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Cas. Ha !—draw ?—and villain? Have at thee, then, at once, Proud Earl! • [Draws.

Pol. (drawing). Thus to the expiatory tomb,
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee,
In, the name of Lalage!

Cas. (letting fall his sword, and recoiling to the
extremity of the stage). Of Lalage!
Hold off—thy sacred hand !—A vaunt, I say!
Avaunt! I will not fight thee—indeed, I dare not.
Pol. Thou wilt not fight with me? didst say, Sir
Count?
Shall I be baffled thus ?—now this is well.'
Didst say thou darest not? Ha!

Cas. I dare not—dare not:

Hold off thy hand !—With that beloved name
So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee:
I cannot—dare not!

Pol. Now, by my halidom,

I do believe thee !—coward, I do believe thee!
Cas. Ha !—coward !—this may not be!

[Clutches his sword and staggers toward Port
Tian, but his purpose is changed before
reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at
the feet of the Earl.

Alas! my lord,
It is—it is—most true. In such a cause
I am the veriest coward. Oh, pity me!

H

Pol. [greatly softened). Alas !—I do—indeed I pity thee.

Cas. And Lalage

Pol. Scoundrel!arise and die!

Cas. It needeth not be—thus—thus—oh, let me die .

Thus on my bended knee! It were most fitting
That in this deep humiliation I perish.
For in the fight I will not raise a hand
Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home !—

(Baring his bosom.
Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon—
Strike home! I will not fight thee!

Pol. Now 'sdeath and hell! Am I not—am I not sorely—grievously tempted To take thee at thy word? But, mark me, sir! Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare For public insult in the streets—before The eyes of the citizens. I 'll follow thee— Like an avenging spirit I 'll follow thee, Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest— Before all Rome, I 'll taunt thee, villain,—I 11 taunt

thee— Dost hear ?—with cowardice! Thou wilt not fight me? Thou liest! thou shalt! [Exit.

Gas. Now this, indeed, is just!

Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!

POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH..

SONNET—TO SCIENCE.

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!

Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,

Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,

Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,

Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?

And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star?

Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind-tree?

* Private reasons—some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism, and others to the date of Tennyson's first poems—have induced me, after some hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my earliest boyhood. They are printed verbatim, without alteration, from the original edition, the date of which is too remote to be judiciously

acknowledged E. A. F. His first publication, I believe,

was as early as 1827.—Ed.

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Oh, nothing earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy!—

* A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe, which appeared suddenly in the heavens; attained, in a few days, a brilliancy surpassing that of Jupiter; then as suddenly disappeared, and has never been seen since.

Oh, nothing earthly save the thrill

Of melody in woodland rill,

Or (music of the passion-hearted)

Joy's voice so peacefully departed

That, like the murmur in the shell,

Its echo dwelleth and will dwell!—

Oh, nothing of the dross of ours—

Yet all the beauty—all the flowers

That list our Love, and deck our bowers—

Adorn yon world afar, afar—

The wandering star!

'T was a sweet time for Nesace—for there Her world lay lolling on the golden air, Near four bright suns—a temporary rest— An oasis in desert of the blest. Away—away 'mid seas of rays that roll Empyrean splendour o'er th' unchained soul— The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense) Can struggle to its destined eminence— To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode, And late to ours, the favour'd one of God; But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm, She throws aside the sceptre—leaves the helm, And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns, Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.

Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely earth, Whence sprang the " Idea of Beauty " into birth

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