all commands,

Shall give, to call life's crew together,

The word to pipe all hands.

Thus death, who kings and tars dispatches,

In vain Tom's life has doff'd,

For, though his body's under hatches,

His soul is gone aloft.

[Page]

SONG XI. A FAVOURITE SCOTCH AIR.

WHEN Donald first came wooing me,

'Twas on Cromarty Green,

The lad had long been loving me,

Tho' I was but nineteen:

He sung of that, and talk'd of this,

And many things said he,

At length he cry'd, and took a kiss,

'Sweet love, I'll marry thee;

'My bonny, blithsome, winsome lass,

'Sweet love, I'll marry thee.'

'I winna, canna marry you,'

Said I, 'so let me go;'

He kiss'd, he press'd, what could I do,

While he kept teazing so?

'And wilt thou e'er prove false?' I said,

'O try me, love;' said he;

'Why then,' says I, 'I think we'll wed,

'Sweet love, I'll marry thee:

'My bonny, blithsome, winsome lad,

'Sweet love, I'll marry thee.'

I told him plain, it munna be,

For why, I was too young;

And was for tripping o'er the lea,

In spite of all he sung:

'Stop, lassy, stop awhile, he cry'd,

[Page]And pull'd me on his knee,

'I tell thee, thou shalt be a bride,

'Sweet love, I'll marry thee:

'My bonny, blithsome, winsome lass,

'Sweet love, I'll marry thee.'

SONG XII. THE NEGLECTED FAIR.

OF Columbia's boast the praise be mine;

What's that, but American beauty?

With rapture I'd invoke the nine,

Ye men, learn hence your duty:

The sex were blessings all design'd,

With rapture then enjoy them;

Nor so debase a female mind,

To conquer, then destroy them.

Then, O protect Columbia's fair,

Be mindful of your duty;

May vengeance ne'er the villain spare,

A foe to love and beauty.

That tender form you first seduc'd,

Why is it now neglected?

Behold her sad, by grief reduc'd,

Pale, meagre, and dejected!

Behold her begging with a sigh,

Behold her disregarded!

[Page]Then view the anguish in her eye,

And say, is love rewarded?

Then, O protect, &c.

Each female heart is free from guile,

'Till crafty men infect it;

With artful tale, or magic wile,

He wins, and then neglects it:

Her pining soul finds no relief,

Sad tears flow fast and melt her;

Her o'er fraught bosom bursts with grief,

And in the grave finds shelter!

Then, O protect, &c.

When fortune frowns and friends forsake,

Still lovely woman cheers us;

Our grief or raptures they partake,

Distresses but endear us:

While man's professions all will fly,

Nor dying will abet you,

But meat your corpse as passing by,

And with a sigh forget you.

Then, O protect, &c.

While round your bed the mouring fair

Hangs like a drooping willow,

Each pang or sigh still anxious share,

Nor leave your woe-worn pillow!—

Then charge your glasses to the fair,

May beauty ne'er be slighted—

That source of bliss, by whom we are

Conceiv'd, brought forth, delighted.

Then, O protect, &c.

[Page]

SONG XIII. IN PURSUIT OF THE FASHION.

HARK forward's the word, and all join in the chace,

Ambition and politics now must give place;

After fancy and folly we eagerly fly

In pursuit of the fashion—Hark forward's the cry.

Pell-mell, after cupid, each heart wounding dame,

From sixteen to sixty's pursuing the game;

With their full flowing tresses, some hobble, some fly,

In pursuit of the fashion—Hark forward's the cry.

Ding dong, helter skelter, the sweet scented beaux

Either lead the pursuit, or fall in at the close;

With their pockets so low, and their collars so high,

Pursuing the fashion—Hark forward's the cry.

Let the fashion be chang'd, it has lasted too long,

If its conquest we aim at, we're all in the wrong;

To the fame of our country let each have an eye

And her foes be the game, when hark forward's the cry.

[Page]

SONG XIV. IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT.

IN the dead of the Night, when, with labour opprest,

All mortals enjoy the sweet blessings of rest,

A boy knock'd at my door, I awoke with the noise,

Who is it, said I, that my rest thus destroys?

He answer'd so softly, so gently, so mild,

'I am a poor little unfortunate child,

'It's a cold rainy night, I am wet to the skin,

'And I have lost my way, so pray let me in.'

In compassion I rose, and striking a light,

I open'd the door, when a boy met my sight,

He had wings at his shoulders, the rain from them dripp'd,

And with bow and arrow, the boy was equipp'd.

I stirr'd up my fire, set him down by my side,

And with a warm napkin the wet from him dry'd:

I chass'd him all o'er to keep out the cold air,

And the wet I wrung out with my hand from his hair,

No sooner from wet and from cold he found ease,

When, taking up his bow, said, 'Madam, if you 'please,

'If you please, I would fain by experience know,

'If the rain has not damag'd the string of my bow.'

[Page]

Then straight from his quaver an arrow he drew,

Which aiming at my heart, twang went the yew;

'My bow is not damag'd nor yet is my dart,

'But you'll find some trouble in bearing the smart.

SONG XV.

THE eve her silver vestment wore▪

And clos'd the sultry day,

The cottagers their toil forbore,

And homeward bent their way:

Save one poor maid, who, all forlorn,

The tear of sorrow shed,

Meek as the primrose 'neath the thorn,

That rears its modest head.

'Twas lovely Marian that sigh'd,

And mourn'd her sorrows free;

Since fate young Sandy's love deny'd,

And sent him far to sea;

Wide o'er the billows doom'd to roam,

He fled her longing arms,

And left his friends and native home,

To brave rude war's alarms.

Now three long months were gone and o'er,

When, ah! one fatal day,

As musing at her her cottage door,

A sailor bent his way—

[Page]'Twas Sandy's friend, who sought the fair,

Sad tidings to relate:

For grief of heart, join'd with despair,

Had clos'd his hapless fate,

Yet, ere he died, her bliss he plann'd,

For all his little wealth

He fondly left, with lavish hand,

To Marian herself:

But what avail'd the golden store?

Sweet peace her bosom fled:

'He's gone,' she cry'd, 'for evermore,'

Then sighing join'd the dead.

SONG XVI. HAIL COLUMBIA.

HAIL, COLUMBIA! happy land,

Hail, ye Heroes—Heav'n-born band!

Who fought and bled in freedom's cause,

Who fought and bled in freedom's cause,

And when the storm of war was gone,

Enjoy'd the peace your valour won.

Let Independence be your boast

Ever mindful what it cost;

Ever grateful for the prize,

Let its altar reach the skies.

Firm—united—let us be,

Rallying round our liberty:

As a band of brothers join'd,

Peace and safety we shall find.

[Page]

Immortal Patriots! rise once more,

Defend your rights, defend your shore;

Let no rude foe with impious hand,

Let no rude foe with impious hand,

Invade the shrine where sacred lies

Of toil and blood the well earn'd prize.

While offering peace, sincere and just,

In heaven we place a manly trust,

That truth and justice will prevail,

And every scheme of bondage fail.

Firm—united—let us be, &c.

Sound, sound the trump of fame,

Let WASHINGTON's great name,

Ring through the world with loud applause,

Ring through the world with loud applause,

Let every clime to Freedom dear,

Listen with a joyful ear;

With equal skill, with godlike pow'r,

He governs in the fearful hour

Of horrid war, or guides with ease

The happier times of honest peace.

Firm—united—let us be, &c.

Behold the Chief who now commands,

Once more to serve his country stands—

The rock on which the storm will beat,

The rock on which the storm will beat,

But arm'd in virtue firm and true;

His hopes are fix'd on heaven and you.

When hope was sinking in dismay,

When glooms obscur'd Columbia's day,

[Page]His steady mind from changes free,

Resolv'd on death or liberty.

Firm—united—let us be, &c.

SONG XVII. ADAMS AND LIBERTY.

YE sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought

For those rights, which unstain'd from your sires had descended;

May you long taste the blessings your valour has bought,

And your sons reap the soil which your fathers defended.

'Mid the reign of mild peace, may your nation increase,

With the glory of Rome, and the wisdom of Greece;

And ne'er may the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls in waves.

In a clime whose rich waves feed the marts of the world,

Whose shores are unshaken by Europe's commotion,

The trident of Commerce should never be hurl'd,

To incense the legitimate powers of the Ocean.

But should pirates invade,

Tho' in thunder array'd,

Let your cannon declare the free charter of trade—

[Page]For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls in waves.

The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway,

Had justly ennobled our nation in story

Till the dark clouds of faction obscur'd our young day,

And envelop'd the sun of American glory.

But let traitors be told

Who their country have sold,

And barter'd the God for his image in gold—

That ne'er will the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls in waves.

While France her huge limbs bathes recumbent in blood,

And society's base threats with wide dissolution,

May peace, like the dove, who return'd from the flood,

Find an ark of abode in our mild Constitution.

But though peace is our aim,

Yet the boon we disclaim,

If bought by our sov'reignty, justice or fame:

For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls in waves.

'Tis the fire of the [...], each American warms;

Let Rome's haughty victor beware of collision!

Let them bring all the vassals of Europe in arms,

[Page]We're a world by ourselves, and disdain a division!

While with Patriot pride,

To our laws we're allied,

No foe can subdue us—no faction divide.

For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be saves,

While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls in waves.

Our mountains are crown'd with imperial Oak,

Whose roots, like our liberties, ages have nourish'd,

But long ere our nation submits to the yoke,

Not a tree shall be left on the field where it flourish'd.

Should invasion impend,

Every grove would descend,

From the hill tops they shaded, our shores to defend.

For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls in waves.

Let our Patriots destroy anarch's pestilent worm,

Lest our liberty's growth should be check'd by corrosion;

Then let clouds thicken round us, we heed not the storm;

Our realms fear no shock, but the earth's own explosion.

Foes affail us in vain

Though their fleets bridge the main,

[Page]For our altars and laws with our lives we'll maintain,

And ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls in waves.

Should the tempest of war overshadow our land,

Its bolts could ne'er rend freedom's temple asunder,

For, unmov'd at its portal, would Washington stand,

And repulse, with his breast, the assaults of the thunder.

His sword from the sleep

Of its scabbard would leap,

And conduct with its point every flash to the deep.

For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls in waves.

Let Fame to the world sound America's voice;

No intrigue can her sons from their Government fever;

Her pride is her Adams—his laws are her choice,

And shall flourish till liberty slumber forever.

Then unite, heart and hand

Like Leonidas' band,

And swear to the God of the ocean and land,

That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls in waves.

[Page]

SONG XVIII. THE FEDERAL CONSTITUTION AND THE PRESIDENT FOR EVER.

POETS may sing of their Helicon streams,

Their gods and their heroes are fabulous dreams;

They ne'er sang a line

Half so grand, so divine,

As the glorious toast

We Columbians boast,

The Federal Constitution boys and Liberty for ever.

ADAMS, the man of our choice, guides the helm,

No tempest can harm us, no storm overwhelm:

Our sheet anchor's sure

And our bark rides secure,

So here's to the toast

We Columbians boast,

The Federal Constitution, and the President for ever.

A free Navigation, Commerce and Trade,

We'll seek for no foe, of no foe be afraid;

Our frigates shall ride,

Our defence and our pride;

Our tars guard our coast

And huzza to our toast,

The Federal Constitution, Trade and Commerce boys for ever.

[Page]

Montgomery, Warren, still live in our songs,

Like them our young heroes shall spurn at our wrongs,

The world shall admire

The zeal and the fire

Which blaze in the toast

We Columbians boast

The Federal Constitution and its Advocates for ever.

When an enemy threats, all party shall cease,

We bribe no intriguers to buy a mean peace,

Columbians will scorn,

Friend or foe to suborn.

We'll ne'er stain the toast

Which as freemen we boast

The Federal Constitution and Integrity for ever.

Fame's triumph shall swell in great WASHINGTON's praise,

And time grant a furlough to lengthen his days,

May health weave the thread

Of delight round his head:

No nation can boast

Such a name—such a toast—

The Federal Constitution boys and WASHINGTON for ever.

Finis.

Information about this book

Title statement

The Companion: being a selection of the beauties of the most celebrated authors, in the English language. In prose and verse. : [Two lines from Akenside]

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI :

Date

2008-09.

ID [DLPS]

N26571

ID [TCP]

N26571

ID [STC]

Evans 35333

ID [NOTIS]

APY9857

ID [IMAGE-SET]

35333

ID [EVANS-CITATION]

99037470

Availability

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal. The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.

Series

Early American Imprints, 1639-1800 ; no. 35333.

Notes

(Evans-TCP ; no. N26571)

Transcribed from: (Readex Archive of Americana ; Early American Imprints, series I ; image set 35333)

Images scanned from Readex microprint and microform: (Early American imprints. First series ; no. 35333)

Source

— The Companion: being a selection of the beauties of the most celebrated authors, in the English language. In prose and verse. : [Two lines from Akenside],

Extent

viii, [1], 10-280 p. ; 15 cm. (8vo)

Printed by Nathaniel and Benjamin Heaton, for Joseph J. Todd, Providence, at the Sign of the Bible and Anchor.,. [Wrentham, Mass.] :: M,DCC,XCIX. [1799].

Creation

Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2tei.xsl, TEI @ Oxford.

Editorial practices

EEBO-TCP is a partnership between the Universities of Michigan and Oxford and the publisher ProQuest to create accurately transcribed and encoded texts based on the image sets published by ProQuest via their Early English Books Online (EEBO) database (http://eebo.chadwyck.com). The general aim of EEBO-TCP is to encode one copy (usually the first edition) of every monographic English-language title published between 1473 and 1700 available in EEBO.

EEBO-TCP aimed to produce large quantities of textual data within the usual project restraints of time and funding, and therefore chose to create diplomatic transcriptions (as opposed to critical editions) with light-touch, mainly structural encoding based on the Text Encoding Initiative (http://www.tei-c.org).

The EEBO-TCP project was divided into two phases. The 25,363 texts created during Phase 1 of the project have been released into the public domain as of 1 January 2015. Anyone can now take and use these texts for their own purposes, but we respectfully request that due credit and attribution is given to their original source.

Users should be aware of the process of creating the TCP texts, and therefore of any assumptions that can be made about the data.

Text selection was based on the New Cambridge Bibliography of English Literature (NCBEL). If an author (or for an anonymous work, the title) appears in NCBEL, then their works are eligible for inclusion. Selection was intended to range over a wide variety of subject areas, to reflect the true nature of the print record of the period. In general, first editions of a works in English were prioritized, although there are a number of works in other languages, notably Latin and Welsh, included and sometimes a second or later edition of a work was chosen if there was a compelling reason to do so.

Image sets were sent to external keying companies for transcription and basic encoding. Quality assurance was then carried out by editorial teams in Oxford and Michigan. 5% (or 5 pages, whichever is the greater) of each text was proofread for accuracy and those which did not meet QA standards were returned to the keyers to be redone. After proofreading, the encoding was enhanced and/or corrected and characters marked as illegible were corrected where possible up to a limit of 100 instances per text. Any remaining illegibles were encoded as <gap>s. Understanding these processes should make clear that, while the overall quality of TCP data is very good, some errors will remain and some readable characters will be marked as illegible. Users should bear in mind that in all likelihood such instances will never have been looked at by a TCP editor.

The texts were encoded and linked to page images in accordance with level 4 of the TEI in Libraries guidelines.

Copies of the texts have been issued variously as SGML (TCP schema; ASCII text with mnemonic sdata character entities); displayable XML (TCP schema; characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or text strings within braces); or lossless XML (TEI P5, characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or TEI g elements).

Keying and markup guidelines are available at the Text Creation Partnership web site.