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Medon, there is no office I can add

To those thou hast grown old in; thou wilt guard
The shrine of Phœbus, and within thy home-

Thy too delightful home-befriend the stranger

As thou didst me;-there sometimes waste a thought
On thy spoil'd inmate !

Me.
Think of thee, my lord?
Long shall we triumph in thy glorious reign-

Ion. Pr'ythee no more. Argives! I have a boon
To crave of you ;-whene'er I shall rejoin,

In death, the father from whose heart, in life,
Stern Fate divided me, think gently of him!
For ye, who saw him in his full-blown pride,
Knew little of affections crush'd within,
And wrongs which frenzied him; yet never more
Let the great interests of the state depend
Upon the thousand chances that may sway
A piece of human frailty! Swear to me
That ye will seek, hereafter, in yourselves

The means of sovereign rule :-our narrow space,
So happy in its confines, so compact,

Needs not the magic of a single name,

Which wider regions may require, to draw
Their interests into one; but circled thus,
Like a bless'd family, by simple laws,
May tenderly be govern'd; all degrees
Moulded together as a single form

Of nymph-like loveliness, which finest chords
Of sympathy pervading, shall suffuse,

In times of quiet, with one bloom, and fill
With one resistless impulse, if the hosts

Of foreign power should threaten. Swear to me
That ye will do this?

Me.

Wherefore ask this now?

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In whose mild service my glad youth was spent,
Look on me now ;-and if there is a power,

As at this solemn time I feel there is,

Beyond ye, that hath breathed through all your shapes
The spirit of the beautiful, that lives

In earth and heaven; to ye I offer up

This conscious being, fuli of life and love,

For my dear country's welfare. Let this blow

End all her sorrows!

[Stabs himself and falls.

PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE.

H. TAYLOR.

MR. HENRY TAYLOR has published three Dramas- Philip van Artevelde,' in two Parts; Edwin the Fair;' and 'Isaac Comnenus.' The first, with the two parts condensed into one play, has been acted recently. In these two plays, which, taken together, Mr. Taylor calls a dramatic romance, there are passages of great force and beauty;-but still the rapid and self-evolving dramatic movement is wanting-they are intended for the quiet of the study, and are unsuited for the glare of the "foot lights." The following scene is at the time when Ghent, revolted against the Earl of Flanders, was besieged; and the starving citizens, who had chosen the second Van Artevelde as their leader, were disposed to make terms with the imperious lord who threatened the direst vengeance if their resistance was prolonged.]

(The platform at the top of the steeple of St. Nicholas' Church, Ghent.

daybreak.)

Time;

Artevelde (alone). There lies a sleeping city. God of dreams,

What an unreal and fantastic world

Is going on below!

Within the sweep of yon encircling wall,

How many a large creation of the night,

Wide wilderness and mountain, rock and sea,

Peopled with busy transitory groups,

Finds room to rise, and never feels the crowd!
-If when the shows had left the dreamers' eyes

They should float upward visibly to mine,
How thick with apparitions were that void!
But now the blank and blind profundity
Turns my brain giddy with a sick aversion
-I have not slept. I am to blame for that.
Long vigils, joined with scant and meagre food,
Must needs impair that promptitude of mind,
And cheerfulness of spirit, which, in him
Who leads a multitude, is past all price.
I think I could redeem an hour's repose

Out of the night that I have squandered, yet
The breezes, launched upon their early voyage,
Play with a pleasing freshness on my face.
I will enfold my cloak about my limbs

And lie where I shall front them ;-here, I think.
If this were over-blessed be the calm
That comes to me at last! A friend in need
Is nature to us, that, when all is spent,
Brings slumber-bountifully-whereupon
We give her sleepy welcome-if all this
Were honourably over-Adriana-

[He lies down.

[Falls asleep, but starts up almost instantly.

I heard a hoof, a horse's hoof I'll swear,
Upon the road from Bruges,-or did I dream ?
No! 'tis the gallop of a horse at speed.
Van den Bosch (without).
Artevelde. Who calls?

What ho! Van Artevelde!

Van den Bosch (entering). 'Tis I.
Thou art an early riser, like myself;
Or is it that thou hast not been to bed?
Artevelde. What are thy tidings?

Van den Bosch. Nay, what can they be?
A page from pestilence and famine's day-book;
So many to the pest-house carried in,

So many to the dead-house carried out.

The same dull, dismal, damnable old story.

Artevelde. Be quiet; listen to the westerly wind,

And tell me if it bring thee nothing new.

Van den Bosch. Nought to my ear, save howl of hungry dog, That hears the house is stirring-nothing else.

Artevelde. No,-now-I hear it not myself-no-nothing.

The city's hum is up-but ere you came

'Twas audible enough.

Van den Bosch. In God's name, what?

Artevelde. A horseman's tramp upon the road from Bruges.
Van den Bosch. Why, then, be certain, 'tis a flag of truce!

If once he reach the city, we are lost,

Nay, if he be but seen, our danger's great.

What terms so bad they would not swallow now?

Let's send some trusty varlets forth at once

To cross his way.

Artevelde. And send him back to Bruges?

Van den Bosch. Send him to hell-and that's a better place.
Artevelde. Nay, softly, Van den Bosch; let war be war,

But let us keep its ordinances.

Van den Bosch. Tush!

I say, but let them see him from afar,

And in an hour shall we, bound hand and foot,

Be on our way to Bruges.

Artevelde. Not so, not so.

My rule of governance has not been such

As o'er to issue in so foul a close.

Van den Bosch. What matter by what rule thou mayst have governed? Think'st thou a hundred thousand citizens

Shall stay the fury of their empty maws
Because thou 'st ruled them justly?
Artevelde. It may be

That such a hope is mine.

Van den Bosch. Then thou art mad,

And I must take this matter on myself.

[Is going.

Artevelde. Hold, Van den Bosch! I say this shall not be.

I must be madder than I think I am

Ere I shall yield up my authority,

Which I abuse not, to be used by thee.

Van den Bosch.

This comes of lifting dreamers into power.

I tell thee, in this strait and stress of famine,
The people, but to pave the way for peace,
Would instantly despatch our heads to Bruges.
Once and again I warn thee that thy life
Hangs by a thread.

Artevelde. Why, know I not it does!
What hath it hung by else since Titas' eve?

Did I not by mine own advised choice

Place it in jeopardy for certain ends?

And what were these? To prop thy tottering state?

To float thee o'er a reef, and, that performed,
To cater for our joint security?

No, verily; not such my high ambition.
I bent my thoughts on yonder city's weal;
I looked to give it victory and freedom ;
And working to that end, by consequence
From one great peril did deliver thee—
Not for the love of thee or of thy life,
Which I regard not, but the city's service;
And, if for that same service it seem good,
I will expose thy life to equal hazard.
Van den Bosch. Thou wilt?

Artevelde. I will.

Van den Bosch. Oh, lord! to hear him speak,

What a most mighty emperor of puppets

Is this that I have brought upon the board!

But how if he that made it should unmake?

Artevelde. Unto His sovereignty who truly made me

With infinite humility I bow!

Both, both of us are puppets, Van den Bosch;

Part of the curious clock-work of this world,

We scold, and squeak, and crack each other's crowns;
And if, by twitches moved from wires we see not,

I were to toss thee from this steeple's top,

I should be but the instrument-no more-
The tool of that chastising Providence,
Which doth exalt the lowly, and abase
The violent and proud; but let me hope
Such is not mine appointed task to-day.

Thou passest in the world for worldly-wise:
Then, seeing we must sink or swim together,
What can it profit thee, in this extreme
Of our distress, to wrangle with me thus
For my supremacy and rule? Thy fate,
Is of necessity bound up with mine,
Must needs partake my cares: let that suffice
To put thy pride to rest till better times.
Contest-more reasonably wrong—a prize

More precious than the ordering of a shipwreck.

Van den Bosch. Tush, tush, Van Artevelde, thou talk'st and talk'st, And honest burghers think it wondrous fine.

But thou mightst casilier with that tongue of thine

Persuade yon smoke to fly i' the face o' the wind,
Than talk away my wit and understanding.

I say yon herald shall not enter here.

Artevelde. I know, sir, no man better, where my talk
Is serviceable singly, where it needs

To be by acts enforced. I say, beware,

And brave not mine authority too far.

Van den Bosch. Hast thou authority to take my life?
What is it else to let yon herald in

To bargain for our blood?

Artevelde. Thy life again!

Why, what a very slave of life art thou!

Look round about on this once populous town;
Not one of these numerous house-tops
But hides some spectral form of misery,

Some peevish, pining child and moaning mother,
Some aged man that in his dotage scolds,
Not knowing why he hungers, some cold corse
That lies unstraightened where the spirit left it.
Look round, and answer what thy life can be
To tell upon the balance of such scales.
I too would live-I have a love for life-
But, rather than to live to charge my soul

With one hour's lengthening out of woes like these,
I'd leap this parapet with as free a bound
As c'er was school-boy's o'er a garden wall.
Van den Bosch. I'd like to see thee do it.
Artevelde. I know thou wouldst ;
But for the present be content to see
My less precipitous descent; for, lo!
There comes the herald o'er the hill.

Van den Bosch. Beshrew me ;

Thou shalt not have the start of me in this.

[Exit.

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