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

soon.

Isa. Pray let me go:

For both our sakes, permit me.

Bir. Rack me not with imaginations Of things impossible- -Thou canst not mean What thou hast said-Yet something she must

mean.

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

Isa. To bed! You have raised the storm
Will sever us for ever. Oh, Biron!
While I have life, still I must call you mine.
I know I am, and always was, unworthy
To be the happy partner of your love;
And now must never, never share it more.
But oh! if ever I was dear to you,

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

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

Bir. Nothing shall ever part us.

[joys,

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

Bir. I know thee innocent; I know myself so: Indeed we both have been unfortunate; But sure misfortunes ne'er were faults in love. Isa. Oh! there's a fatal story to be told; Be deaf to that, as Heaven has been to me! And rot the tongue that shall reveal my shame: When thou shalt hear how much thou hast been

wrong'd,

How wilt thou curse thy fond believing heart,
Tear me from the warm bosom of thy love,
And throw me like a poisonous weed away!
Can I bear that? bear to be curst and torn,
And thrown out of thy family and name,
Like a disease? Can I bear this from thee?

I never can: no, all things have their end. When I am dead, forgive and pity me. [Eril Bir. Stay, my Isabella

What can she mean? These doubtings will distract me:

Some hidden mischief soon will burst to light; I cannot bear it-I must be satisfied'Tis she, my wife, must clear this darkness to me She shall-if the sad tale at last must come. She is my fate, and best can speak my doom. [Eri.

ACT V.

SCENE I.-Enter BIRON. Nurse following him.
Bir. I know enough: the important question
Of life or death, fearful to be resolved,
Is clear'd to me: I see where it must end,
And need inquire no more-Pray let me have
Pen, ink and paper. I must write awhile,
And then I'll try to rest-to rest for ever!
[Ezit Nurse
Poor Isabella! now I know the cause,
The cause of thy distress, and cannot wonder
That it has turn'd thy brain. If I look back
Upon thy loss, it will distract me too.
Oh, any curse but this might be removed!
But 'twas the rancorous malignity

Of all ill stars combined, of heaven and fate-
Hold, hold, my impious tongue-Alas! I rave:
Why do I tax the stars, or heaven, or fate?
They are all innocent of driving us
Into despair; they have not urged my doom;
My father and my brother are my fates
That drive me to my ruin. They knew well
I was alive. Too well they knew how dear
My Isabella-Oh, my wife no more!
How dear her love was to me-Yet they stood,
With a malicious silent joy, stood by,
And saw her give up all my happiness,
The treasure of her beauty to another;
Stood by, and saw her married to another.
Oh, cruel father! and unnatural brother!
Shall I not tell you that you have undone me!
I have but to accuse you of my wrongs,
And then to fall forgotten-Sleep or death
Sits heavy on me, and benumbs my pains:
Either is welcome; but the hand of death
Works always sure, and best can close my eyes.
[Exit BIRON

*

*

*

SCENE II-Draws, shows BIRON asleep on a couch.

Enter ISABELLA,

Isa. Asleep so soon! Oh, happy, happy thou,
Who thus can sleep! I never shall sleep more-
If then to sleep be to be happy, he
Who sleeps the longest is the happiest :
Death is the longest sleep-Oh, have a care!
Mischief will thrive apace.-Never wake more.
[Tʊ BIRON.

If thou didst ever love thy Isabella,
To-morrow must be doomsday to thy peace.
The sight of him disarms even death itself.

The starting transport of new quickening life
Gives just such hopes: and pleasure grows again
With looking on him-Let me look my last-
But is a look enough for parting love!
Sure I may take a kiss-Where am I going!
Help, help me Villeroy! Mountains and seas
Divide your love, never to meet my shame!

[Throws herself upon the floor; after a short pause
she raises herself upon her elbow.

What will this battle of the brain do with me! This little ball, this ravaged province, long Cannot maintain-The globe of earth wants

room

And food for such a war-I find I am goingFamine, plagues, and flames,

Wide waste and desolation, do your work
Upon the world, and then devour yourselves!
The scene shifts fast-[She rises]—and now 'tis
better with me;

Conflicting passions have at last unhinged
The great machine! the soul itself seems changed!
Oh, 'tis a happy revolution here!
The reasoning faculties are all deposed;
Judgment, and understanding, common sense,
Driven out as traitors to the public peace.
Now I am revenged upon my memory!
Her seat dug up, where all the images
Of a long mis-spent life were rising still,
To glare a sad reflection of my crimes,

And stab a conscience through them! You are safe,

You monitors of mischief! What a change!
Better and better still! This is the infant state
Of innocence, before the birth of care.
My thoughts are smooth as the Elysian plains,
Without a rub: the drowsy falling streams
Invite me to their slumbers.
Would I were landed there-

-[Sinks into a chair.

And there has left me.
Of my distractions! Or is this interval
Of reason but to aggravate my woes,
To drive the horror back with greater force
Upon my soul, and fix me mad for ever?
Bir. Why dost thou fly me so?

Oh, the frightful change

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

[Running out. Bir. Poor Isabella! she's not in a condition To give me any comfort, if she could: Lost to herself as quickly I shall be To all the world-Horrors come fast around me; My mind is overcast-the gathering clouds Darken the prospect-I approach the brink, And soon must leap the precipice! Oh, heaven! While yet my senses are my own, thus kneeling, Let me implore thy mercies on my wife: Release her from her pangs; and if my reason, O'erwhelm'd with miseries, sink before the

tempest,

Pardon those crimes despair may bring upon me! [Rises.

Enter Nurse.

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

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

SONG.

IN SIR ANTHONY LOVE, OR THE RAMBLING LADY. PURSUING beauty, men descry

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

The treasures of the land of love.

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

But she who trades with them is lost.

With humble vows they first begin,
Stealing unseen into the heart;
But by possession settled in,

They quickly play another part.
For beads and baubles we resign,
In ignorance, our shining store;
Discover nature's richest mine,

And yet the tyrants will have more.

Be wise, be wise, and do not try

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

When that is made, the pleasure's done.

2N

THOMAS WARTON, the elder, father of Joseph | and Thomas Warton, was of Magdalen College,

RETIREMENT. AN ODE.

ON beds of daisies idly laid,
The willow waving o'er my head,
Now morning, on the bending stem,
Hangs the round and glittering gem,
Lull'd by the lapse of yonder spring,
Of nature's various charms I sing :
Ambition, pride, and pomp, adieu,
For what has joy to do with you?
Joy, rose-lipt dryad, loves to dwell
In sunny field or mossy cell;
Delights on echoing hills to hear
The reaper's song, or lowing steer;
Or view, with tenfold plenty spread,
The crowded corn-field, blooming mead;
While beauty, health, and innocence,
Transport the eye, the soul, the sense.
Not fresco'd roofs, not beds of state,
Not guards that round a monarch wait;
Not crowds of flatterers can scare,
From loftiest courts, intruding Care.
'Midst odours, splendours, banquets, wine,
While minstrels sound, while tapers shine,
In sable stole sad Care will come,
And darken the sad drawing-room.
Nymphs of the groves, in green array'd,
Conduct me to your thickest shade;
Deep in the bosom of the vale,
Where haunts the lonesome nightingale;
Where Contemplation, maid divine,
Leans against some aged pine,
Wrapt in solemn thought profound,
Her
eyes fix'd steadfast on the ground.
Oh, virtue's nurse, retired queen,
By saints alone and hermits seen,
Beyond vain mortal wishes wise,
Teach me St. James's to despise;

Oxford, vicar of Basingstoke and Cobham, and twice chosen Poetry Professor.

For what are crowded courts, but schools
For fops, or hospitals for fools;
Where slaves and madmen, young and old,
Meet to adore some calf of gold?

VERSES WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WINDSOR
CASTLE.

FROM beauteous Windsor's high and storied halls,
Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing
To my low cot, from ivory beds of state, [walls,
Pleased I return, unenvious of the great:

So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes
Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of greens,
Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill,
Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring rill;
Now haunts old hollow'd oaks, deserted cells,
Now seeks the low vale-lily's silver bells;
Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse bowers,
And tastes the myrtle and the citron flowers;
At length returning to the wonted comb,
Prefers to all his little straw-built home.

AN AMERICAN LOVE ODE.

FROM THE SECOND VOLUME OF MONTAIGNE'S ESSAYS.

STAY, stay, thou lovely, fearful snake,
Nor hide thee in yon darksome brake:
But let me oft thy charms review,
Thy glittering scales, and golden hue;
From thee a chaplet shall be wove,
To grace the youth I dearest love.
Then ages hence, when thou no more
Shalt creep along the sunny shore,
Thy copied beauties shall be seen;
Thy red and azure mix'd with green,
In mimic folds thou shalt display :-
Stay, lovely, fearful adder, stay.

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

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

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

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

FROM "THE GRAVE." WHILST Some affect the sun, and some the shade, Some flee the city, some the hermitage ;Their aims as various, as the roads they take In journeying through life;-the task be mine To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb; Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all These travellers meet. Thy succours I implore, Eternal king! whose potent arm sustains The keys of hell and death.- -The Gravedread thing!

Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature, appall'd, Shakes off her wonted firmness.-Ah! how dark

Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes! Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night,

Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun
Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams
Athwart the gloom profound. The sickly
taper,

By glimm'ring through thy low-brow'd misty vaults

(Furr'd round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime,)

Lets fall a supernumerary horror,
And only serves to make thy night more irksome.
Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew,
Cheerless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell
'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms:
Where light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary shades,
Beneath the wan cold moon, (as fame reports,)
Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds.
No other merriment, dull tree, is thine.

See yonder hallow'd fane ;-the pious work
Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot,
And buried 'midst the wreck of things which were;
There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead.
The wind is up: hark! how it howls! Methinks
Till now I never heard a sound so dreary:
Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul
bird,

Rook'd in the spire, screams loud: the gloomy

aisles

Black plaster'd, and hung round with shreds of

'scutcheons

And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the sound
Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults,
The mansions of the dead.—Roused from their
slumbers,

In grim array the grisly spectres rise,
Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen,
Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of Night.
Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound!
I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill.
Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms
(Coeval near with that) all ragged show,
Long lash'd by the rude winds. Some rift half down
Their branchless trunks; others so thin a-top,
That scarce two crows could lodge in the same

And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd (Such tales their cheer at wake or gossipping, When it draws near to witching time of night.)

Oft, in the lone church-yard, at night I've seen By glimpse of moonshine chequering through the trees,

The schoolboy, with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up,
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones,
(With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown,)
That tell in homely phrase who lie below.
Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears,
The sound of something purring at his heels;
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him,
Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows:
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O'er some new-open'd grave; and (strange to
tell!)

Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

Invidious grave!-how dost thou rend in sunder Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one? A tie more stubborn far than nature's band.

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul;
Sweetener of life, and solder of society,

I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.
Oft have I proved the labours of thy love,
And the warm efforts of the gentle heart,
Anxious to please.-Oh! when my friend and I
In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on,
Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down
Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank,
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along
In grateful errors through the underwood,
Sweet murmuring; methought the shrill-tongued
thrush

Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird
Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note:
The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose
Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower
Vied with its fellow plant in luxury

Of dress-Oh! then, the longest summer's day
Seem'd too, too much in haste: still the full heart
Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed,
Not to return, how painful the remembrance!

Will thy

tree.

here:

Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs: Dead men have come again, and walk'd about;

to gaze

and do thee

The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes roll'd,
Riots unscared.- -For this, was all thy caution?
For this, thy painful labours at thy glass!

Sure 'tis a serious thing to die! My soul,
What a strange moment must it be, when near
Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in view!
That awful gulf no mortal e'er repass'd
To tell what's doing on the other side.
Nature runs back, and shudders at the sight,
And every life-string bleeds at thoughts of part-
ing;

For part they must: body and soul must part;
Fond couple! link'd more close than wedded pair.
This wings its way to its almighty source,
The witness of its actions, now its judge;
That drops into the dark and noisome grave,
Like a disabled pitcher of no use.

Tell us, ye dead, will none of you, in pity
To those you left behind, disclose the secret?
Oh! that some courteous ghost would blab it out;
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be.
I've heard, that souls departed have sometimes
Forewarn❜d men of their death:-"Twas kindly
done

To knock, and give the alarm.-But what means
This stinted charity ?-'Tis but lame kindness
That does its work by halves.-Why might you
Tell us what 'tis to die? do the strict laws [not
Of your society forbid your speaking
Upon a point so nice?—I'll ask no more:
Sullen, like lamps in sepulchres, your shine
Enlightens but yourselves. Well, 'tis no matter;
A very little time will clear up all,

And make us learn'd as you are, and as close. Death's shafts fly thick:-Here falls the village-swain,

And there his pamper'd lord.-The cup goes

round:

And who so artful as to put it by!
"Tis long since death had the majority;
Yet strange! the living lay it not to heart.
See yonder maker of the dead man's bed,
The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle,
Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole
A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand
Digs through whole rows of kindred and acquaint-

ance,

By far his juniors. Scarce a skull's cast up,
But well he knew its owner, and can tell
Some passage of his life.Thus hand in hand
The sot has walked with death twice twenty years;
And yet ne'er yonker on the green laughs louder,
Or clubs a smuttier tale:-When drunkards meet,
None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand
More willing to his cup.-Poor wretch, he minds

not

Poor man!-how happy once in thy first state! When yet but warm from thy great Maker's hand,

He stamp'd thee with his image, and, well pleased,
Smiled on his last fair work.-Then all was well.
Sound was the body, and the soul serene;
Like two sweet instruments ne'er out of tune,
That play their several parts.-Nor head, nor
heart,

Offer'd to ache: nor was there cause they should;
For all was pure within: no fell remorse,
Nor anxious castings-up of what might be,
Alarm'd his peaceful bosom.-Summer seas
Show not more smooth, when kiss'd by southern
winds

Just ready to expire-scarce importuned,
The generous soil, with a luxurious hand,
Offer'd the various produce of the year,
And every thing most perfect in its kind. [short!
Blessed! thrice blessed days!-But ah! how
Bless'd as the pleasing dreams of holy men;
But fugitive like those, and quickly gone.
Oh! slippery state of things.-What sudden turns!
What strange vicissitudes in the first leaf
Of man's sad history!-To-day most happy,
And ere to-morrow's sun has set, most abject.
How scant the space between these vast ex-
tremes!

[joy'd
Thus fared it with our sire:-Not long h' en-
His paradise.-Scarce had the happy tenant
Of the fair spot due time to prove its sweets,
Or sum them up, when straight he must be gone,
Ne'er to return again.And must he go?

Can nought compound for the first dire offence

Of erring man?-Like one that is condemn'd,
Fain would he trifle time with idle talk,
And parley with his fate.But 'tis in vain.
Not all the lavish odours of the place,
Offer'd in incense, can procure his pardon,
Or mitigate his doom.-A mighty angel,
With flaming sword, forbids his longer stay,
And drives the loiterer forth; nor must he take
One last and farewell round.

*

* *

*

*Sure the last end Of the good man is peace!-How calm his exit! Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground, Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft. Behold him in the evening-tide of life, A life well-spent, whose early care it was His riper years should not upbraid his green; By unperceived degrees he wears away; Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting. (High in his faith and hopes) look how he reaches After the prize in view! and, like a bird That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away: Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded To let new glories in, the first fair fruits Of the fast-coming harvest.-Then, oh then! Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears, Shrunk to a thing of nought.—Oh! how he longs