THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE 
 
 HEIR OF FOIZ; 
 
 A DRAMATIC SKETCH, IX TWO ACTS. 
 
 [■HE 
 
 FALSE ONE, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 WITH NOTES, ILLUSTRATIVE AND EXPLANATORY, 
 
 THE REV. C. SWAN, 
 
 LATE OF CATHARINE HALL, CAMBRIDCE. 
 
 "Ba<n »o(yy touched jieldcth s iweet scent: but chafed in the hand a rank saTonr. iT* frar 
 " eTen » that our labours ililj glanced on will breed some content; but examined to Hie proof 
 " (mall commendation. The haste in performing shall be our excuie." LTLY. 
 
 UottUon: 
 
 r. CHAPPLE, 66, PALL MALL, BOOKSELLER TO THE KlNft's MOST 
 tXCELLENT MAJESTY. 
 
 1822.
 
 W' M'DowaU, Printer, Pcmbcrton Row, Gough b'quare.
 
 
 EPISTLE DEDICATORY 
 
 TO MRS. B. 
 
 or 
 
 BY HALL, LINCOLNSHIRE. 
 
 MY DEAR MADAM, 
 
 HO W far ijoii will acquit me of teme- 
 rittj in 'presimiing to usher my volume into the 
 world, though with hut the initial of a name which 
 you have rendered the synonym of retiring 
 modesty, I have yet to he informed. Nevertheless, 
 the temptation to it is irresistible; strengthened 
 as I am, hy the assurance of your hind and for- 
 giving disposition. But you tvill say, forgive- 
 ness may he wrongfully applied; and the wilfid 
 
 858081
 
 IV 
 
 and premeditated commission of an offence can 
 assert no claim to pardon. All this I grant; 
 hilt I have still something to allege, which may 
 2ialliate, though it should not excuse. 
 
 In times of yore, the dedicating of a worlc 
 was a matter of deep cogitation. The JDedi" 
 cator then, was wont to look round him for some 
 great man, upon whom to hang the frippery of 
 Ms poetical wardrobe. Then, great men, like 
 tJie clowns of the long-degraded Morris- 
 dance, were delighted with so much subsidiary 
 splendor, and accustomed to remunerate the 
 artificer in proportion to the glitter of his 
 ware. Five pieces of gold (alias, guineas, if 
 the word he not too obsolete I) were, I believe, 
 the usual testimony of satisfaction, even for an 
 indifferent perforrnance :* and the race of au- 
 
 • The following curious extract will elucidate the practice of 
 former days, and discover to the reader the meannesses to which 
 literary men, (or at least men of liberal education) have had re- 
 course. It may indeed be judged an extreme case; but they 
 wlio are at all conversant with Dryden's elaborate panegyrics — 
 who have listened in weariness to the dedicatory strains of that
 
 thors, idhich from time Immemorial, you know, 
 has been accounted a poverty-stricken people, 
 here reaped its most abundant harvest. 
 
 mighty master, poured lavishly upon such men as the infamout 
 Rochester, will scarcely be of that opiiiioiu 
 
 The ingenious personage to whom I allude, was one Thomas 
 Cooke, author of six or seven dramatic pieces; translator of Te- 
 rence, Cicero de Naturk Deorum, liesiod, &c. ; but his fame rests 
 chiefly on the mention of him by Pope, in the Dunciad, B. % hue 
 138, and a subjoined note. His mode of proceeding was this.— — 
 •• He always procured the earliest intelligence of a young 
 nobleman returned from his travels; an heir lately come of age, 
 or a rich Creole newly landed. On the receipt of such information, 
 he conducted his attack as follows:— He first waited on my lord. 
 Sir John, or the Esquire, and solicited and received the single 
 subscription of perhaps a guinea. Soon after, he paid a second 
 visit to the same person, pretending to have been but recently in- 
 formed of his uncommon genius, and his zeal to promote the in- 
 terests of learning, and therefore entreated the honor of dedicat- 
 ing his work to him, which was to be done at the expense of 
 five guineas morci Having obtained this permission, and the cash, 
 his dernier resort was to call on his patron a third time, represent- 
 ing the necessity of prefixing a copperplate, with his arms, to the 
 intended dedication. For this piece of service his usual tax was 
 ten additional guineas. By such contrivances he was known to 
 have picked up no inconsiderable sums, especially as he practised 
 the same stratagem on many people, without the least design of 
 inscribing a work to any of them, or even publishing the piece 
 advertised in his proposals." Biog. Dram.
 
 Vi 
 
 Now mark the difference: I dedicate to you 
 out of pure love! And not to you alone; hut in 
 you, I dedicate to all the excellent of the sex. 
 
 Yet this man was warmly patronised by the Earl of PemVroke^ 
 who condescended, it is said, to furnish notes to Iiis transit ,.on of 
 Hesiod ; but of what value, I am ignorant. I suppose, however, that 
 our able negociator would fail not to secure sterling coin for all 
 the paper commodity that his Lordship issued. 
 
 Since I have entered upon the subject of dedications, 1 cannot 
 refrain adding to it another short passage ; particularly as the lat- 
 ter part appears to have been almost prophetical. *' ' I was in hopes 
 my baker would have given me leave to dedicate it to him, on the 
 proviso of supplying me with bread for eight years gratis; but he 
 was deaf to my proposal, for the man is not so fond of immortali- 
 ty as money. Mean time, I am not sorry that I did not strike this 
 bargain with him, because I have another person in view, who 
 will undoubtedly be of more service to me.' 
 
 " * I really fear (replied the Abbe Grifonet) that you reckon 
 without your host: The financiers are sensible how ridiculous it 
 makes them to dedicate books to them; and that when a knave is 
 praised, 'tis done on purpose to expose him the more to the deri- 
 sion of the public. The fine sparks, and the men of quality are 
 almost as much distressed in their pecuniary affairs as the authors. 
 The gentlemen of the long robe fancy that they ought to pay no- 
 thing for epistles dedicatory but thanks ; and the rich men of wit, 
 nothing but praise : And if I may speak my mind, it must soon 
 come to such a pass that authors will be glad to follow the examples 
 of a writer of our time, who only dedicates his books to the shades 
 aud names of the dead.' " 
 
 Jewish Spy, Let. LX.p. 150, 151. Vol.2, 1740.
 
 vii 
 
 Should you ask the gt'ounds of this pre- 
 ference; — ivhy the excellent of xaa^vikind, might 
 not have been selected before the feebler and the 
 frailer part of the species: — / answer t because 
 I have now been long used to regard them as 
 the "^st, as well as the fairest; because with 
 them every social feeling is connected; because 
 the hopes of this life are indissolubly twined 
 around them; because I have found amongst 
 them, the " charity that thinheth no evil" — the 
 friendship that endureth amid all trials; and 
 last, may it be j^ermiited me to add, because I 
 have the haptpiness of being known to you. If 
 these reasons be not enough, one moment hearken 
 to what I further adduce. I like not to solicit 
 dedications, either of the great or the little. 
 Once or twice I have tried, and the trial left 
 upon the palate a raciness I never could relish. 
 The practice of the present day is to put on 
 high the names of one's friends : Mine, / ivoidd 
 fain liope, are feminine ; and though I ivell know 
 
 that I should seek in vain for permission to draw 
 
 b2
 
 Vlll 
 
 from her hiding-place the accomplished indivi- 
 dual, whom I have now the ho)ior to address, 
 yet the feeling is not the less truly genuine, 
 with which I honestly subscribe myself her, and 
 
 her sex's 
 
 Most sincere Friend, 
 
 And obedient Servant, 
 
 a s. 
 
 Rooss, Hull, 17th November, 1821.
 
 THE HEIR OF FOIZ.
 
 " I, a desolate branch, 
 " Left scattered in the high-way of the world, 
 •' Trod under foot, that might have been a cohinm 
 " Mainly supporting our demolished house." 
 
 Massenger. The Fatal Dowry.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE design, (I hope a laudable one), with 
 which I entered on the present " Sketch'* was 
 an attempt to follow in the footsteps of our 
 elder dramatists. The depths of that dark- 
 ness which for a length of time overwhelmed 
 the brilliant poetry of a past day, are happily 
 disclosed in this: and unlike the fabled lamp, 
 which, burning splendidly amid sepulchral 
 glooms, became extinguished on the admittance 
 of light and air — it shines brighter for the 
 test. We have been long chilled by the frosty 
 glitter of a winter's day; and however gayly it 
 might sparkle to the eye, it threw no animat- 
 ing warmth upon the heart. We have indeed, 
 been too long " Women's ^^oets," to adopt an 
 idea from Ben Jonson, who " must flow, and
 
 Xll PREFACE. 
 
 stroak the eare, and (as one of them sayd of 
 himself sweetly) — 
 
 " Must write a verse as smooth, as calm as creame, 
 " In which tfiere is no torrent, nor scarce streame."* 
 
 and thus, by a very natural declension, we ac- 
 quired the monotony of a nursery ditty; the 
 sing-song lullabies of our infant years. It is, 
 then, with an unmixed feeling of pleasure that 
 we ought to view the resuscitation of our an- 
 cient drama, and every step that we proceed 
 in the acquisition of its bold and nervous style 
 of writing, is to be regarded as an additional 
 honor to the age in which we live. And, as a 
 corollary, let me hope, if the position be cor-» 
 rect, that he who endeavours to promote it; 
 he, who as far as his abilities extend, strives 
 to affix another link to the golden chain of ge- 
 nuine poesy — how great soever be his failure, 
 let me hope that he may merit pardon. 
 But while J am thus urgent in behalf of 
 
 * " Newes from the new world discovered in the Moone. A 
 niasiiMc, as it was presented at court before King James. I62Q," 
 Ed. 1640.
 
 PREFACE. Xiit 
 
 those exquisite strains of native melody, which 
 the EHzabethan poets more particularly sup- 
 plied, I would not have it imagined that I am 
 blind to their numerous defects. Extrava- 
 gance of plot, sentiment, and character, is I 
 believe, at times, peculiar to them all. This 
 has been noticed with some spirit, by George 
 Whetstone, a writer of the period to which I 
 allude, in a prefatory epistle to a play, called 
 *' The Historie of Promos and Cassandra;"* 
 addressed *' To his ivorshijifull Frende and 
 Kinseman, William Fleetewoode, Esquier, Re^ 
 corder of London" and dated the 29th July, 
 1578. " The Englishman," he says, " in this 
 qualitie is most vaine, indiscreete, and out of 
 order: he first groundes his worke on impossi- 
 bilities: then in three howers ronneshe throwe 
 the workle : marrycs, gets children, makes chil- 
 dren men, men to conquer kingdomes, murder 
 monsters, and bringeth gods from Heaven, 
 and fetcheth divels from Hel."f 
 
 * From this Play Shakespeare drew his plot of " Measure for 
 Meoiure." 
 
 t See moreover the opinion of llie admirable Sir Philip Sidney, 
 in his " Defence of roeii/." Works, vol. 3. p. 4cJ.— 17^4-
 
 XIV PREFACE. 
 
 But this was not all. They were often absurd- 
 ly forgetful of the costume or keepitig of their 
 dramas, if I may so speak; and it is perhaps 
 to be accounted for, by recollecting the paucity 
 of scenes and theatre properties, and the con- 
 sequent carelessness, which such a circumstance 
 would naturally create. Their indecencies are 
 intolerable ; but the reader should forget them 
 if he can ; or remember with their apologists, 
 that it was the fault more of an inartificial age, 
 than of the writers who lived in, and copied its 
 grossness.* Anachronisms too, occur in every 
 page. No matter where, or at what period, the 
 representations are stated to take place, allu- 
 sions to passing events and present customs are 
 strangely and ridiculously mingled. One con- 
 siderable advantage however, we derive from 
 this. Every play of those days, furnishes us 
 
 • " The distinctions between modesty of thought," (says Mr. 
 Way.— Translation of the ' Fabliaux,' par M. Le Grand, p. xxxiii of 
 the Preface. Ed. 1796') " and decency which resides in the ex- 
 pression, is a modern refinement; a compromise, between chas. 
 tity and seduction, which stipulates not the exclusion, but only 
 the disguise of licentiousness; and may perhaps be a proof of a 
 purer taste, but is no evidence of a very severe and rigid mo- 
 rality;'
 
 PREFACE. XV 
 
 with an accurate transcript of their fashions 
 and manners; and instead of collecting from 
 precedent times how the characters which 
 they have supposed to act in them, would 
 have acted; they yield tis a deeper interest, 
 while they embody the actions of themselves 
 and their contemporaries. To the antiquary 
 therefore, as well as to the mere man of let- 
 ters, these facts are invaluable; and in some 
 measure reconcile us to the faults, which we 
 cannot altogether overlook. 
 
 " The nature of a preface," says Drydcn,* " is 
 rambling ; never wholly out of the way, nor in 
 it :" and I shall now use the liberty he main- 
 tains, and observe something upon my own 
 endeavours. Humble, as I sincerely confess 
 they are, and little as I can have to claim for 
 them, I do not think that the leisure arising 
 amid more important employments has been 
 absolutely misj)cnt liere. Every pursuit needs 
 relaxation, and this is to me the most grateful. 
 Lessons of morality may be inculcated as well 
 in verse, as in prose; and the mind that nau- 
 
 • Frtfface to Tales from Chanrtr.
 
 XVi PREFACE. 
 
 seates them in the one, does not, I am afraid^ 
 incline more zealously, when they are present- 
 ed in the other. To such, however, as despise 
 instruction, unless it plod along in the veriest 
 nakedness of prose, I may say, that the books 
 most rich in poetic diction — most abounding 
 in sublime and terrible imagery — that speak 
 most forcibly to the heart, and by appeals to 
 Nature, raise it rapidly and fervidly to " Na- 
 ture's God," are the prophetic books of the 
 Old Testament. Isaiah, and the touching com- 
 plaints of the afflicted Job,* are believed by 
 Bishop Lowth and others, to have been origi- 
 nally written in measured lines, at least, if not 
 in rhyme ; and the language of our Saviour — 
 
 * ** The book of Job is, perhaps, thp first dramatic piece that 
 ever was written. It is evidently a iraf/edi/, and the design of it 
 is to show, cur malis bene, et bonis male," -^Bishop Hare, from 
 Spence's Anecdotes, p. 332. 
 
 There is probably too much of fancy in the opinion here ex- 
 pressed ; but it has been very generally conceived, that Job was 
 no real existing character. The Bishop of Winchester, however, 
 thinks differently ; (see his *' Elements of Christian Theology," 
 vol. 1. p. 940 and though one should be willing to admit the ac- 
 tuality of the person; yet the book itself would appear to be the 
 production of another hand. As an historical poem, its author 
 might still be inspired ; and such I take to be the positive fact
 
 PREFACE. XVii 
 
 the writings of his apostles, glow with the lux- 
 uriance of eastei'n metaphor!* 
 
 As to what regards tlie poem itself, I have 
 not many things to remark. The groundwork 
 of the plot occurs in the second volume of the 
 Chronicles of Sir John Froissart, chapter the 
 twenty-sixth ; but I have not been at all soli- 
 citous to adhere closely to historical facts. I 
 have indeed taken great liberties with the de* 
 tail ; and varied from it, as much, and as often, 
 as it seemed convenient. Whatever circum- 
 stances I have used, will be found among the 
 notes, in the excellent translation of Bour- 
 chier, Lord Berners, first published in 1523, 
 
 • A reniarkablr passagr occurs in Uie Memoir of the late Re- 
 vcrpii*! and excrlknt Hpimv Martyn, chaplain to the East India 
 Company, and missionary at Dinaporc, which I recommend to the 
 particular notice of my Readers. — " Since 1 have known God." 
 he says, " in a saving manner, i)ainting, poetry, and music have 
 " liad charms unknown to me before. I have received what I 
 •* suppose to be a taste for them ; for religion has refined my 
 " mind, and made me more susceptible of impressions from the 
 " sublime and beautiful." It would be an inaccurate and uncharit- 
 able inference to aftirni that thecondemners of |X)etry, have no re- 
 l)g:ion: but it is perfectly correct to say, that true religion in the 
 Vrrysoul of genuine poetry !
 
 XVIU PREFACE. 
 
 The few obsolete words and phrases which 
 may be noticed, have not been introduced 
 wantonly, or without consideration. When- 
 ever they are met with, they have been thought 
 to express something more than the words in 
 common use, and therefore to be redeemed 
 from undeserved obscurity. I desire not to 
 give an appearance of antiquity to my labors, 
 but to catch the inspiration of the olden 
 times; and occasionally pass into circulation 
 the pure and sterling coin, which has been so 
 long, and so culpably neglected. In one re- 
 spect, it is true, I have departed willingly 
 from the practice of the elder dramatists. In 
 their productions, the line which a preceding 
 speaker has left unclosed, is generally termi- 
 nated by the one that follows : and at least this 
 custom has been almost universally adopted by 
 modern writers. But I confess there is to me, 
 something ridiculous in the observance of it. 
 A dying hero has but an unseemly post as- 
 signed him, who must wait to close the liine 
 with his existence;* — and methinks the ago- 
 
 1 
 
 • As for example, in Shakespeare's Play of " King Johrtt" Act 4, 
 Scene S. Arthur, lesiiping from the walls, exclaimji : —
 
 PREFACE, XIX 
 
 nies of a breaking heart, correspond not easily 
 with syllabic niceties! Where besides is the 
 advantage? If I may trust to my own notions 
 of harmony, or credit the assurance of my 
 ears, the verse may flow as smoothly with a 
 broken line beginning and concluding a speech, 
 as if continued regularly to the end. In fact, 
 do all we can, the lines are necessarily broken 
 ones; and it is but in few instances that the 
 ear, by any effort, can convey the sound to the 
 next speaker. What is superfluous, therefore, 
 may be discarded; and I trust I shall be ac- 
 quitted as well of presumption, as of a pro- 
 pensity to innovation merely for its own sake. 
 It is, I believe, a fashionable doctrine of the 
 day; but I disclaim all part in it. 
 
 And now, since the sails of my little vessel 
 are set, her tackling complete, the anchor 
 
 *' O me! my uncle's spirit is in these stones:— 
 
 •♦ Heaven take my soul and England keep my bones !" [Diet. 
 
 Where it is to be noted, besides, that not only is the line up at 
 the death — in fox-hunter's phrase, but a very capital rhyme, (to 
 continue the metaphor) blows the note of triumph over the fallen! 
 It is the absolute " Who, oo whup," of a Fox chace !
 
 X% PREFACE. 
 
 weighed, and the wind blowing freshly from 
 the shore; as one unaccustomed to the ocean, 
 yet delighted with the swelling of its waters, 
 and with a heart bounding like the wave, I 
 bid them— launch into the deep!
 
 THE HEIR OF FOIZ.
 
 s>-
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Gaston. The Heir of Foiz or Foy. 
 Gaspard. His Bastard Brother. 
 Philippo. Steward to the Earl. 
 Tico Captains. 
 Servant. 
 
 The Lady Isabel. Wije to Gaston. 
 LuciNDA. Her Cousin. 
 
 Attendants Soldiers. 
 
 Scene— 7Vie Castle of Foiz.
 
 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 
 
 ACT 1. SCENE 1. 
 A Room in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Gaston, Gaspard, and Piiimppo. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Dispatch, dispatch, my lord. 
 The earl, our father, doth command your presence* 
 
 Gastov. 
 Knowest thou to what end .' 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Why, as 1 guess, 'tis hut for little good. 
 Even now I left him frowning in his closet, 
 His eye ilashed fire, and his impatient look 
 Bespoke a trouhh'd ])urpose in his soul. 
 Some tidings he hath heard, Ijclike displease him ; 
 But in M'hat way you are concerned in this, 
 Is more than I can answer. Voiir pardon. 
 I'm in haste. [/f.rjV.
 
 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act i. 
 
 Gaston. 
 Some cunning slanderer hath contrived to creep 
 Around his noble heart, withering the flowers 
 That blossomed in the fulness of his love. 
 Would that I knew the traitor; though he were 
 Enthroned in royal greatness, let me perish. 
 If, like the shrivelled leaf that Autumn breathes on, 
 He fell not, blasted to the grave. 
 
 Philippo. 
 Have patience, Sir ! perchance 
 You are in error. It were well, at least. 
 To sound the depth, before you rashly plunge 
 Into the waves of passion. Yet have patience. 
 
 Gaston. 
 Patience I You may preach 
 To the dull statue patience, bid it bear 
 Unmerited reproach, false accusations, 
 And suffer calmly the rebuke of fools ! 
 
 1 do not say 'twill hear ; but it will be 
 
 Fine exercise, and you'll not lose your labor. 
 As now it is most likely. 
 
 Philippo. 
 
 How ! my lord I 
 Gaston. 
 Nay, if ye would have animated ears 
 To dwell with rapture on your rounded periods, 
 Lecture the varlets in the crowded hall; 
 Their very badges ^ will delight to mark ye. 
 And better, too, become j'our stewardship, 
 Your chair of state, vour aM ful wand and chain : *
 
 SCI. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 1 
 
 Tliere may your orat'ry find ample scope — 
 I have no leisure for impertinence, 
 And trust to hear no more on't. 
 
 PUPLTPPO. 
 
 Young man ! Young man ! 
 
 You do forget my years, and my deservings. 
 
 Was it to be your scorn, that 1 have watched 
 
 With more than love of parents o'er your youth, 
 
 And nursed the shooting scion of the mind ? 
 
 Was it to be despised in mine old age, 
 
 That when the world had almost cast ye from it — 
 
 When, in life's early spring, the parent fled 
 
 That should have tended her young germ — (so 
 
 wrought on 
 By secret machinations of her brother, 
 The haughty-souled Navarre:) — when ye were left 
 In the long war upon the frontier by 
 My lord, who did return not till the wreath 
 Of victory o'erhung his coronet! — 
 Was it, I say to be a bye-word, that 
 Then upon me the arduous trust devolved, 
 Of training up in arms the Heir of Foiz ; 
 And to its famous house, in triumph, back, 
 With proud and happy heart, returning you 
 The height of expectation ! Is't for this 
 Ye spurn your servant — bid his grey hairs lie 
 Like dust upon the earth, and trample down 
 The anthority your noble father gave? 
 Go to, my Lord, 'tis naught! 
 
 Ga^to\. 
 Why, look yp now. Philij)|H)!
 
 ? THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act r* 
 
 'Tis certain thou liast favor from the earl — 
 ril hope thou dost deserve it. But I may 
 Question that worthiness, (I pray ye mark me),* 
 If by another's wrong thou seek'st to ground 
 Thine own advantage. They do say, Philippo! 
 Fair spoken as ye seem, and wise, and honest, 
 That all my father's angers, which of late 
 Have cast a darkening shadow on my life, 
 And made me weary of it, rightly placed. 
 Spring from tliy hollow smiling treachery. 
 
 Philippo. 
 
 Sir! 
 
 Gaston. 
 I thought how I sliould startle ye! There's more 
 Behind — pray listen. When erst I had sought 
 Remission of the fifty thousand francs 
 Due from lord Dalbret to the Earl of Foiz, 
 Because the kingly honor of Navarre 
 
 Was pledged for the repayment it was there 
 
 Your malice. Sir ! that cut the treaty off, 
 
 And caused the land a deadly enemy. 
 
 Then, — give me your patience,you have talked about it; 
 
 But a short season past, I framed fair hopes 
 
 To reconcile my mother to her lord ; 
 
 And (for, while yet a child, my evil fortune 
 
 Bereft me of maternal tenderness) 
 
 Long did my heart with quick emotion beat 
 
 To clasp that reverenced being, and support 
 
 With timely hand the laboring steps of age: 
 
 It was your pleasure to oppose my will — 
 
 My wish M-as interdicted — and I thank ye!
 
 sc. r. THR HEIR OF FOIZ. & 
 
 At last, I gained upon the unwilling- earl 
 
 To give permission — it was slowly given ! 
 
 I need not tell how I was welcomed there; 
 
 What splendid pageants, and what braveries,* 
 
 Navarre rejoiced to grace his nephew with : 
 
 Nor boots it to relate the bliss of heart, 
 
 That boundless, high-wrought ecstasy of mind, 
 
 Which she who bore me, so long dead to me, 
 
 Conferred upon her child. It will suffice 
 
 To call to thy remembrance, how that this, 
 
 E'en this, Mas looked on with an evil eye. 
 
 The kindness of the king in thy cold breast 
 
 Bred the suspicion, that 1 had impaM ned 
 
 My soul for this world's nothing: and the love 
 
 A sorrowing parent to her offspring gave, 
 
 Thy innate baseness turned into a snare 
 
 Of ruin and of death — 1 know not what ! 
 
 So too the earl believed ; and so hath risen 
 
 That wearying fretfuluess, which leaves the mind 
 
 A burden to itself — to me a pity ! 
 
 Philippo. 
 My lord ! My lord ! from whom do you receive, 
 This crowd of allegations? 
 
 Gaston. 
 
 From one. 
 Who spoke, it is my fear, too much of truth. 
 From one, who closely tracked thee through thy w ind- 
 
 ings, 
 And marked each secret hold. The serpent's slime 
 Betrays him, as he creeps : Beware, I say, 
 Beware !
 
 IP THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act i. 
 
 Philippo. 
 Will ye not name the accuser? 
 
 Gaston. 
 What! ye would buckle on your armour then, 
 And drive him round the lists? Faith! is it so? 
 Beshrevr me, if I thoug-ht such valor lay 
 Beneath the rust of eld ! Thy state hath lost 
 Much goodly chivalry; and many a knight. 
 Whose prowess never failed him, in the attaint 
 Haply had cowered before thy belted worth: — 
 Chance makes or mars us all. 
 
 Philippo. 
 Your theme's unhappy, sir! 
 And little honor to you — let it pass. 
 A iew short moments to the world, and then 
 The worm will have its portion — I my grave ! 
 Yet had I trusted to have gone in peace 
 From this bad world, and left an honest name 
 To those who shall succeed me. I have ever 
 Lived as a faithful servant to my Lord ; 
 And if, in ought, I may say I have merited, 
 Surely it is, in that I sought to lead 
 His offspring o'er the loftiest walks of honor: — 
 May God forgive ye, it will break my heart 
 That you become my accuser! 
 
 Gaston. 
 Cast off the foul reproach, (which as ye find 
 'Tis hard to bear with patience!) and Fd kneel, 
 Kneel heartily for pardon. 
 
 Philippo. 
 I may have erred in judgment, good my lord,
 
 sc. I. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 11 
 
 'Twercbut too easy; in well moaning— never! 
 'Tis the hard lot of those wlio thread the ma/e, 
 The intricate maze of life, still to perceive 
 The eagle eye of envy flare abroad, 
 Watchinsr the hour to strike. As in a dream. 
 We venture on the journey ; smiling hopes 
 Allure to o-lorious deeds, immortalizing- 
 IMan's mortality ; fondly we believe 
 The insidious flatterers — but Envy there. 
 Moving her dusky pinion, scatters plagues 
 And pestilence around : those hopes decay, 
 Our spirits wither, and at last we wake — 
 Wake only to the certainty of evil : 
 The painted vision fleetly passed away, 
 And joy is turned to mourning! I have run 
 jMy course — I see the goal before me ; 
 And 'tis not much, if a long day should end 
 In storm and temi)est! Yet 1 may have looked, 
 Ev'n as another, for a tranquil eve, 
 Unvexed by things of earth ! Indulge me, Sir, 
 'Tis the prerogative of age to talk. 
 And 'tis the heart's relief. 
 
 Gaston. 
 As I live, he moves me! 
 
 PlIILII'l'O. 
 
 You deem that I have wroniicd von — IJ.- avcu's my 
 
 witness, 
 How truly 1 have loved and honore<l you, 
 And all my life reviewed too, will attest it. 
 I have assiiaged the indignation of 
 The earl, but not inflamed. li' I ;u!\ iscd
 
 i2 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act i. 
 
 The pledge be unaccepted, which the king-. 
 Your uncle, offered for my lord of Dalbret, 
 'Twas that 1 knew his dark perfidious temper. 
 Not upon light suspicion. That I strove 
 T' obstruct your progress to Navarre, was not 
 That I condemned the filial love that moved it — 
 1 did applaud and reverence ye — but that 
 I saw 'twas big- with danger, and would turn 
 Unhappily in the end. 
 
 Gaston. 
 This shewed not proof, Philippo! 
 
 Philippo. 
 Prudence, my lord ! anticipates the proof. 
 And waits not for the peril at our doors. 
 Strong inferences claim at least (if not 
 Implicit confidence) our best of caution ! 
 In thee, in thee, lives thy sire's hope; and if. 
 Without heir male, it be his chance to die, 
 The large domains, pertaining to the earldom. 
 Lapse straightway to the king. Now, is't not sooth, 
 More than on one occasion, he devised 
 Destruction to ye both ; in which, (I crave 
 Forgiveness while I speak), it is the rumor. 
 Your lady mother joined — 
 
 GASTON. 
 
 Hold there, I would advise ye! 
 
 Breathe but another thought that touches on 
 
 My more than honored mother, and 'tis not 
 
 The few grey hairs that wave upon thy brow, 
 
 That shall protect thee from my vengeance! Now 
 
 Proceed,
 
 sr. r. THE HVAR OF FOIZ. 13 
 
 PlMLlPPO. 
 
 I but repeat the common voice of Fame — 
 Perchance my own belief. But canst thou lliink 
 It is ouglit worthy of my dear concernment, 
 If the brief space of time I yet may reckon 
 Be lengthened out or shortened? No, sir! — No. 
 To find a death from thee — from him 1 love — 
 Were somewhat hard; but not to find a death! 
 Yet this is vain. It was thine ill I feared. 
 Though thou return'd'st in safety, loaded too 
 With honors and caresses, I may think 
 All is not yet secure; nor is it, since 
 Thoughts of suspect ^ have risen in the earl 
 Of thy confederacy with those he hates 
 More than the many-handed arm of Death; 
 But by what fiend implanted, is best known 
 To Him who reads all secrets — I am spotless: 
 Nor would I, for possession of the world, 
 Think that the mind, which was as polished glass, 
 Bright, ignorant of stain, should bear the stamp 
 Of Hell upon it. — I'd not live to see this ; 
 I do believe thou could'st not live and Oe so! 
 
 Gaston. 
 This old man troubles me; (Aside.) 
 And how to act I know not. Gaspard swears 
 (]My bastard brother) that he's hollow-hearted, 
 Seeking my death — yet wherefore should he seek it? 
 'Twould bring /<?';« small advantage; and could I 
 Live to forget his zealous services? 
 Somewhat Fvc done ahead v; somewhat too
 
 14 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act i. 
 
 My word is pletlged for — wlien has that deceived? 
 
 Or Avhom? Not true! So help me, righteous Heaven? 
 
 I'd rather perish by the faith I give 
 
 Than live by rash suspicion! If he be 
 
 Honest as is his seeming-, I might trust 
 
 The secret I am charged with to his keeping, 
 
 And from experienced counsel seek a means 
 
 To effect a hallowed purpose. There must be — 
 
 Yes, surely there must be spirits presiding 
 
 Over the elements; and man may learn 
 
 The word of power that bends them to his will.^ 
 
 1 think there be — and hence electuaries 
 
 Of wondrous might, and charms that draw the moon 
 
 From her high sphere, are wrought. It must be so, 
 
 It were unwise to doubt it — 
 
 Philippo. 
 
 You muse, my lord! 
 And posting Time along the dial speeds 
 His unremitting flight. *Tis strange he should [^Aaide. 
 Remember not the wrathful earl, nor that 
 He is commanded to his presence ! Does 
 
 He sleep? Pardon, my lord 
 
 Gaston. [^fFithout regarding him. 
 He of the Rock, 
 The holy eremite, whom Navarre proclaims 
 Worthy all honor, bade me give it credit, 
 For 'twas most certain. Every star, he said, 
 Had magical influence ; and learned skill 
 Might use it to its ends. Herbs too abound 
 lu sovereign virtues, if they be collected
 
 St. I. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 15 
 
 When the full moon jauohs on tlie fertile vale, 
 Or on the frownino* precipice;"^ and as 
 Obtained most perilously, so the most 
 Rich with strange efficacy. This he told me: 
 But if Navarre be false and treacherous, 
 (As, Heaven for«^ive me, I do half believe;) 
 The hermit an impostor, what were I? 
 I am distraught with wild perplexity. 
 And know not where to turn me. Say, I do 
 Confide in this old man; he may resolve 
 
 Mo, if he will. I'll do't__yet stay and yet 
 
 I might Philippe! 
 
 PlIILIPPO. 
 
 My Lord ! 
 
 Knter a Servant. 
 Gaston, 
 We are interrupted. Speak your errand. 
 
 Servant. 
 The earl, my lord. 
 
 Impatiently asks for you ; he's in w rath ; 
 1 never saw — I never heard of man 
 So wrcakful! 
 
 Gaston. 
 I'm much unmindfid. — Say that I shall come. 
 Philippe ! meet me presently along [/?.r?7 Serv. 
 
 The eastern rampart of the castle— there 
 I'd speak with thee. 
 
 Philipi'o. 
 I shall a((end yc. 
 
 [Exrnnl lever aUij.
 
 IG THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act i. 
 
 SCENE IT. 
 
 A Garden of the Castle. 
 
 Enter the Lady Isabel, Lucinda, and Attendants. 
 
 Isabel. 
 How fresh the earth seems to me; 
 How eloquently falls upon the heart 
 The voice of nature ! Is't not strange, Lucinda, 
 Inanimate creation should bring- forth 
 Snch varied feelings, and exalt the soul 
 Above the little thoughts that wear away 
 The puny frame of man? — or is it not 
 Stranger than all, that man should walk abroad, 
 Feel the full sentiment which Nature breathes. 
 And live rcaardless of the hand that made— 
 The wondrous power that can uphold it? Look, 
 I prithee look, Lucinda; yonder rose. 
 That loads the air with fragrance, and displays 
 The beautiful richness of a kindly summer, 
 Is wet with the dewy element. There sits 
 A fair bright drop upon the rubied leaf — 
 Seems it not rubied too? So, even so. 
 The eye that looks on Nature may discern 
 Divinity impressed with her strong colors : 
 As the dew nourishes the rosier, 
 Which in return gives back a radiant dye. 
 So doth the Deity preserve his Morks, 
 And is by them divulged. How thinkcst thou, 
 LiK'iiida ?
 
 sc. I. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 17 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 1 do believe, dear Lady! 
 
 And that for me suffices. We should not 
 
 Meddle with things we cannot comprehend — 
 
 So Father Julio urges ; he's a good man, 
 
 And T yield up implicit trust to him. 
 
 If he says so, I think it; and if not, 
 
 Why should I weakly be distrustful of 
 
 What, if I doubt, is bootless.— Pray ye deem so? 
 
 Isabel. 
 Not I, good faith, Lucinda. 
 What! lightly yield the privilege of thought, 
 Which 'tis the high concern of all mankind 
 To use, but worthily and well ? — that faculty. 
 That noble faculty, distinguishing 
 The hero from the brute? Not that I mean 
 To doubt because I cannot comprehend — 
 That were unwise 1 trow ; but, credit me^ 
 Tlie more we strive to find out truth, the more 
 Truth will be made apparent. This I feel ! 
 
 Lucinda. 
 ril not contest the matter; my confessor 
 AVould name ye heretic, and lie might do it: 
 I know ye, Isabel, or so might I think ! 
 
 Isabel. 
 VV^ell, e'en use your pleasure. Prithee, Aviien 
 Saw ye my lord t 
 
 Lucinda. 
 Lord Gaston, mean you? 
 

 
 18 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act. i. 
 
 Isabel. 
 Lord Gaston, do I mean ! Why, whom beside ? 
 Is there another on the earth who claims 
 That title of wy lord? 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 Be not so captious 
 
 I beseech ye, Madam. Some hours have past 
 Since 1 beheld him : but of vou methinks 
 'Twere fitter to inquire. 
 
 Isabel. 
 From me he parted hastily, 
 Pressed by an urgent mandate from the earl, 
 And sure he tarries long- ! 
 
 Attendant^ 
 Even now, my lady, 
 
 He crossed the hall in haste ; whither he m ent 
 I know not certainly ; as I conceive 
 Toward our lord's apartment. 
 
 Isabel. 
 I'll chide when he returns. The truant shall 
 Be heartily upbraided. He has left me 
 Two tedious hours and more. 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 An age, I promise ye ! 
 
 Isabel. 
 True, and it is an age to those who feel 
 Joy only in the presence of their lord, 
 And sorrow when apart. The cloud of life 
 By him is sweetly gihied ; hopes rise higher, 
 And, like the mounting- haggard, ^ dare the sun.
 
 sc.ii. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 19 
 
 The fears of tliis Morld then are like the storm, 
 
 Which, 'neath the sheltering roof, mo hear around, 
 
 Heedless — and happy smile upon its terrors; 
 
 Or, if there spring- a pain across the heart. 
 
 For those whom Fate hath doomed to brave its fury, 
 
 'Tis such a kind alloy, so blended with 
 
 The happiness we feel, that it but heightens 
 
 The purity of joy, as fire enhances 
 
 Metals of highest mark: then we still reckon 
 
 Time as our feelings be. Nay, verily, it is 
 
 An ago, Lucinda! 
 
 . Lucinda. 
 You 're a fine araucr — 
 And a learned lady ! Too great for me 
 To cope withal. 
 
 Isabel. 
 Now this is envy — absolute envy; [^Aside, 
 1 am certain of it— I do fear 'tis spite too ! 
 She loved my Gaston, (I dare not say, loves!) 
 And 'twas her hope to marry him, but he 
 Preferred her younger cousin— some say fairer! 
 And who can tell how great the disappointment 
 To lose that noble heart, whicii I have won?- 
 She vexes me— yet still, I think she's honest! — 
 Why, Luce, you're out of temper; come, I'll tell you 
 About the sumptuous pageant, which my lord 
 Was a pleased spectator of, when honored as 
 Beseemed the guest and nephew of Navarro. 
 AVould'st hear it? 
 
 Lucinda, 
 
 Most gladly. 
 
 c; 2
 
 20 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act i. 
 
 Isabel. 
 First, he was welcomed by a throng 
 Of knights and handsome ladies : all the streets 
 Were hung* with costly cloths of silk and gold — 
 'Twas marvellous to look on. Citizens 
 Threw up their caps; the thundering of.their shouts 
 Reached to high Heaven, and echo poured them back. 
 Redoubling on the ear. And so they brought him 
 Nearer the royal palace, 'mid the sound 
 Of martial instruments and neig-hino- steeds. 
 And here began the pageant. Do ye mark ? 
 
 LUCINDA, 
 
 Yes, yes ; most heed fully, 
 
 I could half hate her — she's so happy ! ^Aside. 
 
 Isabel. 
 Well! 
 
 Here there appeared a Heaven, set thick with stars, 
 Radiant with constellations. In the centre. 
 Fair rosy children, like to cherubs, were 
 Smiling and playing with each other; then 
 Soft music issued, mixt with softer voices; 
 And far above, burst through the scmblant azure, 
 One figuring our Lad}', richly dight, 
 And in her arms a babe. It looked upon 
 The crowd complacently; but when the tone 
 Of clarions, and the deep hoarse shout of men, 
 Rose in the air — it cried, and was afraid: 
 Its little arms were stretched out to its mother, 
 (For she was so), and in her bosom's fold, 
 It hid its moist red cheek; — like a soft leaf 
 The budding spring-time of the year puts forth,
 
 sc. II. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 21 
 
 Curled by the drippings shower. So this was closed. 
 Next, in an amphitheatre, became visible 
 Twelve goodly trees, in leaf; anon there passed 
 A rough Avind through them, and immediately 
 It seemed as though each leaf made music, 'twas 
 So cunningly devised : with that a sound 
 Of armour caught the ear, and all was stilh 
 Again, a rough wind passed among- the leaves. 
 But then came voices ; and from out the trunk 
 Of every tree, a damsel broke, arrayed 
 In mantles framed of skins, their logs in buskins; 
 And on their shoulders quivers charged with arrows; 
 In each left hand a bow too! AVas't not Aveil? 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 'Twas excellent. 
 
 Isabel. 
 Then the twelve damsels laid aside their bows, 
 And joined in some strange dance; ^vhich beint»- 
 
 finished, 
 A third time passed the breeze, and presently 
 Fell every leaf — so were the damsels veiled. 
 But when that cloud had fiillen, behold ! no more 
 Was to be seen of them — damsels and trees 
 Alike had disaj»pcarcd! Dost thou not think 
 'Twas woiulorf ul 1 
 
 Luc NDA. 
 
 In sooth, and hardly to be credited. 
 
 Isabel 
 Yet true, rest ye assured. 
 Now shall I tell thee how my Gaston fared
 
 22 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act i. 
 
 In the brave tourney that ensued? lo 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 Why is it ? 'Tis wearing- late. 
 
 Isabel 
 No sure; not the fourth hour from prime* Now hear: 
 There \a as a gallant company, prepared 
 To battle in the lists : armourers ran 
 From tent to tent with busy heedful looks, 
 Toiling beneath the load of arms they carried; 
 Squires and brave knights and damsels then appeared. 
 And dames of high degree — 'twas a strange bustle! 
 But now the judges sit! — the crowds, disposed 
 In order, wait impatiently the onset. 
 Silence proclaimed, the attendant heralds read 
 Conditions of the joust, and in reply 
 The shrill voiced trumpet sounded loud and long.i^ 
 Then came the challengers — their shields were placed 
 Along the lists, and they were shortly answered.^^ 
 My Gaston was distinguished, fairly armed 
 In mail of proof; and over all he wore 
 Asurcoat of rich silk, his helmet gold. 
 Surmounted by an eagle. On his shield 
 Two lions rampant, in a field azure. 
 Powdered with golden stars, he lightly carried. 
 His horse was a bright bay, and strong as large, 
 And sumptuously caparisoned, a gift 
 His royal relative presented. Thus 
 He rode into the field ; and, M'hen again 
 The trumpet sounded, to the spur the}- gave 
 Their gallant steeds, and rushed to the attaint.^^
 
 «c. ir. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 23 
 
 All were unliorsed,save Gaston; but he broke 
 His lance in four, and his opponent's passed 
 Thrpugh shield and corslet, and just grazed the 
 
 flesh. 
 Thou dost not heed, Lucinda ! 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 Nay, by my troth 'twas marvellous ! 
 
 How sped he then ? Her sparkling eyes betray [^Aside. 
 
 Her inward happiness. Now could I give 
 
 The world, if it were mine, to check one moment 
 
 The flood of her enjoyment. She provokes me 
 
 Beyond all patient bearing — and she knows it! 
 
 Isabel. 
 Give me thine car, I'll tell thee: 
 His squires brought other lances, and he stood 
 Prepared to brave the best. Another came, 
 And then another — he unhorsed them all, 
 And bore away the prizes. On his helm 
 My colors fluttered, ^* and the hearts of those 
 Proud fair ones, who beheld him overthrow 
 Their noblest chivalry, would burst with envy! 
 Oh! how 1 long to have been there, to have seen 
 How all succumbed before him, and have clasped 
 My Avell loved hero to the heart he loves 
 
 Devoutly 'twere a right noble triumph! 
 
 Lucinda. 
 JIumph! 
 
 Isabel. 
 What have I done! I feel [^Aside. 
 
 This foolish boast to her deserves correction.
 
 24 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act i. 
 
 Pardon me, dear Lucinda, I run on 
 Thoughtless of thee who art perchance aweary. 
 
 Lucinda. 
 Not in the least, dear Isabel ; 
 Go on, I pray thee; it delights me greatly. 
 Malicious creature! would that she were hanged! 
 
 Isabel. \_Aside. 
 
 Nay, but it irketh thee ; come, come 
 
 Enter Philippo. 
 
 Isabel. 
 Morrow, Philippo. Hast thou met my lord ? 
 
 Philippo. 
 Lady, dear lady ! for the love of Heaven 
 Speed ye this moment to the earl ; appease 
 The fury that sweeps onward like a flood, 
 Or not the world can save him ! 
 
 Isabel. 
 Ha! 
 
 Lucinda. 
 Save whom ? 
 
 Isabel. 
 The matter, good Philippo — say the matter— - 
 Mine errand else were idle. 
 
 Philippo. 
 Time presses, lady, and the case requires 
 Your best of diligence ; but know in brief. 
 Lord Gaston is imprisoned — is in chains, 
 Charged with conspiring to destroy his sire
 
 sc. II. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 25 
 
 By poison! Nay, 'tis false, but yet reply not; 
 
 And, if ye love him, fly, lose not an instant! 
 
 The headsman is called out, and fifty spears 
 
 Guard him to execution. ^^ ^^ hy, my lady, 
 
 Lady Isabel! as I live, she's senseless! 
 
 She falls! fool, fool, and madman! Avorse, far worse! 
 
 Curse on these old g^rey hairs^ that should have 
 
 taught me 
 The forethought too of age. Help, bow the body. J'' 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 So fall the proud, so human glory fades! [^^^siile. 
 
 I could laugh now, to see her day obscured. 
 
 If 'twere not that a fearful tempest broods 
 
 Vindictively upon her. And yet, why, 
 
 Why do I feel delighted? She was much 
 
 Like a soft breath that crisps^' the summer wave 
 
 Ruflling, l)ut pleasant too: her gentleness 
 
 Strange, as 'twas admirable. Wherefore, then, 
 
 Do I find ])lcasure in her sorrows? oh. 
 
 My heart! my frail, unworthy heart ! is't not — 
 
 Is it not that she loves, and is beloved 
 
 By him, Avhom thou hast coveted? whom thou 
 
 Hadst sought to gain ? 80, in thy frailty lies 
 
 The fond excuse, which conscience whispers thee 
 
 Is base, detestable ! Away, away, 
 
 Foul fiend, take off thy impress. 1 do now 
 
 Forswear allegiance: let me be at rest. 
 
 Isabel. 
 Oh! 
 
 Philippo. 
 She moves : give her air.
 
 26 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act i. 
 
 LUCINDA, 
 
 On my life, I pify her. 
 
 Philippo. 
 Gently, good fellows, bear her g-ently, 
 
 [^Exeunt all but Lucinda, 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 Gaston destroy his parent! poison him! 
 
 For what? — he is his heir, his only child, 
 
 Save Gaspard, — born to no inheritance 
 
 But what the earl's induloence miaht allow. 
 
 Why then attempt the life of him who gave it? 
 
 Even now he holds all honors, all possessions, — 
 
 What more could death bestow? — the name of earl? 
 
 Ridiculous ! and who are his accusers? 
 
 Who dare assert his guilt ? why is the test 
 
 Of battle yielded not;!^ and, more than all, 
 
 How could my lord give credit to a charge 
 
 (Improbable as it seems) against that one 
 
 Who is his only hope ; as much the heir 
 
 Of his high prowess, as of his domains ! 
 
 And thus to hurry to an instant death too 
 
 Him who is this — all this — resembles more 
 
 The illusive phantoms of disordered sleep, 
 
 Imagination's wanderings, than the real 
 
 Occurrences of life! It doth amaze 
 
 And terrify me ; and what path to bend. 
 
 In sooth, I am at loss. Alas ! alas ! 
 
 If Gaston hath thought this that they allege-^ 
 
 It is impossible, he could not act it ! 
 
 How my heart bleeds to think. [^She muses.
 
 sc. ir. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 27 
 
 Enter Gaspard. 
 Gaspard. 
 Joy to ye, lady mine ! May I intrude 
 Upon your meditations? 
 
 LUCTNDA. 
 
 You are right Avclcorae, sir. 
 
 Haply you can direct me to some clue, 
 
 Or guide me tlirougli the labyrinth I'm lost in. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Your radiant eye, fair lady, 
 Like some foretokening- meteor hath involved 
 My heart amid such maze, that more I need 
 A hand to lead me o'er the wildering path. 
 Than proffer to assist ye. 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 This is ill-timed.— He's handsome, T protest; \^Aside. 
 Well-mannered too, and no doubt richly gifted. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 'Tis truth at least. 
 But Avherein can I serve you? 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 Lend me, sir, 
 Your best attention. You have heard 'tis likely 
 Of the dark crime, Avhich is preferred against 
 The noble Gaston — I'*! still call him so. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 
 Ha! 
 Lucinda. 
 Why do you start antl tremble ? you have heard it?
 
 28 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Ay, and in agony of heart have seen 
 The cursed proofs, that do proclaim him murderer 
 In will, if not in act. 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 Say you? 19 
 Proofs ! then there are proofs? Merciful heaven, who 
 Will trust the faith of man ! It is but as 
 The smooth clear waters, on which sunbeams fall. 
 Gilding the crystal surface. We survey 
 Our images reflected ; when we smile. 
 They too seem smiling; and if we should weep. 
 Dissembling tears reciprocate our griefs, 
 And wean us from despair: but if we trust 
 The lovely promise which the shadow yields. 
 And clasp it to our hearts— alas! it flies; 
 The gurgling waters open to devour, 
 And down, down sinks the wretch; perchance with all 
 Her load of frailties weighing her to death 1 
 Poor Isabel I 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Faith, not unlikely! — \_Aside. 
 
 This is severity, not justice, lady ; 
 And I much Avronged therein. Sure ye exempt 
 Your truest servant from the opprobrious charge — 
 Do ye not, mistress ?^0' 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 As he may prove — But why 
 
 Talk you to me of this? I would hear that 
 
 Which now concerns us nearer; by what means
 
 sen. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 29 
 
 This thing became apparent, and for what 
 It was engaged in, so ye can bewray it,*^ 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Unhappily, too well! 
 
 'Twas my sad fortune to be near the earl. 
 And witness to the sorrowful disclosure; 
 To mark the tear run down his manly cheek, 
 And the deep sob that swelled his noble heart 
 Almost to ?)reaking. For, was not this man 
 One whom he fondly loved? his heir, his hope. 
 His all, that beneath heaven he proudly cherished ! 
 Was he not most indul<>ent to his child? 
 Lived he not wholly for him? Then, that he 
 Should thus contrive his dcalli; that by his hand 
 Destruction should be subtly wrought, was base. 
 Was barbarous; it was the very pitch 
 Of black ingratitude! 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 You may spare your moralizing. 
 
 All this I can conceive, sir — not foro-et 
 
 That he is still your brother. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 
 I liad like {_Aside. 
 To have run beyond the mark; as yet, perchance 
 All's well. Beseech ye, pardon, madam; 'tis 
 My detestation of the crime, and not 
 Forgetful ness of him who acted it. 
 I feel he is my brother, Avas my friend, 
 Attached to me by every sacred tie, 
 And bitterly lament his falling off
 
 so THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act i. 
 
 From virtue. But calling back to memory 
 The anguish of my father, then his anger, 
 Ami knew how deeply his concern was in it, 
 Perhaps my passion put too strong a color 
 Upon the heinousness of such a deed. 
 1 do beseech your pardon. 
 
 LucrNDA. 
 Nay, now you have placed 
 Too hard construction on my obvious meaning-. 
 I have not thought offence. Pray ye, continue. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 I am bound to obey ye. 
 What first gave reason to suspect, the earl 
 Will not comuiunicate; but if I may 
 Hazard a bare conjecture, I do think 
 'Tvvas that old steward — how is't that you name him? 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 Philippo? 
 
 Gaspard. 
 He. 
 
 Lucinda. 
 Sure you mistake: still he is much his friend. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 I take 7/oMr word — loth were I to take his. 
 But this is from the pur|)ose. Some suspicion 
 The earl had doubtless, and it was on that 
 He acted. Gaston appeared before him, 
 After long quest, and many messages 
 Commanding his appearance. There did seem 
 I know not what of guilty consciousness
 
 sen. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 31 
 
 Visible in Lis look. And when my lord 
 Addressed him, the red token spread like fire 
 Along his cheeks ; but Avhat— oh, what might be 
 The burnino- in his heart, Avhen from its covert, 
 Dragged by the impetuous earl, there came to light 
 A scrip full stored with powder — 1 should say 
 With deadly aconite! 22 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 Support me, heaven! 
 
 GA.SPARD. 
 
 The hand of heaven was in it; but it seemed 
 The power of chance — for by a narrow cord 
 The means of death suspended; and it lay 
 Upon the breast, close to his hollow heart. 
 Tiie cord hung loose, so (as I said)"by heaven 
 Ordained; and, where the vesture was conjoined, 
 Verging upon the waist, it caught the eye! 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 'Tis fearfully surprising. Tell me further. 
 How 'twas discovered to be poison, since 
 There may be powders wholly innocent — 
 Medicinal drugs, wh.ose operation 's happy: 
 Nay, such is poison, well administered f 
 And how, moreover, was it known to be 
 Intended for the earl? These things disturb. 
 And leave me much in doubt. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Your questions are important, 
 But, alas! too easily replied to! 
 The earl's large wolf-dog, whom, for strength of limb
 
 32 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act i. 
 
 And unabating- speed, he long- has valued, 
 Just as the dark design had met detection, 
 Came fawning round him, and his shaggy coat 
 Shook with irrational joy. Some proof was wanting- 
 Of the malignant nature of the powder. 
 And proof was here supplied. The animal 
 From mine own hand received the fatal test, 
 And in convulsions died.23 The rest, himself 
 Hath daringly avowed, 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 What! hath he owned it? then the only hope 
 That clung tenaciously around my heart 
 Is withered, dead within me ! T did still 
 Nourish the secret hope that he might be 
 Falsely accused by some malicious traitor. 
 And this hath borne me up. Ye blessed saints. 
 Who watch the ways of man, look down upon 
 The lost unhappy youth, and lead him yet 
 Where he may find repentance, and a pardon ! 
 Good Gaspard, how doth he demean himself? 
 Hath he no plea for the inhuman thought, 
 No sophistry to palliate or excuse? 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Doubt ye not that, dear lady! 
 Few are the wicked who imag-ine not 
 Some reason for their sin; who gild not o'er 
 With the gay gloss of good intention, what 
 They act in evil. He hath urged (you'll lauo-h) 
 That by Navarre the powder was supplied 
 To reconcile the unforgiving- earl
 
 sc. II. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 33 
 
 To liis lono- absent lady. He was told 
 
 (He says) there lay a secret charm Avithin it,^* 
 
 Wrought by the powerful skill of some grey 
 
 eremite, 
 Which, if administered at a certain hour, 
 Would end all grief in happiness — unite 
 All jarring- interests, and for ever join 
 The hearts of each in one sM^eetbond of peace ! 
 Do ye not wonder ? Are ye not prepared 
 To smile at this wild folly? 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 I cannot answer. Certainly there are 
 
 Charms done, which might cftect this; and T'll 
 
 pray, 
 Pray earnestly it be so: yet methinks 
 The earl is hasty, and his ire may prove 
 Unfounded as 'tis e.ager. Sir, my thanks; 
 I am indebted to ye, and will find 
 A fitting moment to requite it. Now 
 ril take my leave. My heart is heavy. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 I rest your slave. 
 
 [^Exit LUCINDA. 
 [Gaspard alone, lookinff snecriiKjly after her. 
 Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 ^Vhat a fine thing' the world is — how disposed 
 To trust a villain, and to disbelieve 
 The honest and the good! I've mined securely; 
 The toils I've labored to prepare are laid
 
 U THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act f. 
 
 With unsuspected cunning. — My loved brother! 
 
 I've helped ye to your rest; and now remains 
 
 But tlie old earl to interpose between 
 
 Me and my heart's ambition — he shall fall too : 
 
 First let him name me heir, and win the soldier** 
 
 To aid me to maintain it — then he dies. 
 
 This trick was well devised, and it succeeds, 
 
 E'en to a miracle. What credulous fools 
 
 Are some — nay, mainly shallow ! Why, Navarre 
 
 Conceives me but his tool, striving to place 
 
 A kingly earldom in his royal clutch. 
 
 Worth all his principality ! 'Tis well. 
 
 I'd have him think so ; but, once firmly fixed, 
 
 Let him look narrowly to himself — the world 
 
 Is not extent enough for my desires! 
 
 Boundless art thou, as ocean, my proud heart, 
 
 And tost with storms like it, too ! I will be 
 
 As a black rock amid the waves of life, 
 
 Marked out by fate for human shipwreck — nursed 
 
 By the shock of elements. — I talk — I talk — 
 
 And am but nothing, till the voice of death 
 
 Sound a long requiem for my sire and brother. 
 
 Then step I o'er their graves, like a poisonous breath 
 
 Withering the herb beneath. Have 1 not cause ? 
 
 Abased by birth, and without power to rise 
 
 Above the stigma it imposes! Left 
 
 Like an untimely fruit, and crawled upon 
 
 By every wretched insect ! He who gave 
 
 Life to this frame, moulded it with a spirit
 
 sen. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 35 
 
 That will not stoop to servitude; and come 
 
 What will across me, 1 will sternly keep 
 
 My destined course — the worst is endless sleep. 
 
 EXl) OF A(T 1, 
 
 l>2
 
 36 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act it. 
 
 ACT 11 SCENE 1. 
 
 (The Dvvgeon of the Casfle.J 
 
 Gaston, in Chains. 
 
 Gaston. 
 IS this, then, the last scene of my deservings? 
 Have I tiil now trod fearlessly along 
 The path of life, still holding to my view 
 The polar star of honor? Have I led 
 Warriors to battle, and escaped the sword 
 To die upon the scaffold ? — Oh, my heart, 
 Break ere that fatal moment ! Let it not 
 Appear to after ages, that the heir 
 Of an illustrious house, who should have been 
 A light among the nations, basely died 
 Under the headsman's axe — dishonored — lost 
 In the dark night of infamy ; and all 
 For what? — for the fond thought that bade me give 
 A mother comfort? — or, a father peace? 
 Alas! how hard it is to move securely. 
 An hour of man's brief day. The joy we taste 
 Is like the glory of the rainbow, still 
 Accompanied by lowering clouds, which soon
 
 sc. I. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 37 
 
 May burst in (liunder over us! The world • 
 
 Is merely such — and I have sadly proved it! 
 
 I 
 
 Enter Piulippo. i 
 
 i 
 
 Philippo. « 
 
 My loved — my honored lord ! 
 
 Gaston. ^ 
 
 Honored! Philippo. Dost thou call these chains, 
 I'his prison — honorable? This accusation, ' ' 
 
 And all the thousand devilish calumnies, '' -^ •'■■'' * 
 Which coil like serpents round my heart, and stin<^ 
 
 me? 
 Do these bring- honor? or dost thou, too, come 
 To add another to the miseries 
 Already in excess? 
 
 Philippo. 
 These tears shall be my answer — or, if they ' • 
 
 Be deemed dissemblers, take thy weapon — search — 
 Read the wronged heart, that sorrows for thine ills, 
 And freely, joyfully would spend its blood. 
 To do thee service. 
 
 Gaston. 
 1 do believe thou'rt honest; but when I'^vil ' '• 
 
 Shows his grim visage, there be few so brave, • 
 Though clad in armour, as to dare the encounter; ' 
 Or, if there be, 'tis wilh a co\var<rs fear — ■ '" 
 
 'Tis, Parthian-like, lo inflict a wound, and flee. 
 Dost thou not dread my sorrows should o'erwhelm 
 
 thee? I ■
 
 38 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act ii» 
 
 The plague's not more contagious ! 
 
 Philippo. 
 I think not of myself: for me, the world 
 Retains no charm — the sparkling sands of hope 
 Have lost their wonted beauty, and 1 cease 
 Idly of them to twist the thread of life! 
 But, in the morning to be called away, 
 When all seems gay and cheery, when the sun 
 Burns brilliantly above, and speeds along, 
 Like a proud conqueror o'er prostrate nature — 
 This the young heart thinks grievous, and repines 
 That it must bear it — 'tis not so with me. 
 I would fain comfort ye in your afflictions, 
 And, what I may, relieve — though at the cost 
 Of earth, and all things earthly — these were little! 
 
 Gaston. 
 And thou dost comfort, good old man! thou dost — 
 It is a happiness, not well imagined, 
 That e'en the wretched sufferer, who bends 
 Beneath the heaviest load of anoruish, knows. 
 In the blest sympathy of friendship. They 
 Who truly have it, have a paradise, 
 Yielding eternal sweets: a flower that grows 
 In our ungenial clime but seldom — wondrous 
 When it appears, and worthiest of all praise! 
 But wherefore stays my Isabel? Doth she 
 Refuse to bless me, ere I perish ? 
 
 Philippo. 
 Ah! this I feared! [^Aside. 
 
 No, my good lord, she sues for your release :
 
 SCI. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 
 
 Her trembling- voice — her winning- loveliness — 
 
 And, more than all, her supplicating hand 
 
 Raised up in agony, her full blue eye 
 
 Swiuuning in heart-wrung tears, have stayed awhile 
 
 The falling axe, and gained ye one reprieve. 
 
 Oh! would to heaven she may at length prevail 
 
 Above this evil fate! 
 
 Gaston. 
 'Tis not to be expected. The dark plot 
 Navarre hath framed to catch my easy faith 
 Is too secure — too wildly intricate, 
 In life to be exposed. Thy bodings now 
 Are verified: thy honest cautions spring 
 In v^ry bitterness to my rememl>rancc; 
 And what I might have been, and what 1 am, 
 Rush on my withered heart, and work my brain 
 Almost to madness! 
 
 Philippo. 
 Forget these things: they are 
 The evil spirits of the past, that bring^ 
 Intenser anguish with them, and o'ercast 
 The face of all the future. You may yet 
 Live long and happily. 
 
 Gaston, 
 Oh, that deceitful may! 
 How many a fair and goodly vision hath 
 Vanished for ever, while we deem it nuiy 
 Again be present to us! And how oft ' 
 
 Hath time tied onward on his lightest uings, 
 Imped by that magic maij:'^^ but all halh ended 
 In sorrow and amazement. Prithee raise
 
 40 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act ii. 
 
 No more delusive hopes ; — I do not fear 
 To die, but to die basely — that, 'tis that 
 Which makes a woman of me, — Still Isabel 
 Is absent; why so long? 
 
 Phimppo. 
 My old eyes will weep 
 Themselves away — 1 cannot bear his wretchedness. 
 
 Gaston. 
 Why dost thou answer not? Methought thou saidst 
 She would be here anon: — why lags she now, 
 Now in mine hour of evil? Gives she credence 
 To the monstrous charge that weighs me to the grave? 
 
 Philippo. 
 Never, never: it were not in the might 
 Of Fate, to shake her faith in thee; thou art 
 To her a glorious star, which storms may blot 
 From mortal eye, but to the eye of Heaven 
 Still burning on, with undiminished ray — 
 Still wonderfully excellent ; the lord 
 Of her, and her ascendant: the bright planet 
 Beneath whose influences she exists, 
 Betide ye weal or woe! 
 
 Gaston. 
 Wherefore is she not, then ? 
 She knoweth comfort cannot come without her. 
 And that my heart is aching to be blessed 
 With her consoling presence ! — Wherefore thus 
 Tarries she from me ? 
 
 Philippo. 
 What shall I do? Longer 1 cannothide it : — 
 My unhappy lord
 
 SCI. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 41 
 
 Gaston. 
 Thine eye, Philippo, hath a language in it — 
 A fearful meaning: be it of my love, 
 Speak, 1 command ye. 1 am still prepared 
 To brave the worst that can befal me. Speak. 
 
 Philum'o. 
 Would that I had no speech, no tongue, no heart — 
 No faculty !— would Heaven, that I were dead!^''' 
 Her will is bounded, sir: she is withheld 
 By the strong arm of power. The furious earl, 
 Half maddened at the crime, which he believes — 
 And as I think, artfully wrought upon 
 By secret malice, hath given strict command 
 She move not from her chamber: centinels 
 Stand guard there — and in all she soothly is. 
 Save the bare ruooedness a dunoeon shows, 
 A miserable captive. This am 1 ':.'". 
 Loathingly missioned from my erring lord 
 To unfold to ye ; and then — prepare ye for — •;! i 
 
 Oh ! — for the bitterness of death ! • >- 
 
 Gaston. / 
 
 Why, and 'tis welcome ; yet he is my father — 
 He is the being whom I owe my birth to : 
 And surely— surely 'twere not much to pardon 
 The child of his affections — though he did , m 
 
 Esteem him guilty in the sight of Heaven! — ; ;''»' 
 Then to deny my Isabel, the last, ; j || 
 
 Last sorrowful regard of tenderness, .[ 
 
 Is cruelty unheard of! — I submit me, 
 And to the throne of the Almighfy bend
 
 42 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act. ii. 
 
 A suppliant. May he never learn how much, 
 How fatally he hath erred: may the moment 
 That sees him without heir, and hopeless all 
 Of one, who may succeed him — bring no pan<* 
 For him, who fell untimely : may regret 
 Never approach him, and the eve of life 
 Be brilliant as its morninof, till the veil 
 Of death drop o'er him, and he sleep in peace ! 
 
 Phi LI PPG. 
 Alas ! alas ! 
 
 Gaston. 
 Grieve not for me, good friend ! 
 Thy grief were juster for the lonely hearts 
 That will remain behind. Oh lsal)el ! 
 Isabel! thou, that wert twined around me 
 In the best, brightest bonds of hallowed love, 
 How wilt thou now be broken! And thou loo, 
 My father, wilt be shattered ; desolate as 
 The barren earth, when all its friiitfulness 
 A pestilence hath blighted : and if there 
 Should come a time, when I again may seem 
 Innocent to thee— then how thou wilt curse 
 That day of retribution ! — Dost thou know, 
 Philippo, when my frail boily must give up 
 Its assumed honors, and be mingled with 
 The nothings of the world ? It were good now. 
 If Father Julio might attend on me — 
 Receive the last confessions of the Hesh, 
 And minister the host. Dost thou believe 
 This thing might be accomplished'?
 
 SCI. THE HEIR OF FOIZ.' 4^ 
 
 Philippo. 
 Doubtless, dear sir, mu\ it becomes ye. I 
 Will hasten to Sir Gaspard, and beseech 
 That he'd entreat it of my lord — since 'tis 
 The earl's express command, that none presumes 
 To intrude upon his sorrows save your brotUer. 
 
 Gaston. 
 How? 
 
 Didst thou not say that from the earl thou cam'st 
 To tell me I must die ? 
 
 Philippo. ,; , /.,; 
 
 I said, I was commissioned from my lurd • ' 
 
 With these sad tidings: but 'twas throunh (he knitihl, 
 Your bastard brother. When I sought to be 
 Admitted, 'twas denied. 
 
 G\STON'. 
 
 'Tis strange! but Gaspard loves me: could he nt)t 
 Prevail for one short interview between - - 
 
 My wretched wife and me? — what policy 
 Directs our separation ? 
 
 Philippo. 
 I cannot tell. Belike he dreams, it may 
 Augment her misery to meet — since death 
 Must part ye soon — so soon ! But Gaspard hath 
 Of late been highly favored — why, I know not : 
 He seems to love ye much, and might effect 
 The little you desire. 
 
 Gaston, 
 Seems! say you? why he doth — he doth. 
 
 I. 'I
 
 44 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. actii. 
 
 Philipfo, 
 He hath had 
 
 Great reason, good my lord, and it may be 
 That 'tis as you imagine — nor do I 
 Offer at a denial. 
 
 Gaston. 
 
 Yet this sounds 
 Like a retaliation, my Philippo: 
 Come, come — though he believed ye treacherous 
 And my insidious enemy — did not 
 My own thoughts charge ye?^ — must we sue in vain 
 For that forgiveness which mankind should grant 
 Unsought for to their brethren ; for they too 
 Have need of it at all tunes, and from all! 
 
 Philippo. 
 In truth — yet you mistake me ; I have long- 
 Driven it from my remembrance. But — was't sof — 
 
 Did he indeed distrust me? did he frame 
 The accusations you, my lord, reposed in ? 
 
 Gaston. 
 Surely, at his suggestion, I believed; 
 And he, like me, has erred — and is repentant. 
 I met him as I left you ; and, in short. 
 Discussed the matter with him. We agreed 
 You were abused. Come, you forgive? 
 
 Philippo. 
 A new light breaks uj)on me: there is more ^^iside. 
 In this, than I imagined. Why, this Gas])ard 
 Ever prolessed much zeal ot" heart to serve me;
 
 sc. II. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 45 
 
 t 
 
 And had lie not so very w i\Yu\\y nroed 
 
 His services, T might have liked him better. — 
 
 'Tis as I do suspect — he is the villain, 
 
 The damnable villain; but I'll search him yet 
 
 And probe him to the core! My lord, 'tis not 
 
 In the vain surmise of" a moment to 
 Excite my anger, or incur my hatred: 
 Nor can the noble heart, open like yours 
 To the first impulse of conviction, breed 
 Resentment in my breast : but time sweeps on, 
 I must at present leave you — hope the best. 
 The clew once found, how eas}' all the rest, 
 
 [^Aside as he fjoes out. 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 
 (A 11 all in the Castle, inth a Gallery in the distance.) 
 Enter Gaspard, speahinff to a Servant. 
 
 Gaspari). ■ 
 
 Despatch these letters; bi<l the messenger 
 He diligent and secret. This, for Navarre, 
 And this to his chief captain. See that none 
 Observe ye — 'tis of charge. 
 
 Servant. 
 I shall, sir. ^Exit.
 
 40 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act a. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Now, on a smooth sen, sails the venturous bark 
 Of my ambition : to a fore-right breeze 
 She scuds along — and smiling hopes around 
 Convoy her into port. There's not a speck 
 Rides through the clear horizon ; all appears 
 Serene and beautiful !— How shall I glory 
 In the perfection of my workmanship. 
 And leave to future records a device 
 To cheat wise heirs of lordships; and create 
 Legitimate, what wondering sirs believe 
 There is no law can sanction. But it is 
 Success, that makes things honest, as it makes 
 Them areat : a fact so stale, that 'tis become 
 A theme for monkish declamation : legends 
 Are framed upon it; and your saints shoot up, 
 Miraculously gifted, who have been, 
 Through a long life, notorious evil doers; 
 But, ere it close, some score of monasteries 
 Built and endowed, again brings all things even ! ** 
 Fine notions! but of use to make men live 
 Subservient to fine purposes; I'll prove it 
 Before I die too. — The old earl's mewed ^^ up, 
 And none, but whom 1 will, shall speak with him ; 
 He wavers — and I fear me, may be wrought 
 To counteract what J have greatly plotted : 
 My lady Isabel, whose wliining moved 
 A kind of pity in his foolish heart, 
 Is safely caged — what then should now concern me? 
 But to make all secure, I'll work on Gaston 
 To swallow a i'csv grains of that same powder
 
 sc.iii, THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 47 
 
 He treasured for his sire. He's strangely credulous, 
 
 And will do this, as I shall order it. — 
 
 Navarre must be kept quiet, till the time 
 
 Seem fit for action, or he may betray me. 
 
 I've tampered with the captains of his host, 
 
 And when need be, they are prepared to join me — 
 
 How my heart leaps, I could laugh out for joy ! 
 
 Ha! — whom do I mark in yonder gallery? 
 
 By this fair light, the ghostly friar Julio ! 
 
 How he speeds onward, as if age had made 
 
 Precious exchange with youth ; — why, heretofore, 
 
 Methought he scarce could crawl! wh.at wonders now 
 
 Designs he to gull fools? Rank hypocrites. 
 
 They are all — right reverend hypocrites ! 
 
 Where bends his step? — haply to shrieve our heir! 
 
 Good need I trow ! — till he come forth, I wait 
 
 Like Death's dark angel — mine the voice of fate! 
 
 SCENE HI. 
 
 ( Dutujoon of the Caatle.) 
 
 Gaston in Chains, 
 
 Gaston. 
 How tcrril)lc is death to those who die 
 Tn deserved infamy! and is it less 
 To those Injustice brands with mark of guilt?
 
 48 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act ii. 
 
 I know not that, but I do feel there is 
 A bitterness, beyond the arm of death, 
 Fixed on my fire-scathed soul ! — what, take away 
 The life of him T love? — destroy the hope. 
 Which youth to manhood g"ave, of something, sure 
 Briirhter and better than a deed like this? 
 Oh ! I need other counsel than my grief 
 Darkly suggests ; 
 
 Enter Isabel, in the disguise of Father Julio. 
 
 And see, even to my wish 
 The holy man approaches. Welcome, Father, 
 Thy soothing voice may calm my troubled heart, 
 And raise it up to blessedness and heaven! — 
 But whence this silence? — why dost look around 
 As if suspicion fastened on thee? Nought 
 Should fright the holy — him who entertains, 
 And bears the impress on his honored brow 
 Of a oood conscience, right towards God and men. 
 Nay, I conjure ye; whence — 
 
 \_She raises the Cowl. 
 
 What do T look on ? 
 
 Isabel ? — my wife— my beauteous Isabel ! 
 
 [They embrace. 
 Oh! Gracious Heaven, e'en amid Fate's dark malice, 
 rpljis — this is comfort; — 'tis the radiancy 
 That winter throws upon the cataract, 
 Awfullv sweeping down the snow-capped mountain, 
 In peril, beautiful !— and so <hou art 
 To nic, n)V Isabel!— Come (o this heart
 
 sc. III.-. THE HEIR OF FOIZ": ^m 
 
 That beats not quicker with the pulse of life 
 Than with the love it bears thee! 
 
 Isabel. 
 Hold up, my soul, against this flood of weakness, 
 And in the hour of trial strengthen me 
 With more than woman's courage — I have need ! 
 My heart has been too much thine own, my Gaston, 
 Too earthy in its nature; too secure 
 Of happiness, and too forgetful of 
 The gracious Being who conferred it: hence 
 He who hath given recalls his gift, and we 
 Are left to weep beneath the lash of justice. 
 Proudly I saw thy honors ; I believed 
 That thou wert more than mortal — as a god 
 Above the idle worms that crawled about thee ! 
 Alas! there Avanted yet the fatal truth .. ... 
 That thou couldst fall by guile; in very madness 
 I thought thee proof against the shafts of fate, 
 Exempt from human frailty ; but my love 
 Is chastened by affliction, and the tears. 
 That like our griefs, flow bitterly and fast. 
 May, if High Heaven vouchsafe to pity us, 
 Rase the condemning stain. Be this my comfort ! 
 
 Gaston. 
 Oh! thou art still 
 
 In all things excellent — and if it be 1 
 
 A sin to love thee, I must love that sin ! , •; ii) 
 
 I could not live without «hee ; and to die 
 Hath but fhe pang which its dishonor lirings-— 
 And that wliich leaves thee to a careless world, 
 
 E
 
 &0 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act ii. 
 
 Clad in the ignominy that awaits 
 
 Thy husband's blig-hted name: this — it is this. 
 
 That truly may be called the sting of death ! 
 
 Isabel. 
 Oh ! do not think so ; cast from thy proud heart 
 What vainly by the world is termed dishonor: — 
 There is no shame but what the guilty feel, 
 And thou art honored in thy innocence — 
 Distinguishingly honored ! Thou wilt say, 
 By whom and what? By thy own heart, my Gaston! 
 Where conscious virtue brings a regal crown. 
 And with a louder and a sweeter voice 
 Than tongues of men can utter, saith thou art 
 Heir to eternal life, and thrones immortal ! 
 Think upon this, and let thy swelling soul 
 Subside. Why should'st thou value earth? it hath 
 Proved treacherous unto thee — basely treacherous ; 
 Robbed thee of well-earned fame, and lent an ear 
 Invidiously to thy accusers; they 
 Joy in thy degradation : how is't then 
 That thou should'st yield one momentary thought 
 To things that thus have used thee? Are they worth 
 A noble mind's consideration — or 
 Do they deserve regard, in whom the tongue 
 Of malice only is right eloquent? 
 Believe it not ! And then for me — the scorn 
 Of those who hold my lord in obloquy. 
 Affects my heart no more than spray that dashes 
 O'er the cloud-kissing promontory. — 'Tis 
 In its broad base secure, as I am, in
 
 sc. III. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 6| 
 
 Tliy fast integTity. 1 comfort liim, (Aside.) 
 
 But want the consolation 1 impart. 
 'Tis not for her, wliose hope is like the dove 
 That sought an earthly resting-place, and found 
 None to uphold it ; yet that wearied bird 
 Snatched from amid the deluse one bright leaf 
 That cheered its lonesome passage to the ark 
 Of hope and safety — such be thine, poor heart ! 
 I turn me all to Heaven, may Heaven receive 
 The restless wanderer to eternal rest ! — 
 ^Vhy dost thou look so rapt? 
 
 Gaston. -., ,' 
 
 Blest fate, that gave me such a wife as thou ! 
 Yet do not cease, thy words fall on my car 
 Seraph icly ; and thou appearest to me 
 More like a being of another sphere, 
 That, in strange dreams, we briefly gaze at, than 
 One whom the misery of life hath taught 
 To minister relief to man's afflictions! 
 Prithee, say on. ^ 
 
 TSABKL. 
 
 Thou over-ratest me ; 'tis Love hath colored 
 Plain homely matter with his gaudier dye! 
 Love gives to language all its eloquence — 
 Love lifts the mourner's drooping eye, and warms 
 The mourner's ice-bound heart. Love bids me speak; 
 And 'tis that love which lends its opiate power 
 To win thee from despair : think that I am 
 Ever your faitiiful wile, and servant, sweet f 
 1 seek no further honor. 
 E 2
 
 5i THE HEIR OF FOTZ. Acrir. 
 
 Gaston. 
 Tlioii art all perfection ! But tell me, friend, 
 How thou obtaind'st this habit— by what sleight 
 Thou did'st elude the vigilance of those 
 Appointed to watch o'er thee ? Have they she>vw 
 A kindness fitting her, who once was deemed 
 The highest 'mongst the high? or hath the fall 
 Of him, the common voice hoarsely proclaimed 
 Heir to this noble earldom — hath that too 
 (Still influenced by the ebbs and flows of fortune) 
 Transferred already to thee, the disgrace 
 Thy husband must bow down to? 
 
 Isabel. 
 But that they hold me prisoner, I perceive 
 No change that speaks it. Yet I marvel why 
 The earl permits not my access to ye. 
 1 left him as a friend, but scarce had reached 
 My chamber, ere a mandate followed me, 
 Forbidding my egress ; a guard secured 
 The well performance of it, or I had 
 Scorned the unjust restraint. So, as I wept 
 The evil destiny that seemed to fix 
 Despair and death upon us, there appeared 
 The holy father, whom thou took'st me for, 
 To bid me be at peace; and think of joy 
 When this bad world is not. He saw my griel^ 
 And hastened to relieve it. I assumed 
 His garb, as thou beholdest, and have passed 
 Hither without suspicion. Now iiuist T 
 To other duty — thou shalt yet be free !
 
 sc. iir. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 53 
 
 I will not cease, ere I have worked tliy pardon^ 
 And tlioii again return'st with every honor 
 To contidence and love. My iniportunily 
 Shall end but with my life; and sure 'lis not 
 In human boson»s to resist the force 
 Of pure afl'ection, ardent as my own ! 
 
 Gaston. 
 Alas ! my Isabel, thou w ould'st attempt 
 Thou know'st not what. The earl hath giv'n in charge 
 That there be none admitted to his presence . ^ , ;. 
 Saving Sir Gaspard. Yet his influence might ,.. . 
 Haply avail rae much. 
 
 Isabel. 
 No — I succeed or perish. In this dress 
 Which challenges respect, I may obtain 
 At least admission; — let us leave the rest 
 To Him, who can make soft the hardened heart 
 And change the sterner thought. Farewell, dear 
 
 lord, 
 Be what I love to think thee— he thyself! 
 And though the world condemneth, conscience will, 
 Knowing no guilt, acquit and laud thee for it ! 
 
 Gaston. 
 May Heaven he thy protection, Isabel! 
 And with all blessing, bless thee: — , 
 
 Isabel 
 
 f 
 
 I.o v c ! — la r e w ell! [ ^'.r if.
 
 54 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act iii 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Room in the Castle, 
 
 Enter Philippo a7id two Captains, 
 
 Philippo. 
 And, captain, sound ye, instantly to horse ; 
 You with your company, pursue one path, 
 And you, sir, speed the other. 
 
 First Captain. 
 A single horseman, say you, journeying 
 Towards Navarre? faith, sir, it were unseemly 
 To pick up every stroller Ave o'ertake ! 
 Have ye no better guide ?— our travel else 
 
 Were labor lost and folly. 
 
 Philippo. 
 
 Sebastian rides 
 
 Under your escort— he'll instruct ye further. 
 
 Meantime, move on ; the man hath scarcely past 
 
 Half through the forest eastward of the castle. 
 
 If our intelligence be certain ; there 
 
 Belike ye may secure him. Seize all papers—^ 
 
 This merits special note ; and, as ye can. 
 
 Be circumspect. 
 
 Second Captain. 
 
 Never fear, sir; we understand our duly. 
 
 And will do it.
 
 , / 
 
 sc. V. THC HEIR OF FOIZ. m 
 
 Philippo. 
 'Tis well. Your servant, gentleiuei). 
 
 Both. 
 Yoiir's, sir! lExennf. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 ,.:\ 
 
 Dungeon of the Castle ; in the distance very massy 
 Pillars, much shadowed. The Speakers enter the 
 Prison through the opening which they form ; and 
 are seen to advance gradually, hut indistinctly, 
 for some time before they come upon the Scene. A 
 Lamp burning, 
 
 Gaston in Chains, asleep. 
 
 Enter Gaspard. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Peace to my friend!— Wliere is he? How, asleep ! 
 
 \_Holds the light to his eyes. 
 Now were it easy by a blow to make , 
 
 That sleep eternal ! But then this would show 
 A danger in it; and suspicion might 
 Attach me to itself! — the safer is 
 The better pathway : his own hand shall do it,
 
 55 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act n. 
 
 And I may then plot deeply and securely. 
 Now to awaken him to death. What, ho! 
 My lord ! 
 
 Gaston (mvaking.) 
 
 My Isabel, so soon A man ! 
 
 Who are ye, that delight to rob a wretch, 
 Whom comfort hath forsaken, of a short 
 Obliviousness to life, and death to sorrow ? 
 Fellow, who are ye ? 
 
 <jASPARD. 
 
 One, Gaston, v.ho laments thy wretchedness 
 Because he deems thee innocent : who feels 
 More for the sufferings thou hast undergone, 
 And weeps more keenly for the wrongs thou bearest 
 Than they who more pretend to 't. My loved friend^ 
 Would I might do thee service. 
 
 Gaston. 
 Gaspard !— my brother ! — why I've thought thee long-. 
 Where hast thou been? I doubted ye were scared 
 By the hard pressure of afflictions round me, 
 And, with the splendor of my birth, had fled ! 
 Give me thy hand, thou much rejoicest me. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Oh ! how unjustly have ye scanned the heart 
 Which only throbs with love to ye, and lives 
 Only at thy disposal. Sorrow whelm me, 
 If a long life were not a life-long- burden, 
 Bereft of thee, my brother and my friend ! 
 
 Gaston. 
 I well believe thee. Flattery like this
 
 sc. V,.'. THK HEIR OF FOIZ. ^7, 
 
 CoDies not to such as I am. Prithee say. 
 Why tarrieJ'st thou? 
 
 Gaspard. 
 To save thee from destruction have I tarried; 
 To puard thy head, condemned to the axe, 
 Hath been the cause of my absenting- me. 
 
 Gaston. 
 Ah\ and successless too? I read it, Gaspard, 
 ]n thy sad look; thou nced'st not tell it me. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Glad am I, that 1 find ye thus prepared. ' - . - ., " 
 Alas! it is most certain. I have urged ,. » 
 
 All that the thought of man could otter; bent j 
 
 Ev'n to the very ground regardlcssly! 
 A\'hcn I implored him to rellect, with what 
 Unlooked for treachery thou wert attended^ 
 And bade him see, how excellent thine end; 
 A hauiihtv smile was his contenjptuous answer! 
 A\ hen I recalled thy youth, and thy high deeds. 
 Thy future promise, and his hope in thee, 
 The heir of the>e domains — there, there I touched 
 
 him; 
 And did ^)erceive a struggle in his breast. • -^ 
 
 But vengeance conquered; and that stormy soul, , . \ 
 That ne'er could brook a rival, doomed thy dealh! 
 ^'o prayers can sa\e thee, though the world opj)osed. 
 Scarce though the scourging powers oflleaven rose up 
 In thy behall — J3eath tliou must sutler — Death! 
 
 Gaston. 
 Be it, he il. Life with me hath lost
 
 58^ THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act ii. 
 
 Much of what made it estimable. For 
 He who must live a curse to those he loves. 
 Involving- all around him in the stain 
 Of infamy, hath not great cause to wish 
 A long existence. Yet I cannot — no, 
 I cannot quit the blasting recollection — 
 Thought, spite of man's philosophy, is active, 
 And prints, in fire-fraught horror on my brain, 
 That basely by the headsman I shall perish I 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Ay, by the headsman, so thy sire decrees. 
 The death of traitors — nay of wretches, cast 
 On the gross earth, that all but spurns them from it : 
 Thy severed head exposed to grinning mobs, 
 And insult heaped upon thy mangled body ! 
 Think but on this — think on it ! 
 
 G\STON. 
 
 I do think on it ; why wouldst thou create 
 A feller grief? Have I not ill enough? 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Nay, more; thy bloodless cheek impressed 
 With ignominy — with the cursed brand 
 Of public malice ; and thy ashy features 
 (Smeared with cold blackening drops of clotted gore) 
 Fixed on the castle's frowning battlement, 
 While prating heralds babble how ye felll 
 
 Gaston. 
 Hold— hold ! Do ye mean 
 To drive me mad?
 
 sc.v. THE HEIR OP FOIZ. ' Sft 
 
 Gaspakd. 
 Not so— but bid ye slum, 
 Bravely to shun a craven miscreant's late, 
 And scorn the shallow tools that have devised it. 
 
 Gaston. 
 Yes, ye can bid me shun — 
 But 'twould be something- more to point the wa\\ 
 
 Gaspard. 
 
 What ! can a soul like thine require the aid 
 
 Of one so far beneath it? Are there not 
 Ten thousand vistas, by which man surveys • JI 
 
 The gloomy form of death? Then, can thine eye ' 
 Discern but one — and that the headsman's axe ? 
 
 Gaston. 
 Ha! ' '''^• 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Why dost thou pause? If life could be attained — > 
 If to die Ibr thee were in choice, I tell thee 
 This hour thou shouldst be free; and slu)uldst ai»ain 
 Rise up, triumphant, over death and evil. 
 I would resign my life to save thee; but 
 To hear thee called a traitor — see thee go 
 Dishonored to the grave, is more than death; 
 'Tis life, in unremitting misery! ' i 
 
 Gaston. i : \ 
 
 Sir! I'm determined !— to do wliat? A deed 
 My ^ery blood runs cold to think upon! — . .'. II 
 
 But then the scati'old, and the heartless mob 
 Drinking the last drawn sigh ol one whose boast, 
 Whose proud, yet honest boast, it was, to have sliove
 
 60 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act ii. 
 
 With honorable strife in life's arena! 
 
 Whose high — perchance presumptuous — but dear 
 
 hope 
 Of not a common destiny, did seem 
 To lift him o'er the herd of common men! 
 He— yes, even he, to be a patricide ! 
 A branded traitor !— Oh ! give but the means, 
 And thou shalt witness how a man can die, 
 AVho fears disgrace, not death. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Hear, then ! This vial holds 
 A subtle poison, which makes way upon 
 The frame so cunningly, that thou shalt die 
 As though a gentle sleep came over thee : 
 'Tis nothino" more — for none shall deem it poison ! 
 
 Gaston. 
 Thou talk'st of wonders: give it me— 
 And welcome— welcome rest. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Take it— and all my fears go with thee— Now \_Asule. 
 Glory and honor spread your wings around, 
 And cover me with splendor !— How dost feel? 
 
 Gaston. 
 Cold, cold—there is a freezing numbness run 
 Across my heart. Oh, Isabel! 
 
 Gaspard. 
 
 Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Gaston. 
 Why dost thou laugh?
 
 sc.v. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. $f 
 
 Gaspard. 
 
 To think how little brain 
 
 Suffices for a woodcock ^o. 
 
 Gaston. 
 
 If thou hast e*er a meaning-, pray ye, speak it I 
 
 I'd gladly comprehend. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 
 In very sooth, thou shalt. It were but half 
 
 To let thee die, nor boast what I have done. 
 
 The pleasure 's infinite to dupe a wise one; 
 
 And when no power can extricate, instruct : j 
 
 His wisdom how he's erred. / 
 
 Gaston, 
 
 What is all this? 
 
 Gaspard, 
 
 I'll tell ye presently. 
 
 ■.IT 
 
 [^As he speaks, enter Philippo and Captains, nnper- 
 ceived: behind them, the dark J'orms of soldiers in 
 burgonets^^ are dimly discovered.^ 
 
 Philippo, 
 Stand by, this may confirm us. 
 
 [Aside to the soldiers, who stand apart. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Wake from thy foolish dream, so loni>- indulged, :• 
 And list what I deliver. Thou hast thought 
 That I did love thee : so I did— thy state,32 
 And ihy succession, mighty Heir of Foiz! 
 I am thine elder, though the idle forms
 
 62 THE HEIR OF FOI55. act ij. 
 
 Of tnicking- priestcraft, and a slavish law. 
 Have placed thee highest in the scale of life. 
 I have a soul, too, great as thou hast— fit 
 As thine for action ! Why, then, should I sink 
 Into the poor dependant on thy honors? 
 Tliou'rt ready now to term me base — ingrate — 
 Villain, perchance— and thou may'st satlely do it. 
 But say, withal, that 1 have cast thee down 
 From fortune's summit— and thou speak'st my glory ! 
 The trick that cozened thee was mine— was mine! 
 1 bade Navarre prepare the poison— whde, 
 Weak, credulous boy! I played the eremite, 
 And lectured tliee on spells, and such pure fooleries. 
 
 Gaston. 
 
 Thou art 
 
 Gaspard. 
 
 Wliat am I now? Good gentleman, speak out. 
 
 Gaston. 
 
 A very devil ! 
 
 Gasparu. 
 
 Rare ef\utli ! Somewhat Til tell thee yet, 
 And then most reverently will take my leave. 
 
 Thy Isabel 
 
 Gaston. 
 Wretch, what of her? Upon thy life, forbear 
 To breathe a name thou ought' st to bend unto. 
 As to an angel— she's so far above thee! 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Hear the uxorious slave! Well, sir, albeit, 
 1 do not love to be commanded, know
 
 sc. V. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 0% 
 
 T will bend to her — till I have made her mine; 
 Then, look — she bends to me ! 
 
 Gaston. 
 Heaven! — Heaven! Where sleeps thy thunder? 
 
 Gaspard. 
 And this accomplished, the old bed-rid earl 
 Shall follow thee to the grave, and bring- theoAvord 
 How pleasantly we revel it above, 
 And how secure: for know, thy death and his 
 Shall seem the consequence of black despair* 
 Thine, from the fear of rightful punishment ; ' 
 
 And his, the anguish of a parent's heart, 
 Whose last life-drop has thus ignobly fallen. • 
 
 Gaston. 
 Why, I am lost; my folly has undone me! 
 But thou— Oh ! M hat art thou? 
 
 Gaspard. 
 Thy heir, my most sweet lord ! 
 
 [Philippo and the rest comeforwariL 
 
 Philippo. 
 Secure the villain; how my heart-strings ache! 
 
 Gaspard. ^ ,._^ 
 
 Betrayed! curse on this l)al>b]ing tongue. 
 Which hath disclosed, what else their wit had fouiul 
 
 not. 
 Come on — ye shall buy me dearly. \^Dinws. 
 
 \_Theif surrou?id and seize him. 
 
 Philippo. 
 IMy noble lord, 
 I bring' ye hnpj)y tidings. The uritvcMJ carl.
 
 U THE HEIR OF FOTZ. act, lu 
 
 Convinced at last of (he injustice done ye, 
 
 By the unquestioned evidence of letters 
 
 Found on a menial of yon precious sir, 
 
 That bear a superscription to Navarre — 
 
 Acquits ye, and more honors ye for all 
 
 The sufferings you have past. The letters show 
 
 No signature, but every testimony 
 
 Points out the infernal hand that acted it — 
 
 What we have now o'erheard is ample. Bear 
 
 The inhuman wretch to instant execution. 
 
 It is the earl's command — I'll answer it. 
 
 Gaspard. 
 1 do despise ye^ honest master steward ! 
 And wish but opportunity to prove it. 
 But— let it pass— 1 die not unavenged! 
 More there shall be will follow me. My dream 
 Of oTeatness is gone by, and [ repent 
 I moved not swifter to the goal. Ye 're all 
 Officious knaves; remarkable fine fools! 
 Ye could pass o'er the man who had good cause 
 To slay the earl, and wisely hit on him 
 Who could have none for't: now your Avorships 
 
 may ; . 
 
 Boast of your penetration. I contemn ye ! 
 
 Reptiles ye are, as reptiles should 
 
 Gaston. 
 
 Oh! 
 
 Philippo. 
 Look to my lord there. For this man, away
 
 sc. V. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 65 
 
 To death with him. He prates— away, I say. 
 
 [^Exeunt soldiers xvith Gaspard. 
 How fares my gracious lord ? 
 
 Gaston. 
 Ill, ill Philippo ! — but, — my wife — my wife ? 
 
 Philippo. 
 Ah me ! he changes ; as I live, joy hath 
 O'erwrought the feelings; human nature can 
 Bear neither good nor evil. We are tost 
 Like waves upon this ocean of the world, 
 And, if we struggle through the storm, we die 
 The instant there is calm ! How is't my lord? 
 
 Enter JsABELfolloiced hy Luginda. 1 
 
 Isabel, ,. ,, 
 
 Joy— joy, my Gaston! thou art pardoned; naj', , 1 
 The earl seeks pardon, and l)elieves thee guiltless. 
 Kneel, kneel with mo, and to high Heaven present 
 The genuine thankfulness of honest hearts ! 
 Have we not cause? — dearest, thy cheek is pale! 
 Come kneel beside me; with a fervent breath 
 Speak we our gratitude : that bold bad man 
 
 Who almost proved our ruin — thou hast hoard it? 
 
 Is ordered to the block; ho too will need 
 
 Our supplications — come, kneel >vith me, love ! 
 
 Gaston, , ,/; 
 
 Isabel — be near mo; closer, sweet — 
 Lend me thy hand, 
 
 F
 
 66 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act ii. 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 He's wond'rous pale; Sure, sure it cannot be 
 
 The harbinger of death ! 
 
 Gaston. 
 
 Now kneel. [They kneel side hy side. 
 
 My father, I forgive and bless thee : Isa^bel, 
 
 Cherish my father; he is old, and hath 
 
 Much sorrow to endure. Philippo, be 
 
 Kind to my Isabel. Watch over her — 
 
 And if— my unborn babe ! — oh Isabel ! 
 
 A father's eye shall never gaze upon 
 
 Its innocent features, waking as from sleep, 
 
 Or to a short-liv'd smile, or lingering tear ! 
 
 Never shall lip paternal press its lip 
 
 Moist with the breath of infancy, and feel 
 
 Another life imparted in its being ! 
 
 Never for me will burst the exulting throb 
 
 With which a parent hails his first-born's cry, 
 
 And clasps a wife — a mother to his heart. 
 
 Drawn nearer yet by new and tenderest ties ! 
 
 Enough — I feel life hastening to a close : 
 
 My soul but stays to bless thee. My eye dims 
 
 Apace. Weep not — I would not see thee weep. 
 
 Nor hear thy lamentation ; let me place 
 
 My head upon thy bosom— how it heaves! 
 
 I'm— strangely faint — that poison works — too well— 
 
 My unkind brother— gave oh. [Dies, 
 
 PHILfPPO. 
 
 Afflicting object ! little did 1 think
 
 .s€. V. THE HEIR OF FOIZ. 67 
 
 To see tlie sun of all my hopes set thus 
 In blood and ruin! 
 
 LuciNDA. : 
 
 Alas! — nay, move him, there may yet be life 
 Creeping along the vein. 
 
 Philippo. 
 No — he is gone; the noble soul that filled 
 This goodly frame is passed. The eye hath lost 
 Its animation. Death, he is thine own ! 
 But for that villain, who — 
 
 Isabel. . . 
 
 (KneelijKj across the hodij.) ' 
 
 Who talks of death ? i 
 
 Are we not born to die? to fill a space, 
 A little space in this dark world, and presently 
 Seek out a darker grave? Lie there — lie there. 
 Thou that wert full of loveliness ; the brave — 
 The beautiful — rest in thy narrow home! 
 There passion stirs not, and the open heart 
 That trusted to the smile of perfidy. 
 Is cold— but 'tis at peace ! it glows no more — 
 The quick'ning pulse of raj)(ure's triumph beats not — 
 But sorrows— sorrows die! Oh ! M'hat am I '? 
 A very wretch upon the earth ; T turn 
 Around me and seek comfort, — there is none ! 
 ]Misery is all mine own — 1 see — I feel it; 
 The venomed arrow presses on my heart. 
 And will not be M'itlidrawn. [.S7?e rises hastily. 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 Great Heaven! her heart is broken : on her cheek 
 
 F 2
 
 68 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act ir. 
 
 Blossoms tlif flower of death, — pale as the snow 
 Restino- on some fair monument ! Away, 
 Summon imniediate help. 
 
 £Zb an attendant who goes out. 
 
 Isabel. 
 Dead ! —is he dead ? 
 
 Didst thou not say so? 'Twas a stern sad voicu 
 That murmured in my ear: look ! on that face 
 There never beamed but kindness — never; then 
 To me the truest htart he had — the fondest — 
 Yet thou could'st say he died ! Why, foolish man, 
 Love cannot die, but is immortal as 
 His Maker — who is Love ! Mount ye on wing-. 
 Yoke to thy car the morning cloud, and chase 
 The living- sun-beam; let thy powerful flight 
 Bear thee beyond humanity — who comes 
 Radiant in glory — circled o'er with sighs, 
 And tears as bright as constellations are? 
 'Tis he — 'tis he— Almighty Love ! — My Gaston, 
 Art thou there? 
 
 Phiuppo. 
 Beshrew me, but this is 
 
 A grief, above all griefs — her reason wanders. 
 Noblest lady ! 
 
 Isabel. 
 Oh ! I do feel a throbbins: here— and here — 
 Fixed on my heart and brain : Philippo, where 
 Where are ye ? and thou too, my best Lucinda ? 
 Lend me thine arm; so, set me gently down — 
 Nay, pray ye—here; no further! I am sick.
 
 sc. V. THE HEIR OF FOIZ.' 69 
 
 Sick unto doalh— ami I Avould fain impress 
 
 A last cold kiss upon my Gaston's brow : — 
 
 Why, now he smileth on nie — tlotli he not ? 
 
 One other — then— receive me Heaven!— Farewell — 
 
 A long— farewell ! [^Dies. 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 This is a sight of anguish — a dread sight, 
 
 That falls terrificly upon the heart. 
 
 And well might shake the reason! Though 1 live 
 
 The longest age of life, this fearful scene 
 
 Will still be present. Dear, unhappy pair, 
 
 How beautiful ye were, how excellent ! 
 
 Even as ye now are — admirable. 
 
 And like to nothing mortal! Fit tenements 
 
 For things that were of Heaven, and ye have passed 
 
 Gloriously on to immortality ! 
 
 Yet burning tears must fall for ye : the world 
 
 Knew not of ought so lovely, or so loving; 
 
 And it will mourn that ye are gone — but they. 
 
 They only, who like us, have seen two flowers 
 
 Florishiiig bravely on one tender stalk, 
 
 And marked their blushing beauties hourly open — 
 
 Then, when the Lliglit came o'er their goodliest 
 
 pride. 
 And bore away one flower — have seen the other 
 Droop piuiugly to dus(; (hey cau but (ell 
 By some such emblem, how these glories fell ! 
 
 PlIlLlPl'O. 
 
 Ay, lady, but what image shall pourtray 
 The sorrows of the living? AV'eak, most Mcak
 
 70 THE HEIR OF FOIZ. act ii- 
 
 The effort ! What can again give comfort 
 
 To him, whose rashness nursed this evil thing? 
 
 Darkly and deeply is his punishment, 
 
 A bitter lesson to the pride of man — 
 
 The o'erweening- pride of greatness ! Now there is 
 
 No heir to this wide earldom; strangers must 
 
 Inherit: while for the base Navarre, who strove 
 
 To gain unjust possession, and was cause 
 
 Of much of this sad story, desolation 
 
 Is even now preparing! The red sword 
 
 Of war sweeps onward; and the voice of death 
 
 Audibly echoes o'er the heart's fine string. 
 
 Take up the bodies. [^To the attendants.'} The sad task 
 
 belongs 
 To me alone, to inflict upon the ear 
 The wound of these black tidings — to o'erflow 
 A father's soul with anguish for his son ! 
 Then, in this world what more remains for me? 
 Were I not grey already, sorrow would 
 Make hoar the raven head, and bid the tomb 
 Cut short my blithest season : that is past, 
 And Death concludes life's darkest scene at last.^^ 
 
 Exeunt, 
 
 THE END.
 
 NOTES 
 
 ' TO 
 
 THE HEIR OF FOIZ.
 
 " Nothing requires more patience than a good series of cita- 
 tions." 
 
 Preface to the First French Edition of Bayle's Dictionary.
 
 73 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1. P:igc 0, line 28. 
 Their very badtjes icill dvtiijkt to mark ye. 
 It was usual for tlic servants of noblemen anil others, lo wear 
 upon their arm, the badge or cognizance of their masters. To 
 tliis tlie text alludes. In Green's Tii (jnoque, 1G14, is the follow- 
 ing illustration : — 
 
 •* You think it does become you ; faith it does not, 
 " A blue coat with a Oadoc does better suit you." 
 In the yearof our Lord 1389, and 13th of the reign of Richard II. 
 tliere appears to have been a " Bill exhibited by the Commons, that 
 the lords and great men of the realme should not give to their men 
 badges to wcare as their cognizances." •' The lords would not 
 ronsc nt altogether to laic downe their badges; but yet they agreed 
 that none should wcare any such cognizance except their scrnants 
 of houihold, and such as were in ordinarie wages by the ycare." 
 
 Holinshed, vol.2, p. 472, b. 60. 
 
 Note 2. Page 6, line 30. 
 Your chair of state, your awful wandrtnJ chain. 
 These were distinguishing appendages to the steward's office, 
 and arc very frequently alluded to by oiu' old writers. Thas in 
 Masscnger's ydvuay to pay old debts, A. 1, S. 2. 
 
 " Set all things right, or as my name is Order, 
 " And by this staff of office that <ommands you, 
 *' This c/(rtJ/iaud double ruff, symbo]^ of pou cr, &c.
 
 74 
 
 And again, 
 
 '• How dost llioii lliiiik I shall become the steward's iliaii ? 
 "ha! will not these slender haunches shew well with a o/j«/». 
 ** and a golden night-cap after snpper when I take the accounts?" 
 
 Fletcher, " Loves Cure;' A. 1. S. 2. 
 
 We might refer also to Shakespeare's Twelfth Nif/ht, A. 'I. 
 S. 3, and Stevens's note thereon ; to Webster's Duchess of Malfj ; 
 and Middlelon's Mad World my Masters, Act 2. 
 
 Note S. Page 8, lint 3. 
 / pray ye mark me. 
 
 Phrases of Ihis kind, appear peculiar to the styles of the elder 
 dramatists: thus in Tourneur's Revengers Tragedy, " And ne'er 
 be seen in't : ne'er be seen in't mark you." A. 2, S. 1. 
 
 In Fletcher's Woman's Prize. — "That's laid upon your bodies, 
 "mark me well," A. 1, S. 3, and Act 2, S. 2, " Mark me Livia, 
 if thou be'st double 'f In the Pilgiim, Act 4, S. 2, " As you have 
 a mistress that you honour — Mark vie, a mistress," &c. 
 
 In Ford's Lad//'* Trial, Act 2, S. 1, " Your enemy in face— your 
 mistress, mark it." And in Act 3, S. 1, of the same piece," Her 
 several inches as exactly viark it." 
 
 So, loo, Middleton, preface to The Roaring Girl, " You shall 
 find enough for sixpence, but well couched, and you mark it." 
 
 Note 4. Page 9» li'ie 4. 
 What splendid pageants and what braveries. 
 Braveries, i. e. pomp, finery : brave apparel, is gay, sumptuous 
 apjiarel. The word is common among old authors : — 
 *' He must needs, living among wits and braveries." 
 
 Ben Jonson, Epivcrne or the Silent Woman, Act S, S. 3. 
 So, likewise, in the Scornful Lady of Beaumont and Fletcher, 
 A. 3,S. 1.
 
 75 
 
 " J pray conimeiul me 
 " To those few friends you have, tliat sent you hither, 
 *' And tell them, when you travel next, 'twere fit 
 *' You brought less bravery with you, and more wit." 
 And in the Comedy of Eastward Hoe by Jonson, Chapman, 
 and Marston, the word is again met with : 
 
 " Well said, sweet Syn, bring forth my bravery." 
 In Ilolinshcd's Chronicles, p. 172, a. ISO. fol. 1574. 
 " To see the costlinesse, and the curiositie ; the excosse and the 
 vanitie; the pomp and the braverie." 
 
 Note 5. Page 13, line \3. 
 Thouylits oysuspeet have risen in the earl, 
 *' Suspect" is used by the elder dramatists, as a substantive in (he 
 sense of suspicioyi : thus, 
 
 " 1 wanted these old instruments of state, 
 " Dissemblance and suspect." - 
 
 Marston, The Malcontent, A. 1, S. 2, 
 Again:— 
 
 " What a fair way 
 " Had I made for my love to the g(;ncral, 
 ** And cut oir all suspect, all reprehension." 
 Middleton, More dissemblers besides Women, A. 2, S. 1. and Sir 
 W. Davenant, in the Wits, A. 2, S. 1. 
 
 " What ground had her snspectV 
 It occurs likewise in Marlovv's Edward II, and repeatedly in 
 ilie Malcontent of Marston. 
 
 Note 6. Page 11, line 1 1. ' • 
 
 There tnmt he spirits presiding 
 Over the elements: and man may learn 
 The word of power that bends ihcm to his will." 
 Tiiis was at one time a vcrv fa^oiilr dntUnie, an<l uc find i(
 
 76 
 
 fenaciously niainf ained by many old writers. « Cardan relates of 
 his father, Facius Cardan, that after the accnstomed solemnities 
 An. 1491, 13 August, he conjured np seven spirits in Greek 
 apparel, about forty years ago, some ruddy of complexion, and 
 some pale as he thought : he asked them many questions ; and 
 they made ready answer that they were aerial devils, that they 
 lived and died as men did, save that they were longer lived (seven 
 hundred years) and that they did much excel men in dignity, as 
 wc do juments, and were as far excelled again of those that were 
 above them : our governors and keepers they are moreover (which 
 Plato in Critias delivered of old) and subordinate to one another: 
 ut enim homo hominiy sic dcemon dccmoni dominatur ; they rule 
 themselves as well as us ; and the spirits of the meaner sort had 
 commonly such offices, as we make horse-keepers, neat-herds, and 
 the basest of us, overseers of our cattle; and that we can no more 
 comprehend their natures and functions than a horse a man's. 
 They knew all things, but might not reveal them to men ; and 
 ruled and dominered over us, as we do over our horses; the best 
 kings amongst us, and the most generous spirits, were not com- 
 parable to the basest of them. Sometimes they did instruct men 
 and communicate their skill, reward and cherish, and sometimes 
 again terrifie and punish, to keep them in awe as they thought 
 fit — nihil mayis ciipientes (saith Lysius, Phys. Stoicorum) quam 
 adorationern hominum.^'' 
 
 And again: *' They (i. e. a'erial spirits) cause whirlwinds on a 
 sudden and tempestuous storms ; which though our meteorologists, 
 generally refer to natural causes, yet I am of Bodinc's mind (Heat. 
 Nat. 1. 2.) they are more often caused by those aerial devils in their 
 several quarters," Burton, Anatomic of Mclancholie, Vol. I, 
 p. 59-G6. Whore sec much more on the same subject. 
 
 Note 7. Page 14, line 29. 
 Herbs too abound 
 In sovereign virhics, if the)/ be colleiUd
 
 WTien the full moon lauyhs on ihc fertile vale 
 Or on the frowning precipice. 
 
 " Upon the corner of the moon 
 " Tliore hfings a vaporous drop profound— 
 *' I'll catch it ere it conic to ground." ' 
 
 Macbeth, A. 3, S. 5. 
 On this passage of Sliakcspcare, Mr. Stevens remarks. — " This 
 vaporous drop seems to have been meant for the same as tlic virus 
 Zunare of the ancients, being a foam which the moon was supposed 
 to shed on particular herbs, or other objects when strongly sohcited 
 by enchantments." 
 
 It may not be amiss to bring before the reader, a passage from 
 Fairfax's Translation of Tasso; it will throw some light upon the 
 subject, besides affording me an opportunity of quoting a favorite 
 author. It occurs in the 14th book of the Recovery of Jerusalem^ 
 Stanza, xlii. et scq. 
 
 '* Nor yet by help of devil or aid from hell 
 
 *' I do this uncouth work and wondrous feat ; 
 *• The Lord forbid I use or charm or spell 
 
 *' To raise fold Dis from his infernal scat; 
 " But of a// herbs, of cvcri/ spring and well 
 
 *' 2'he hidden power I know and virtue great, 
 '♦ And all that kind* hath hid from mortal sight, 
 "And all the stars, their motions and their might ; 
 
 " For in these caves I dwell not buried still 
 
 " From sight of heaven, but often I resort 
 " To tops of Lebanon or Carmel hiU, 
 
 " And there in liijuid air myself disport ; 
 " There Mars and Venus I behold at will, 
 
 " As bare as erst when Vulcan took them short; 
 
 * Kind i. e. Nature.
 
 5-8 
 
 " And liow tho re«t roll, glide, and move I see, 
 " I low their aspects benign or froward be : 
 
 " And underneath my feet the clouds I view, 
 
 " Now thick, now thin, now bright with Iris' bow; 
 
 *' The frost and snow, the rain, the hail, the dew, 
 ** The w indsfrom whence they come and whence they blow ; 
 
 " How Jove his thunder makes and lightning new, 
 " How with the bolt he strikes the earth below ; 
 
 " How comet, crinite, caudate stars are framrd, 
 
 *' 1 knew ; my skill with pride my heart inflamed : 
 
 " So learned, cunning, wise, myself I thought, 
 " That 1 supposed my wit so high might climb 
 
 " To know all things that God had framed or wrought — ■ 
 "Fire, air, sea, earth, man, beast, sprite, place and time." 
 
 I may add to this note what the author of the Anatotnie of 
 Melancholie learnedly observes upon the subject, and should the 
 reader continue sceptical, let him not say, that he wants authority 
 to remove his doubts — passing great names are at his service, and 
 he may use them as he list. 
 
 " If either Sextus Empericus, Picus Mirandula, Sextus ah 
 Hcniinga, Pererius, Erastus, Chambers, &c. have so far prevailed 
 with any man that he will attribute no virtue at all to the hea- 
 vens, or to sun or moon, more than he doth to their signs at an 
 inn-keepers post or tradesman's shop, or generally condemn all 
 such astrological aphorisms approved hy experience. — I refer him to 
 Bellautius, Pirovanus, Marascallerius, Gaclenius, Sir Christopher 
 Hey don, &c. If thou shalt ask me what I think, I must answer 
 (nam et doctis hisce erroribns versatus sum) they do incline, but 
 not inipell." — But the truth is, honest Burton was terribly smitten 
 with the love of astrological mummery ; and firmly persuaded of the 
 verity of his oracle. He calculated his own nati* ity, and it seems 
 actually died, pretty iiuich about the period he had foretold
 
 m 
 
 some years before. The rumor, tiowcver, was : " tliat rathev 
 than there should be a mistake in Uic calculation, lie sent nj> his 
 soul to heaven, through a slip about his neck." He died, A. D. 1639' 
 
 Note 8. Page 18, line SO. 
 And like tke inountiiuj hai^tjard dare the sun. 
 " A haggard hawk is a wild hawk, a hawk unreclaimed or 
 unrcclaimable." Reed. 
 
 So, in the Scornful Lady. A. 1. S. 4. 
 
 " Lady, I would not undertake you, were you again a haggard, 
 for the best cast of ladies i' Ih' knigdom." 
 Again — 
 
 " As I am a gentleman, 
 " I'll meet next cocking and bring a haggard with mc, 
 " That stoops as free as lightning, strikes like thunder." 
 Tonikis, " Alhumazar." A. 3. S. 5. 
 For a particular account of the Haggard, see an excellent 
 Sammarii of Falconrg, in Willoughby's Ornithology. Chap. 
 VI. p. 413. fol 1678. 
 
 Note 9- Page 20, line 11. 
 And here began the pageant. 
 Masques and pageants of every species (including those singular 
 forms of composition, called mysteries and moralities) were tin; 
 delight and wonder of our ancestors. Numerous are the fanciful 
 creations of the former kind, which sprung from the luxuriant 
 imagination of P>en .Tonson; and we have less reason to lament the 
 time he so employed, though in an inferior dei)artmentof literature, 
 when we look at the beautiful specimens Ihat remain. James the 
 I., as well as Elizabeth (and we may add, two of tlie preceding 
 princes, Mary and Henry the VIII.*) had each a strong bias in 
 
 Ktlwaiil Ihc VI may be omitted; for young as he wiis, lie np-
 
 80 
 
 favor of these costly presentations; and the age in which they 
 lived, with all its servile notions, adapted itself easily to the 
 opinions of the sovereign. 
 
 As the reader may be pleased to receive some additional notice 
 of the spectacle alluded to in the text, I shall select from the 
 Chronicle of Holinshed, what he terms " A pageant very sump- 
 ** tuous and of notable deuise," represented in London, A. D. 1519» 
 before Henry the VIII. and the French ambassadors, in honorof 
 whom it was produced. 
 
 ** All that dale were the strangers feasted, and at night they were 
 brought into the hall, where was a rocke full of all maner of stones, 
 very artificiallie made, and on the top stood five trees; the first an 
 olive tree, on which hanged a shield of the amies of the church of 
 Rome; the second a pine apple tree, with the armes of the era- 
 perour ; the third a rosier, with the armes of England ; the fourth a 
 branch of lilies, bearing the armes of France; and the fifth a 
 pomegranat tree, bearing the armes of Spaine: in token that all 
 these fine potentats were joined together in one league against the 
 enimies of Christes faith. 
 
 " In and upon the middest of the rocke sate a fairc ladie, 
 richlie apparelled with a dolphin in her lap. In this rocke were 
 ladies and gentlemen apparelled in crimsin sattin, couered ouer 
 with floures of purple sattin, cmbrodered upon with wrelhcs of 
 gold, knit together with golden laces, and on euerie floure a liart 
 of gold moouiiig. The ladies apparell was after the fashion of Inde, 
 
 pears not to have been rauch addicted to the vanities of his day. " He 
 took" says Sir John Haywood, " great pleasure in exercises of activity, 
 whereto he much trained his servants; and to that end he often ap- 
 pointed challenges among them for wrestling, leaping, running, riding, 
 shooting at rovers and at rounds, and such like games; and at riding and 
 shooting would sometimes be one of their sides. — Life of Edward the 
 rith, by Sir John Haijwood, Kni. and Doclo''- of Laws, ITOtJ, foL
 
 81 
 
 ■with kcrcliifesof pieasance, hatched witli fine gold, and sot with 
 letters of Greekc in gold bullion ; and the edges of their kerehifes 
 were garnislied with hanging perle. Tlicse gentlemen and ladies 
 sat on the nether part of the rocke, and out of a cane in the said 
 rocke came ten knights, armed at all points, and fought together 
 a faire tonrnie. And when they were seuered and departed, 
 disguisors descended from the rocke, and dansed a great space, 
 and suddenlie the rocke niooucd and rncniiied tlie dissiuisors and 
 immediatlie closed againe. 
 
 " Then entered a person called Report, apparelled in crimsiu 
 sattin, full of toongs, sitting on a flieng horsse, with wings and 
 feet of gold, called Pegasus. This person, in French, declared the 
 niening of the rocke, the trees, and the tournie. After this pastime 
 ended, the king and the ambassadours were serued at a banket 
 with two hundred andsixtie dishes, and after thatavoidee* of spices 
 with sixtie spice plates of siluer and gilt, as great as men with 
 ease might beare. This night the cupboard in the hall was of 
 twelue stages, all of plate of gold, and no gilt plate." VideHolinshed, 
 Hen. Vlil, vol. ii. B. L. 1587. 
 
 Buta quotation from Froissard will illustrate this subject still 
 better. On tlie i>Oth of June, \SR9, Isabel!, (luern to Charles Villi 
 of France, made her first entry into Paris, when the foUowinjj 
 costly pageants were presented. r: w ' ^ i 
 
 •' At the fyrst gate of Saynt Denice, entryng into Parys, there 
 was a heuyn made full of sterres, and within it yonge chyldren* 
 apparelled lyke angcUes, swctely syngyngo: and amouge them an 
 ymage of our Lady, holdyngeiu fygure a lytell cliylde playeng 
 by liiniself, with a lytell myll made of a great nutte; this 
 heuyn was hygh and richely apparelled with the amies of 
 
 * A voidce, I imagine to liave been a basket. A vohUr was a large 
 knife, with wliicli broken victuals were swept from the tabic, into soiuc- 
 thiiig appointed for their reception. This niuy have been a voidee, 
 
 O
 
 82 
 
 Frauncc, with a banner of the sonne^ shynyng of golde, castj'ng 
 tiis rayes: this was deuysed by the kynge for the fcest of the iustes. 
 The quene and the other ladyes as tliey passed vnder in at the 
 gate they had great pleasure to beholde it, and so had all other 
 that passed by. Than, whan the quene and the ladyes were 
 paste by, than they came a softe pace before the fountayne in a 
 strete of Saynt Denice, whiche condyte was couered ouer with a 
 clothe of fine asure, paynted full of floure de lyces of golde : and 
 the pyllers were sette full of the armes of dyuers noble lordes of 
 Fraunce; and out of this fountayne there issued in great stremes 
 punent and clarre*; and about this fountayne there were 
 yonge maydens richly apparelled, with riche chapelettes on their 
 heedes, syngynge melodiously; great pleasure it was to here 
 them; and they helde in their handes cuppes and goblettes of 
 golde, ofFryng and gyueng to drinke all suche as passed by: and 
 the quene rested there and regarded them, and had great pleasure 
 of that deuyse; and so dyde all the other ladyes and dameselles 
 that sawe it." 
 
 *' At the gate of the chatelet of Parys there was a castell made 
 of woode and tynibre, as strongly made as it shuld haue endured 
 xl yeares, the whiche castell was enibatylled; and at euery lope 
 there was a man of armes armed at all peces ; and in the same 
 castell there was a bedde made, richly encourteyned and ap- 
 parelled, as it had been to have stande in the kynge's chambre, 
 and this bedde was called the bedde of Justice: and in this bedde 
 there lay, by figure, Saynt Anne; in this castell there was a 
 playne, for the castell conteyned a gret space, and this playne was 
 full of trees, and full of hares, cones, and byrdes, that flewe in and 
 out ; for whan they were abrode, they flewe theder agayne for 
 fcare of the people : and out of these trees there issued a why te 
 harte, and went to the bedde of Justyce ; and out of the other parte 
 
 * Pinient and Claire,
 
 of the wode tlieve issued out a lyou and an cgle properlye, and 
 fresshely approchcd tlie liarte, and the beddc of Justycc; then 
 came there out of the trees a XII yonge maydens richely ap- 
 parelled, with chapelettes of golde on their heedes, holdynge 
 naked swordes in their handes: and they wcnte bytwenc the 
 harte, the lyoii, and the egle, and tliore tliey shewed themselfc 
 redy to defendc the harte and the beddc of Justyce. This deuyse 
 the queue and all other had great pleasure to regarde. Than 
 they passed forthe and came to the bridge of Parys, whiche was 
 couered and richely besene ; the couerynge of grcne and rrimosyn 
 full of sterres, and the strrtes hanged to our ladyes churche." — 
 Bourchicr, Lord Berner's Translation, cap. clvii. vol. 2. 
 
 Besides the separate performance of such pieces, they were 
 frequently blended with that of others ; and there is scarcely an 
 old play to be met with, in which the favorite interlude of masque 
 or pageant is not exhibited, and where they serve principally to 
 liasten the catastrophe of the plot. Hence heathen mythology 
 was ransacked, and the mighty machinery of Homer's gods de- 
 graded into uses that never could have been " dreamt of in his 
 philosophy." Hence was allegory wooed with unremitted 
 assiduity ; words became things — and things, persons *; so that 
 
 • The old play of" Promos and Cassandra," will furnish an apposite 
 illustration of tlic iucongruous mixture in the slicws alluded to. 
 
 Actus I. Scena V. 
 The Bedell nf the Taylers, Puallax. 
 
 Bedell. 
 Ileare you, INIaister Piiallax? 
 The wardens of the raarcLant taylers axe 
 Where (with themselves) they shall their pageaunt place ? 
 
 Piiallax. 
 With what strange showes doe they their pageaunt grace ? 
 
 g2
 
 84 
 
 even the far famcHl " Minccd-pic," loveliest of a 11 the honoretl 
 otTspring of Cliristmas, assumed the letloablablo shape of a 
 " fine cooke's wife, drest neat, her man carrying a pic, dish, and 
 spoones f." 
 
 Behell. 
 
 They have Hercules of monsters conqueryng. 
 
 Huge great giants in a forest jighllng 
 
 With lyons, beares, uolves, apes, foxes, and grnyes, 
 
 Baiards, broches, <^-c, 
 
 Phallax. 
 
 wondrous frames! 
 
 Marrj', syr; since they are provided thus 
 
 Out of their waies, God keepe Maisler Pediculus* 
 
 Bedell. 
 
 You are pleasant syr, but with speede I praye 
 
 You aunswere mee; I was charged not to stay. 
 
 Phallax. 
 
 Because I know you have all things currant, 
 
 Tliey shall stand where they shall no viewers want: 
 
 How say you to the ende of Ducke Alley? 
 
 Bedell. 
 
 There nil the heggers in the towne will be. 
 
 Phallax. 
 
 O, most attendance is where beggers are : 
 
 Farewell, away. 
 
 Bedell. 
 
 I wyll your wyll declare. [Etit. 
 
 It may be noticed here, that the mention of " wardens of the Marchant 
 Taylers" and Ducke Alley, is quite in the negligent style of the elder 
 dramatist?. The scene of the piece is said to be laid in the " Cytie of 
 Julio, sometime under the dominion of Corvinus king of Hungarie and 
 Bohemia." 
 
 t See Jonson's " Christmas, his masque; as it was presented at 
 court, J61C." Ed. 164t). 
 
 * i, e. A louse.
 
 " 85 
 
 But these ikvices liave had tli( ir diiy : they arc gone— and witit 
 tlieni, unfortunately, many a good old English custom, which the 
 fastidious nicety of modern times either overlooks w ith careless- 
 ness, or considers with contempt. l''ormerly, land of our fore- 
 fathers ! thou couldst boast, 
 
 " Thy wakes, thy quintels* here thou hast ; (luulst) 
 
 " Thy may-poles too, w ith garlands graced ; 
 
 *' Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun-ale, 
 
 " Thy shearing feasts which never fail; . , 
 
 " Thy harvest-liome, thy wassail-bowl 
 
 " That 's tost up after fox i' the hole ; 
 
 " Tliy mummeries, thy twelfth-night kings 
 
 " And queens — thy Christmas revellings; _; > 
 
 * QuintcJ, or Q.ainta\n was a rural diversion, usual at weddings. The 
 parties were on horseback, armed with long poles, and a lliick slake was 
 fastened upright in the ground. At this they ran, in the manner of a 
 tilt; and he who shivered the greatest number of poles, carried off the 
 priie. Sir Philip Sydney notices it in the " Arcadia." B. i. 
 " Whilst dance about the maj'-poJc is begun, 
 " When, if need were, they could at Q.idnlain run." 
 
 The following description of this singular diversion seems to be prettj 
 accurate, and therefore I insert it. 
 
 " A quinlain was a post or butt set up for martial exercises, on it was 
 tiie figure of a man which turned on a swivel, intended to perfect the 
 liorsemcn in the feats of running at the ring, or hitting his antagouist in 
 tilting. If he who rode was expert in the use of the lance, he bore off on 
 tlie point of it the trophy that was fixed on the figure; but if lie hit il 
 improperly or awkwardly, it turned round and struck him a viuiout blow. 
 ]\Ir. Gullirie says, that they used to hang sliields, &c. on tlie quintain- 
 block, at which they shot, darted, or rode, for the purpose of throwing 
 them down as a proul of akill,"
 
 86 
 
 ** Thy nut-brown mirth— thy russet w it, 
 *' And no man pays too dear for it*." 
 All, however, or the greater part, are entirely vanished; nor, in 
 all human probability, will many years elapse, before the re- 
 mainder follow. It is now but seldom, that a may-pole is to be 
 observed; or that, as Stowe exquisitely says : " In the month of 
 May, namely, on a May-day morning, every man, except impedi- 
 ment, t walks into the sweet meadows and green woods, there to 
 rejoice their spirits with the beauty and savour of sweet flowers, 
 and with the noise X of birds, praising God in their kind." 
 Shearing feasts and the joyous abundance of a harvest-supper, are 
 likewise rapidly disappearing. And where is " Christmas, old 
 Christmas? Christmas of London, and Captaine Christmas?" § 
 Alas! the grave of time enwraps him; but on his crumbling mo- 
 nument may we inscribe, withfargreaterjustlce, Ifear,than on the 
 generality of tombstones-^-" He was a kind father ; an affectionate 
 husband ; an honest man ;" and well therefore may we weep for 
 his departure with genuine tears and heartfelt sincerity. 
 
 The disportings of Christmas are now esteemed proper only for 
 children; though our progenitors — blessings on them! — felt that 
 they derogated not from the majesty of men. Females of another 
 day joined unaffectedly and cordially in the seasonable pastimes 
 of the year ; but the young of this, (taught better things we sup- 
 pose,) hold " Slindmans ffuff" in horror; and account nothing 
 innocent, that is not, at the same time, indolent. The fragile 
 forms, that we see shivering in the cold breezes of winter, romp- 
 ing would shake to ipieces ; while the older sort, lifting up their 
 hands and eyes, express unutterable wonder, at the bare proposal 
 
 * Herrick. " The Country Life." f i. e. Unless prevented. 
 
 t Noise is concert: So in the " Ordinary," Act iv, 5. 1. 
 
 " Hey for a noise of fidlers now." 
 $ " Christmas his Masque."
 
 87 
 
 of so unchristian-like a doctrine. We have gained much false 
 refinement, at the loss of tliat harmless and dcHghtful hilarity, 
 which is the mind's best relaxation, when tired of severer 
 studies: and with manners more coldly reserved, with feelings 
 more austere, with notions more bigotted than the darkest times 
 of Puritanism, there is less common honesty, less pure philan- 
 thropy, and — nmst I add — less true religion. Lord Byron is 
 right— this is " an age of cant :" and however wise it may have 
 become in its own conceit, assuredly, is no better, than the age 
 which has preceded. 
 
 Crimes of every kind are far more frequent; and what is an 
 awfully tremendous fact, the profane boldness of those about 
 to be launched, by law, into eternity, has strangely and rapidly 
 increased. The felon, who is adjudged to death, wears to the 
 very last, the effrontery and careless impudence of such a black 
 and rooted depravity, that the thoughtful mind is perhaps more 
 terrified at the remembrance of this, than at any other mark of 
 human wickedness. And what should we infer? A man not 
 wholly abandoned may be led by circumstance into the commission 
 of a crime, which, ere it was perpetrated, he dreamt not of com« 
 mitting; and charity would hope that, as such might be the 
 case, he dies sincerely penitent. But when we behold that man 
 hurried from the present scene, with a brutal indifference to his 
 future state, and when the great proportion of instances lamenta- 
 bly support the fact, we are compelled to accredit the conviction 
 of our senses, and almost admit the increased perversion of the 
 iumian heart. 
 
 If this be true— as in my conscience I believe— it becomes the 
 censors of the age diligently to rub away the imposing gloss, 
 which dazzles and allures it. They should 
 
 " ToarU dovotion now a milder temper; - - 
 " Not that it shall lose any of licr heat
 
 88 
 
 ** Or purity, but henceforth shall be such 
 *' As shall burn bri<(ht, although not blaze so much*." ' 
 It should be remembered, that to exaggerate a truth, is not 
 to recommend ; that to press forward, even what is good, above 
 a certain mark, is in effect to do it a disservice ; and that, lastly, 
 the mind too violently acted on, becomes strained and injured, 
 and •' starteth aside like a broken bow." 
 
 Note 10, Page 22, line 1. 
 In the brave tourney that ensued. 
 
 There is a curious charter enacted by King Richard of the 
 " lion heart," A. D. 1 195, respecting the right of liolding a tourna- 
 ment — which might be followed with good effect in the present 
 day. \i pugilism, whether public or private, had the same penal- 
 ties annexed to every bout, as appears to have been the case here, 
 many degrading scenes might be prevented — or a considerable 
 addition to the revenue raised. The paper is, as follows : — 
 
 " Richard, by the grace of God, king of England, duke of 
 " Normandie and Aquitaine, and earle of Aniou, to the reuerend 
 " father in Christ, Hubert, archbishop of Canturburie, and primat 
 " of all England, sendeth greeting. Knowye that we have granted 
 " turnaments to be kept in England in fine steeds, to wit, betwixt 
 ** Salisburie and Wilton, betwixt Warwicke and Kenelworth, 
 ** betwixt Stanford and Warnieford, betwixt Brackely and Nix- 
 " burgh, betwixt Blieand Tickhill, so that the peace of our land 
 " be not broken, nor yet our iustices authoritie diminished, 
 " nor any damage doone to our forests. Prouided that what earle 
 " soeuer will turney there, shall giue to us twentic markes, a 
 " baron ten markes, a knight that hath landes fourc markes and he 
 *' that hath no landes shall give two markes. 
 
 Randolpb. " The Muses' Looking Glass." A. 5. s. 4.
 
 89 
 
 " Moreoucr, no stranger shall be adiiiiUcd lo lunioy there; 
 " whereupon we command you, that at the dale of the turnieng, 
 " ye haue there two clarkes, and two of onr knights to receiiic 
 " the oth of the carles and barons, which shall satisfic ns of the 
 " said snmmes of monie, before turnieng begin, and that they 
 " sutler none to turnie till (before) they haue made paiment, and 
 " haue caused to l)c enl red how nindi, and of whom they haue 
 «♦ receiued: and ye shall take ten niarkes for this charter to our 
 •' use, whereof the earle of Salisburie, and tiie carle of Clare, and 
 " the earle of Warren are pledges. Witnessc myselfe at Ville 
 " Leuesche the two and twentith of August." — Holinshcd's 
 Chron. p. 146, a. 20, vol. 2. 
 
 The above enactment, it seems, was issued in the Oth year of 
 Richard's reign, while he carried on his wars in Normandy. As 
 an instance of the once common practice of tourneying, I extract 
 the subjoined. 
 
 " The king" (Edward the IVth., A. D. 1467) " eausing the 
 lists to be prepared for these chamj)ions" (Anthony, natural 
 brother to the carl of Charolois and Lord Scales) " and vcrie 
 fairc and cosUie galleries for the ladies, was present at this 
 martiall enterprise himselfe. The first dale, they ran toge- 
 llier diuers(^ courses wiiii sharpe speares, and departed with 
 cquall honor. The next daie they turnied on horsscbackc. The 
 Lord Scales hor.sse had on his chafron a long sharpe pike of 
 .Steele, and as the two champions coped together, the same 
 horsse, (whether tlirough custome or by chance) tiirust his pike 
 into the nosethriis of tiie bastard's horsse; so that for veric paine 
 he mounted .so high, that he fell on the one side with his 
 maister, and the Lord Scales rode round about him with liLs 
 sworde in his hande, untill the king commanded the manshall to 
 helpeupthe bastard, which ojieidie said: I cannot hold me by the 
 clouds, for though Miy horsse faileth me, suerlie I will not failc 
 my conter companion. Tiie king would not suilir tiuin to doo 
 auic more thai daie. 
 
 "The moiou alio, (111 (wo noblemen eaiuc into the field ou fool.
 
 90 
 
 with <vvo polaxes, and fought valiantlie: but at last, the point of 
 the polax of the Lord Scales happened to enter into the sight of 
 the bastard's helme, and by fine force might haue plucked him on 
 his knees: the king suddeuhe cast dovvne his warder, and then 
 the niarslialls them scuered. The bastard not content with this 
 chance, and trusting on the cunning which he had at the polax, 
 required the king, of iustice, that lie might perform his enterprise. 
 The Lord Scales refused it not, but the king said he would aske 
 counsell; and so calling to him the constable and the niarshall, with 
 the otficers of armes, after consultation had, and the lawes of 
 amies rehearsed, it was declared for a sentence dcfinitiue by the 
 duke of Clarence, then constable of England, and the duke of 
 Norfolke then marshall, that if he would go forward with his at- 
 tempted challenge, he must by the law of amies be deliuered to 
 Ills aduersarie, in the same state and like condition as he stood 
 when he was taken from him."— Id. Chron. p. 6O9, a. 30. 
 
 Note 1 1. Page 22, line I6. 
 Tlie shrill-voiced trumpet sounded loud and long. 
 " And when the voice of the trumpet sounded long, and vva.\ed 
 louder and louder, Moses spake." — Exodus chap. xix. \Q. 
 
 Note ]'2. Page 22, line 18. 
 Then came the challengers, their shields ivere placed 
 Along the lists, and theg tverc short Ig ansivered. 
 When a tournament was proclaimed, and a number of knights 
 had engaged to maintain the field against all comers; it was 
 usual for them to hang up their shields within the list, and await 
 in tents the approach of an antagonist. The clmllengers were 
 thus left to be selected at the choice of the answerers, as they 
 were called: and this was done by striking with the lance upon a 
 particular shield. If it were struck with the shafted end, it signi- 
 fied but an amicable encounter, undertaken in honor of their 
 ladies; but if the blow were with the head of the spear, it was. 
 held a defiance to mortal combat.
 
 Somelinios, howovcr, the challenging knight, fixed two shields 
 at the entrance of his tent, for the same purpose; one of which 
 was termed the shield of peace and the other the shield of war, 
 as may be seen from the following extract. 
 
 " They ordayncd in a fayre plaync bytwene Calays and Saynt 
 Ingilbertes thrc frcssh grene pauilyons to be pyghtiip; and at the 
 cntrcofeuery pauil ion there //rt«//rfZ <tto shddes, with the armes 
 of the knightes; one shelde of peace, another ofwarre; and it was 
 ordayncd that snche as shulde ryn and do dedcs of amies shulde 
 touche one of the sheldcs, or cause to be touched whiche as 
 pleaseth them, and he sliuldc be delyuered accordyng to his 
 desyre." — Froissard, vol. 2. cap. clxviii. See also " Amadis of 
 Caul," translated by Soutliey^>as5«?rt. 
 
 Note 13. Page 22, line 30. 
 Aiid rushed to the attaint. 
 
 Attaint, is from the Lat. attingo, to toiicli, to conjoin ; and sig- 
 nified the touching or striking of the lance ui)oii the opponent, 
 when two knights met in career. Thus Ilolinslicd, Historic of 
 Scotland, vol. i. p. 2.52, b. 40, fol. 1574. 
 
 " At the first course, llio' they attcinted, yet kept tliey their 
 saddles without anie perill of falling." 
 
 And again, " Eche of them strake other on their lielmes, thai 
 the fyre fla.sshcd out : with that ataynt the loide of Saynt Pye wa:* 
 nnhclmcd." — Froissart, cap. clxviii. 
 
 "The iiii course they ataynted cch other in the sight of tlicir 
 lielnics." — Id. 
 
 Note 14. Page 23, line 19. 
 
 On his helm , 
 
 My colors fluttered. 
 II was cusloniary for (he < liivalric spirits of former days to bear 
 on their hcliucti the lavois of then UHblicsjieb. These were of
 
 92 
 
 very diflfering kuKls. as appears from Drayton's Bailie of Affin- 
 
 court. Vol. i. p. 16. 
 
 " The nobler youth, the common rank above, 
 " On their courvetting coursers mounted fair, 
 " One wore his mistress' yarter, one her (jlove ; 
 " And he a lock of his dear lady's hair;— 
 *« And he her colours whom he most did love : 
 « There was not one but did some favour wear." 
 In Hall's Chronicle, we have something similar:— 
 " One part haddc their plumes at whyt, anotlicr hadde them 
 
 atredde,and the thyrde hadde them of severall colours. One wore 
 
 on his head-peice his ladies sieve, and another bare on hys hehrie 
 
 the (/love of hys dearbjuffe." Fol. 12, 1550. 
 
 And again :— 
 
 " Mounted on thy fierce and trampling stede, 
 
 " Shining in armour bright before the tilt, 
 
 " And with thy mistresse sieve tied on thy hclme.'" 
 
 " Ferrex and Porrex." Act 4. s. 2. 
 
 Note 15. Page 25, Une 6, 
 And fifty spears 
 Guard him to execution. 
 ■ "-The companyons of seven fortresses asseml)kd togydcr at 
 Ousac, englysscmcn, and they were a four hundred speares '.veil 
 mounted."— Froissiart. 
 The word spears, for men at arms, is no unusual figure. 
 
 Note 16. Page 25, line 9- 
 Help, how the body. 
 Bending or hotviny the body, was formerly considered an infalli- 
 ble method of ascertaining its vitality. 
 
 So ia the " Maid's Tragedy" by Beaumont and Fletcher, A. 
 
 5. S. 4.
 
 " Aspatia, speak ! 
 " I liave lirard, if tlicre be any life, hnl bow 
 *' Thebodi/ thus, and it will show itself.'" 
 
 Note 17. Page 25, line l6. 
 Like a soft breath that crisps the summer wave. 
 Crisps, that is, curls. It is used by Sliakspcare in the Tempest. 
 A. 4. S. 1. 
 
 " You nymphs called Naiads, of the wand'ring brooks, 
 " With your sedgrd crowns and ever harmless looks, 
 " Leave your crisp channels." 
 And in " Cornelia;' by Kyd. A. 4. S. 2. 
 
 " Turn not thy crispy tides, like silver curl, 
 
 " Back to thy grass-greeu banks to welcome us." 
 
 Note 18. Page 96, line 15. 
 Why is the test 
 Of battle yielded not ? ' • 
 
 The right of the accused to demand battle of the accuser, if a 
 man ; or a champion, if a priest or woman— is a circumstance 
 often alluded to in the pages of chivalrj". 
 
 In Machin's " Dumb Knight." A. 5. S. 2, We find tlic follow- 
 ing mention made of this fact. 
 
 Queen. " My gracious lord, since no desert in me 
 " Can merit your belief, nor that your eye 
 Can rightly judge my pure complection. 
 Yet as your hand-maid, let me bcj; the risrht 
 " Due unto wretches from our country's laws. 
 Cyprus. " The tenure of what law do you demand ? 
 Queen. " Tliat in the case of slander, where the proof ' ' "" ' 
 " Proceeds as much from envy as from truth, 
 " We are allowed our champions to defend 
 " Onr innocence, with a well-ordered sword." 
 Holinshrd (from wlioinl haveso often (niofed" n lahs "asbariTc 
 
 «
 
 and notable triall" of this kind, which perhaps the reader may not 
 be displeased to see. The occassion was this. Sir John Annes- 
 ley. Knight, alleged against a certain Thomas Katrington, Es- 
 quire, commander of the fortress of St. Saviour in Normandy, that, 
 for a sum of money, he had traiterously surrendered up his trust 
 into the hands of the French; possessing at the same time suffici- 
 ent means for its defence. Sir John Anncsley therefore, as the 
 nearest relative to Sir John Chandois the owner, and in right of 
 liis wife, accuses Katrington of treason, offering to refer the cause 
 to the decision of battle. This being determined on, "The king" 
 (Richard the Second) "his nobles and all the people being comr, 
 togither, in the morning of the daie appointed, to the place where 
 the lists were set up, the knight being armed and mounted on a 
 fiiire courser seemelie trapped, entered first as appellant, staieng 
 till his aduersarie the defendant should come. 
 
 " And shortlie after was the esquier called to defend his cause 
 in this forme : Thomas Katrington defendant, come and appear to 
 saue the action, for which Sir John Anneslie, Knight, and appel- 
 lant hath publiklie and by writing appealed thee. He being thus 
 called thrise by an herald at armes, at the third call did come armed 
 likewise; and riding on a courser trapped with traps imbrodered 
 with his armes, at his approaching to the lists, he alighted from 
 his horsse, lest according to the law of armes the constable should 
 have chalenged the horsse, if he had entered within the lists. But 
 his shifting nothing availed him, for the horsse, after his maister 
 was alighted beside him, ran up and down by the railes, now 
 thrusting his head over, and now both head and breast, so that the 
 Earle of Buckingham, because he was high constable of England, 
 claimed the horsse afterwards, swearing that he would have so 
 much of him as had appeared over the railes, and so the horsse was 
 adiudged unto him." 
 
 The marshal and lord high constable now exhibited the in- 
 denture previously assented to by the parties, and signed and sealed 
 before them; containing the charges brought by the appellant
 
 1^ 
 
 against tlic elofendanf. Tt was tlioii read l)cforr the assembly, and 
 violently objcctccl lo by Katringtoii, whosf iimoccnce even a1 that 
 time appears to have been doubted. The Duke of Lancaster, dis- 
 pleased at the reiterated cavilhngs of the man, ordered liim to 
 abide by the conditions of tlie combat, or be adjudged a traitor on 
 the spot. This sentence gave great satisfaction to the populace, 
 who had heretofore considered the duke too partial to his cause. 
 Katrington therefore (a man of tall and robust stature) prepared 
 himself for the fight, if not with the confidence of justice^, with 
 much dependanee on his own uncommon strength. But, (in the 
 words of the Chronicle) "before they entered battell, they tookc 
 an oth, as well the knight as the esquier, that the cause, in which 
 they were to fight, was true, and that theydelt with no witchcraft, 
 nor art magike, whereby tliey migiit obteine the vietorie of their 
 aduerserie, nor had about them any herbe or stone, or other kiude 
 of experiment with which magicians use to triumph over their 
 enimies. This oth received of either of them, and therewith hav- 
 ing made their praiers deuoutlie, they began the battle, first with 
 •spearcs, after with swords, and lastlie with daggers. They fought 
 long, till finalie the knight had bereft the esquier of all his wca- 
 jions, and at length the esquier was maufulHe ouerthrowne by the 
 knight But as the knight would iiaue fallen upon the esquier, 
 through sweat that ran downe by his helmet, his sight was hinder- 
 ed, so that thinking to fall upon the esquier, he fell downe sideling 
 himself, not comming neere to tlie esfjuier ; ^\ ho, perceiuing what 
 had happened, although he was almost ouercome Avith long fight- 
 ing, made to the knight, and threw hinist^lfe ujkju him, so that 
 nianie thought the knight should haue beene ouercome: other 
 doubted not but that the knight would recouer his feet agaiue 
 and get the vietorie of his aduersarie." 
 
 At this critical juncture, the king interposed, with the intention 
 of reconciling the combatants; but the resolute knight entreated 
 that rhry might continue the struggle, and the esiiuire be left in 
 the situation he tlien was. This request beiiii; refused, they wvrr 
 both raised upon their feet; and while the knight walked "cheer-
 
 .96 
 
 fullic" to the king, tli'? esquire vvr.s unable to move vvitliout sup* 
 port. When the weakness of the latter was perceived, tlie appel- 
 lant still more vehemently urged his suit. His eagerness and the 
 offer of large sums of money, finally prevailed ; but as they pro- 
 ceeding to effect his wish, the esquire fainted from fatigue and ex- 
 liaustionof blood. The remedy of casting wine and water in his 
 face being tried without avail, his armour and apparel were 
 plucked off, and the knight proclaimed conqueror. As for the es- 
 quire, his end was melancholy. Whether the consequence of 
 defeat or the compunctions of an evil conscience, remains un- 
 known; but on recovering from the fit, he lost his senses, and 
 died, the ensuing day, "raging mad." 
 
 This trial took place upon the seventh of June 1381, " to the 
 great reioising of the common people and discouragement of 
 traitours." — Chron. vol.ii. p. 42 4-5. B. L. 1587- 
 
 Froissard, vol. ii. cap. Ixi. records a trial by combat, between a 
 squire called Jaques le Grys and Sir John of Carongue, lield at 
 Paris: the circumstances of which are equally striking; but to 
 which the length of this note obliges me to refer the reader. See 
 also Blackstone's CommcntarUs. Vol. iii. p. 337 and vol. 4. 
 
 Both the trials by battle above noticed, I find likewise cur- 
 sorily alluded to by Sir W" alter Raleigh, History of the Worlds 
 book V. chap. iii. p. 679- fol. 1739. And an additional circum- 
 stance regarding what he calls " Trials of right" is worth tran- 
 scribing. 
 V. " In combats for trial of right, it is not so;" (that is, the van- 
 quished was not subject to capital punishment,) "neither is the ap- 
 pellant or defendant bound to fight in person, but he may try it 
 by his champion; as did Paramor and Lowe, or offered to do, in 
 the reign of Queen Elizabeth. And in this case, he that is beaten 
 or yieldeth, looseth only his cause, not his life. Neither are the 
 combats upon accusation, or trial of right, fought in open field, 
 as are those of bravery, but in campe close; that is, within rails." 
 
 A little further on, he continues, "Now in those challenges 
 
 upon accusation of treason, murder, or other offence deserving
 
 death (and in tliose only) the rule held; tliat le rtefendeur' esloit 
 term de proposer ces dcffcnsespar une demcnter ; — the defendant was 
 bound to plead not guilty, by giving the accuser the lie : other- 
 wise it was concluded that the defendant did teiseblement 
 confesser le crime ;— silently confess the crime. But after such time 
 as Francis, the French King, upon some dispute about breach of 
 faith, had sent the lie unto the Emperor Charles the Fifth, tliercby 
 to draw him to a personal combat, every petty companion in 
 France, in imitation of their master, made the giving of the lie 
 mortality itself; holding it a matter of no small glory, to have it 
 said, that the meanest gentleman in France would not put up, 
 what the great Emperor Charles the Fifth had patiently endur- 
 ed." 
 
 But the trial by combat, Sir Richard Baker says (Chronicle p. 
 27. fol.— 1696.) though not entirely abrogated in the lime of 
 the Norman Conqueror, was, after that period, " of no ordinary 
 
 use. 
 
 Note 19- Page 28, line 6. 
 Say you ? 
 Tliis laconic mode of expression. Say yon ."—for what do you 
 say? — or What say you? is very usual among old writers. 
 So, in Marston's Malcontent. A. 1. S. 3. 
 
 " Mendoza dies; his son marries this daughter. Say you? 
 *' Nay, 'tis frequent." 
 And in Greenes Tu quoquc. 
 
 Cieraldine. Prithee walk in ; what you bargain for, I'll dis- 
 diarge. 
 
 Lotiy field. Say you .'—fall to your work, I'll be your chapman. 
 See also Othello. A. S. S. 4. 
 
 Desdemona. Heaven bless Us ! 
 Othello. Say you ? 
 Again in .lonson's Volpone. A. 1. S. 4. 
 
 Mosca. He has no failh in physirk. 
 Corbaccio. "Say you, saif i/nu * 
 
 H
 
 98 
 
 And a somewliat similar mode of expression is frequent in Sir 
 P. Sidney's writings. Thus in the Arcadia — But what ? sig- 
 nifies — but what then ?■ Book iii. p. 570 ; and again among 
 many other instances in the Defence of Poesy ^ p. 49. — which 
 
 see. 
 
 Note 20. Page 28, hne 26- 
 
 Sure ye exempt 
 Your truest servant from the opprobrious charge — 
 Do ye not mistress? 
 " A connection similar to that of the Italian Cicisbei and their 
 ladies, though not carried to such an extent, subsisted formerly in 
 England, with this exception, that neither party was confined to 
 a single object of attachment. The lover called his fair one mis- 
 tress, and she, in return, acknowledged him as her servant. The 
 custom was often accompanied by the most absurd acts of devo- 
 tion, some of them too disgusting to be mentioned. Almost every 
 play of those days has some allusion to it; and the lady who had 
 the greatest and most splendid train was considered as the most 
 enviable of her sex. This singular attachment was undoubtedly 
 derived from the ancient romances; and accordingly we meet, in 
 the beautiful tale of Ippomydon, with a very apposite instance. 
 The hero regularly engages in the service of a lady, and for his 
 wages, obtains a kiss for every time he leads her from or to her 
 chamber. We may, perhaps, trace this species of service to that 
 which young noblemen were accustomed to in the middle ages, be- 
 fore they took the degree of a squire." — Note to Beaumont and 
 Fletchers works. Ed. 1812. Vol. 2. p. 263. 
 
 Note 21. Page 29, line 2. 
 
 So ye can bewray it. 
 To hewray,\s to reveal, to discover. So, in " The Historie of 
 Promos and Cassandra." A. S. S. 2. 
 " Faire dame my outward lookes my inward thoughts bewray.,"'
 
 -And again :— 
 
 " But know, Grinialdi, tliough (may be) thou art • 
 
 " My equal in thy blood, yet this bewrays 
 
 " A lowness in thy mind." Ford. 
 
 Note 22. Page 31, line 7- 
 A scrip full stored vnth powrler. — J should say 
 With deadly aconite. 
 "The erle cast his eycn on hym, and sawe the strynges of the 
 purse hangyng at his bosome; thanne his blode changed, and said, 
 Gascone come hyder, I wyil spcke ^ith the in thyne care; the 
 chylde came to him, and the erle toke hym by the bosome and 
 found out the purse, and with hys knyfe cut it from his bosome : the 
 chylde was abasshed and stode styll, and spake no worde, and lok- 
 ed as pale as asshes for fcare, and began to trymble." 
 
 Froissart, Cap. xxvi. 
 
 Note 23. Page 32, line 8. 
 
 The animal 
 From mine own hand received the fatal test 
 And in convulsions died. 
 " The erle of Foiz opyned the purse and tooke of the ponder, 
 and layde it on a trencheur of breddc, and called to him a dogge 
 and gave it hym to eate ; and as soone as the dogge had eaten 
 the first morsoll, he turned his cyen in his heed and dyd incon- 
 tinent" Id. 
 
 Note 24. Page 33, line 2. 
 
 He was told 
 (He says) there lay a secret charm within it. . 
 *' Than the kyng sayd, Gascone, fayre nephue, ye shall do, as 
 I shall shewe to you; ye se howe the erle of Foiz, your father, 
 wrongfully hath your mother, my suster, m gret hate, whereof [
 
 100 
 
 am sore dyspleased, and so ought ye to be; howbeit, to performe 
 all the mater, and that your father shulde lone agayne your mo- 
 ther, to that entent ye shall take a lytell of this pouder, and put it 
 on some meat that your father mayeaieit, but beware that no 
 man se you, and as soone as he hath eaten it, he shall entende to 
 nothyngc but to have agayne his wife, and so to loue her ever 
 after."— Id. 
 
 Note 25. Page 34, line 5. 
 And win the soldier. 
 Soldier, is for Soldiers : this is common phraseology in the old 
 age of the drama. Thus, 
 
 " I know the Soldier loves him, more tlian heaven." 
 
 Valentinian, A. 4. S. 1. 
 Again, Cartwright, in the Ordinary, 
 "The Soldier, then, 
 " May be thus ranked." A. 2. S. 1. 
 
 Note 26. Page 39, line 30. 
 Imped bjf that magic may. 
 " To impc is a term most usual among falconers ; and is, when 
 a feather in a hawkes wing is broken, and another piece imped or 
 grafted on the stump of the old." — " The word to imp is borrowed 
 by the English ; first, surely, to graft trees, and thence translated 
 to tmpm^r feathers.'" — ^Xount's Ancient Tenures. 1679. 
 
 To imp, by a metaphor, signifies so assist, to help. So, in a very 
 beautiful passage, of Tomkis's " Albnmazar." A. 2. S. 6. No- 
 ticed also by Mr. Gifford in a note to his excellent edition of 
 Massenger : 
 
 *• How slow the day slides on ! — when we desire 
 " Time's haste, it seems to lose a match with lobsters ; 
 " And, when we wish him stay, he imps hi» wings 
 " With feathers plumed with thought."
 
 101 
 
 NoTK ?7. I'a.2(? tl, liiip S. 
 Would that I hud no speech, no tongue^ no heart — 
 NofacuUi/! — Would heaven, that I tvere dead .' 
 When 1 wrote the passage to which this note refers, Heywood'e 
 Tragedy of A Woman Killed with Kindness had not come un- 
 der my observation. Tliere is, however, a coincidence of rather a 
 singular nature. Frankford, after the discovery of liis wife's infi- 
 dehty, in a conversation that ensues, asks 
 
 ♦' Wliat would'st thou speak? 
 Mrs. Frankford, " / would I had no tongue, 710 cars, no tyes, 
 *' No apprehension, no capacitt/," 
 
 Note 28. Page 46, line 20. 
 
 Some score of monasteries 
 Built and endowed, again brings all things even. 
 In the year 1514 an infamous pubhcation issued from the press 
 at Rome, under the title of " The Roman Chancery Taxes."* It 
 contains the j)j7ce of absolution for almost every horrible crime; 
 and is perhaps the most iniquitous work, that ever received the 
 sanction of the Papal Chair. The murder of a father, a mother, 
 sister, or wife, is there said to be sufficiently expiated by a trifling 
 sum of money ; viz. 5 or 7 grosf ; and further, that there is " Ab- 
 solutio a lapsu carnis super quocunque actu libidiuoso commisso 
 intra et extra septa monasterii; aut cum consanguineis vel affini-. 
 bus, aut fili;\spirituali, aut quibusdam aliis, sive ab unocjuociue, sive 
 
 * The Latin title of the Ed. of 1514 and 1315 — the one published at 
 Rome, and the other at Cologne, runs thus. " Reguiae, constitutiones, 
 reservationes canceliarii, S. Domini nostri Leonis papte decimi, noviter 
 editae et publicatae." And another edition in folio, 67 concludes with, 
 "Jiniuntfeliciter." Baylc. 
 
 •f 24 gros, make a ducat, which is worth from about 40J. to COd ^ 
 sterling.
 
 102 
 
 perse, sive simul ab omnibus absolutio petatur cum dispensatioiie 
 ad ordines et beneficia, cum inhibitione tur. 36. due. 3. — with 
 much more to the same effect. 
 
 Vide Bayle, artic. Banck. vol. 1. page 628. Ed. 1734. 
 
 Note 29- Page 46, line 23. 
 The old earl 's mewed up. 
 Mewed, i. e. shut up ; a term adopted from the sport of fal- 
 conry; a mew is the place in which hawks were confined. 
 " What trial is there of my honesty 
 " When I am viewed at home ? 
 
 The Spanish Curate. A. '2. S. 2. 
 
 Note 30. Page 6 1, line 3. 
 
 To think how little brain 
 Suffices for a woodcock. 
 
 It was commonly imagined that woodcocks were without brains. 
 A woodcock, therefore, is a silly fellow ; and hence the numberless 
 allusions to them, in old plays. So in Ford's Lovers Melancholy, 
 A. 2. S. 1. 
 
 Cuculus. " I think so; I hope the chronicles will rear me one 
 "day for a head-piece 
 
 Rhetias. " Oftvoodcock without brains in." 
 
 And in the Loyal Subject of Beaumont and Fletcher. A. 4. 
 S. 4. 
 
 " (tO, like a toondrnrk. 
 
 " And thrust your neck into the noose." 
 
 And these citations will be fully corroborated by the subjoined 
 extract. 
 
 " Among us in England, this bird is infamous for its simplicity 
 and folly; so that the woot/coc/c is proverbially used for a simple, 
 foolish person.'^ 
 
 Willoughby, Ornithology. Book 3, p. 390.
 
 Note 51. Page <JI, liiu; ly. 
 IVie dark foniif of soldiers in bnrgoiictu. 
 A hur'jonet it> a steel cap. So Ileywood, Four Prentices of 
 London. 
 
 " Proof cuirasses ami open bur(/oucts." 
 And in the Iron Age, of tlie same author — \Q3'i. 
 
 " I'll hammer on thy proof steeled burgontt." 
 So likewise in Henrt/ VI. 
 
 " This day I'll wear aloft my burgonet.'" 
 
 t 
 
 Note 32. Page Gl, line 26. 
 So I did— thy state. 
 State, in old authors, frequently denotes wealthor estate. So, in 
 Wit without Money, Valentine says 
 
 " Now to your business uncle, 
 Lovegood. " To your state tlien. 
 Valentine. " Tis gone, and I am glad on't." 
 
 A. 1. S. 1. 
 And again in Women Pleased, A. 1. S. 2. 
 
 " Whilst prodigal young gaudy fools arc banqueting, 
 *' And launching out their states." 
 
 Note .33. Page 70, line 22. 
 The reader will perceive, that I have, throughout the piece, given 
 to the character of Philippo, a greater degree of importance than 
 may seem altogether suited to it. But I had principally in my eye, 
 the stewards of old romance, who were cerlainly personages of 
 much higher note. Sir Bryant in Sir Bevis of Hatnptoxin, is as 
 well the steward, as the chief counsellor of the Eiiglisli king, 
 I'^dgar; and suffers for his imprudent advice, by a stroke which 
 Ihc hero, Hevis, 
 
 " Set upon his crown, 
 " Thai to (lie saddle he ilavr him do" n. "
 
 If the circiniistance of tlie cliaracter's impoitanrc appear incon- 
 sistent with the official appendages which I have given, and 
 which are indisputable marks of a much later date; I would observe 
 that, as an old and confidential servant in any age, he might rea- 
 sonably lay claim to that degree of eminence allotted him in the 
 
 (
 
 MOONLIGHT.
 
 The following slight Poem, though (lenoniinated a " Tale' has 
 scarcely any just claim to the title. It serves merely to connect 
 Moonlight recollections, and to give 
 
 " To airy nothing, 
 " A local habitation and a name."
 
 I.--- 
 
 MOONLIGHT, 
 
 ^ Calf, 
 
 " All heaven and earth are still — though not in elcep, 
 " But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
 " And silent, as we stand in tlioughts too deep : 
 
 " The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! oh ! night, 
 " And stonn, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong." 
 
 Childe II/uiOLDj Canto 3d. 
 
 I. ,.;,,:,;,- 
 
 The night is calm — a silvery moon 
 
 Rides tlirouiili a cloudless skv. 
 The voice of nature answers boon 
 
 To the heart's risino- sio-h : i , 
 
 And peace — the peace of heaven doth sceui 
 To float upon the lunar beam. 
 So light is every breeze around, 
 
 Moves not the smallest leaf; 
 So soft the ripj)ling- waters sound, •' 
 
 They sympathize with grief; 
 And feelings spring, whose bland control 
 Blesses the lorn and lucklrs.s soul ! 
 
 Vi.i j
 
 lOS MOONLIGHT. 
 
 11. 
 
 Thus mlg^bt we deem, if moons as bright. 
 
 As full of seeming peace as this. 
 Had not erevvhile bestowed their lisrht. 
 
 Nor turned one painful thought to bliss: 
 If from the past there did not rise 
 Delicious nights, and sunken eyes — 
 The priests of Pleasure's sacrifice! 
 
 IIT. 
 
 Alas! how many a tearful eye 
 Hath looked on heaven's serenity. 
 Hath gazed on nature's loveliest smile. 
 With sorrow-stricken heart the while ! 
 And they who, in the zephyr's breath. 
 
 And in the rippling current's beat. 
 
 Have owned emotions wild and sweet. 
 Have lived to taste of more than death. 
 
 When time had passed away; 
 The willow, then, for rapture's wreath* 
 
 The Cyprus, for the bay ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet love we to indulge the dream 
 Of fancy, 'neath the midnight beam; 
 And, with the heart's enchantment, blend 
 
 The verdant earth, and smiling skies — 
 And sonjewhat 'tis, when we can send 
 
 The excursive mind to those sweet eyes,
 
 MOONLIGHT. 1(» 
 
 Which laughed on us, so like the star ^ 
 
 Sparkling above us then ; 
 That now, thougli distance parts us far, 
 
 We see them there agen. 
 
 V. 
 
 But still — and these are hours that cling 
 
 More closely to time's changing- wing — 
 
 When by night's lighted torch mo trace. 
 
 On memory's page, the embittered place 
 Marked deeply with our tears; 
 
 And view the forms, we loved to view 
 
 (Blanched in their sorrow's baleful dew) . 
 Dispel the mist of years: 
 
 Oh! when we seem to see them start, 
 
 With swollen eye, and throbbing heart, 
 
 And seek, yet know not where to find 
 
 Relief for the afflicted mind — 
 How dark the hour appears ! 
 
 How dark! though, with their brightest shine, 
 
 Earth and the orbs of heaven combine 
 
 To shed upon man's weary way 
 
 Forgetfulness of joy's decay- 
 To mitigate his fears ! ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 And hard it is, with happy broAV, ; 
 
 To witness such a scene as now 
 
 Rises before me, and believe 
 
 That ought it «imiled upon could grieve I
 
 110 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 But 'tis not so ; the blithest scene 
 Swiftly recalls what once hath been; 
 Something- that frets the bosom's core — 
 
 Something- it loathes to touch ; 
 For thought on thought, that slept before, 
 Wake into sudden life, and pour 
 
 Remembrances of much 
 That speak of error, shame, and sin, 
 Which creep the human heart within. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I love to watch the Night, and well 
 I feel the influence of her spell ; 
 Yet ne'er returnino- even throws 
 
 Its radiancies abroad. 
 But to my heart poor Ellen's woes 
 
 They ceaselessly record : 
 They fling around a withering shade, 
 And soon those fairy visions fade, 
 By hope imbued with every die 
 (That Iris of man's clouded sky !) 
 
 Which youthful dreamers form ; 
 While disappointment spreads on high 
 
 The inevitable storm, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 On such a nig-ht as this — so mild — 
 
 So lovely, did we roam along 
 The ruined castle's court-way wild, 
 
 Where rose the night-bird's lonely song : 
 
 I
 
 MOONLIGHT. Ill 
 
 The river poured a murmuring tone, 
 The moon-lig-ht ting-ed the ivied stone; 
 From darksome towers the bodinof scream 
 Of owlet died a-down the stream, 
 And echo, answering from the wave, 
 A sullen sound of hoarseness o-ave: 
 Then all was silent, and the world 
 
 Slumbered on nature's breast, 
 As if, within her temple furled. 
 
 War's crimsoned banners rest. 
 It was a night that breatlied upon - 
 
 The heart like breath of life; — 
 And lives there in creation one, 
 
 Who thus could cherish strife ? 
 Cast him, if any such there be, 
 Where gendereth deathless enmity. 
 Where love is known not, where the name 
 
 Of all tliat 's dear to man, 
 May grow for him, a scathing flame — 
 
 A deep, eternal ban ! 
 Oh ! hours like these, whate'er beside 
 
 Ye feel, are not for hate ; 
 Tenderness should extinguish pride, 
 
 And gentler thoughts create. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Oft Ellen glanced her languid eye 
 
 O'er heaven's fair studded canoj»y; 
 
 She spoke not, but her trembling frame ' 
 
 Imparted griefs she might not name ;
 
 112 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 And once I beard a shivering sigh, 
 And then her heart beat audibly — 
 
 Ah ! what could be her woe? 
 Her head sunk feebly on mine arm- 
 How exquisite is that alarm 
 
 We fear, yet long to know ! 
 She wept— full bitterly she wept. 
 And still that mournful silence kept ; 
 Her hand pressed on her quivering heart, 
 
 As to confine it there ; 
 Lest from the shrine the victim start. 
 
 In its last dark despair. 
 
 Vainly her tongue assayed to speak, 
 Her accents faultered— paled her cheek — 
 
 'Twas strange — my wonder grew : 
 « Ellen," I said—" dear Ellen, why"— 
 I paused, she raised her streaming eye — 
 Oh ! what an eloquent reply 
 
 Burst from the softened blue! 
 As stars, reflected in the stream, 
 With mellowed radiance chastely gleam ; 
 So, excellently beaming through, 
 Her bright eyes glistened in their dew; 
 And, as the gazer sees impressed 
 Heaven's image on the water's breast ; 
 So, in that look, the weeping maid 
 Both heaven and earth at once displayed —
 
 MOONLIGHT. H3 
 
 Heaven, in Uie soul tlmt gave it birth, 
 And sliatloweil l»y some stains of earth — 
 Some frailties, but too closely tied 
 To her — to all the world beside ! 
 
 XL 
 
 Whether the hour, to thought inclined, ..,, •. 
 
 Had aironized her feebno- mind, 
 
 By recollection chained 
 To former times of good and ill — 
 To sorrow, which, without the will. 
 Comes driving onward — onward still. 
 
 And may not be restrained ; 
 Or happiness, which flies when sweetest. 
 When loved the most, alas! the fleetest — i , ■ , 
 
 Lost, ere 'tis wholly gained — 
 I knew not then; and though there seemed 
 Somewhat of mystery, I deemed 
 It was not of that sad concern 
 AVhich since 1 learned — and wept to learn ! 
 
 >t • ■ 
 
 xn. 
 
 Dear, hapless girl ! how sadly fell 
 Upon my soul thy last farewell ! ,. . 
 
 How piteously came that look, 
 
 That parting look, which seemed to be 
 Too truly the prophetic book 
 
 Of thine accomplished destiny. 
 The characters were fair to trace 
 Of sufl'ering oTi thy beauteous face; 
 
 I
 
 114 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 And, in lliy haiurs convulsive clasp^ 
 
 Tlie dullest soul might read, 
 With what an unrelenting- grasp 
 
 The bolts of sorrow speed! 
 Had'st thou but said, where lay the dart,^ 
 
 Haply thou mig-ht'st have found 
 Some balm to soothe thine aching heart. 
 
 And staunch the bleeding- wound : 
 But hid from all — from all but one. 
 
 And he the arousino- flame — 
 Thy dream of life — thy race was run. 
 
 Ere needful succour came. 
 
 xin. 
 
 Peace to thine ashes I it hath been 
 
 At times, when memory's treasured though «: 
 Returned again that moonlight scene, 
 
 That evening, with affliction fraught. 
 It seemed as if thou would'st have made 
 Thy sorrows known^ — as if afraid. 
 As shrinking from communion free. 
 
 Though with thy friend, the sex's shamej 
 Forgetting grief's admitted plea. 
 
 Refused its inward thought to name : 
 And hence the struggle, hence the tears. 
 The bitterness of hidden fears; 
 The war of feeling, and the strife, 
 The intensity of passion's life!
 
 MOONLIGHT. 115 
 
 ' . J 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And then, how terribly came on 
 
 The tempest's savage glare — 
 Though from my mind all else were gone 
 
 That still would linger there! 
 The gathering cloud of swarthy hue, ' 
 
 That broke but as the lightning flew; '■ ' 
 
 The deep and loud and solemn roll 
 Of thunder — Oh ! it shook the soul ; 
 And if ye e'er were used to fear, • i 
 
 Ye must — 'twere meet to tremble here ! 
 The round large drops of heated rain. 
 Ere yet the tempest burst amain, 
 Were warninjrs — like the tears that start 
 Prelusive to some breaking heart — 
 
 Of terror just behind: 
 And then the pause, the dreary pause, 
 Whose maddening expectation draws " . 
 
 The arrow of the mind, ' 
 
 And plants it deeper, deadlier still. 
 Than e'en when falls the threatened ill! — 
 
 . XV. 
 
 Yes — 'tis an awful moment where 
 The tempest broods in upper air. 
 At that calm time of night when gleams 
 The silver moon's resplendent beams 
 On tree, and tower, and winding streams; 
 
 i2 

 
 \\G MOOXLIGHr. 
 
 When to the fair neslected flower 
 
 8he yields a glittering crown of light — 
 Sudden to mark the evening lower, 
 
 And night obscured by denser night ; 
 To see, with apprehensive glance. 
 Slowly the dark blue cloud advance, 
 And all we felt, and all we feel 
 Lost in the thunder's rattling peal :— 
 Yes— this is pain ; and if there be 
 A fearful pleasure — not for me, 
 With feelings wrouoht as mine were wrousht. 
 
 Be such a pleasure given : 
 It is enough it comes unsought. 
 
 Type of the wrath of Heaven ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Clung to my arm the trembling dove, 
 Whose spirit seemed about to fly 
 
 To the pure spheres of bliss above,^ 
 And shun the deathly danger nigh : 
 
 " Preserve us Heaven!"— the whispering word 
 
 At lengthened intervals I heard; 
 
 Then felt my arm her loosened grasp, 
 
 While her small hands the ivy clasp ; 
 
 And, pressing to the moistened leaf, 
 
 She looked some picture in relief 
 
 Of wild amazement, fear, and grief 
 
 I strove to comfort— bade her be 
 
 Persuaded of security —
 
 MOONLIGHT. 117 
 
 That anxiousiiess miii'Iit cease : — ■ ^' 
 
 » 
 
 But quick, and (juicker liglitnings flasli ; ♦ 
 
 Loud, and more loud the tliutuler's crash 
 Mixed with the roaring- torrent's dash— 
 
 'Twas vain to talk of peace ! 
 We stood, to 'scape the tempest's sweep, 
 Beneath a ruined donjon keep ; "' ' :n/ 
 
 Where erst had many a wretch implored ' ■ 
 
 The mercy of the slaughtering sword, ' ■-■ 
 
 Condemned to pine life's hour away, 
 Lonely and sad, the mournful prey " " 
 
 Of his own thoughts; and who shall say 
 How blessed he hailed his dying- day! 
 13ut now the iron guard hath fled, i' > 
 
 Injured and injurer, both arc dead ; . . ' . ' 
 
 Ruined the labors Fancy framed /I'i ]. 
 
 Eternal — and eternal named ; 
 Through the wide portal unconfined 
 Passes along the wintry wind ; 
 And softly blows the sunuuer's breath, 
 Through space that once admitted death ! '^ 
 
 XVIL ;„ 
 
 Such are changes, time surveys — ' • - 
 
 What shall be next?— Ah! he who weighs 
 
 Jvife's moment right, forgets what scene, 
 
 What turns of fortune intervene; 
 
 Forward he presses fo the goal • . < ■■ 
 
 Fit niaik for an immortal soul — ' •
 
 118 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Hope wafts him on — Hope gilds the day. 
 Cheers to the last, his toilsome way ; 
 And yields in Time's expiring- sigh 
 Triumphal crowns of victory ! 
 
 XVHI. 
 
 Amid the storm — amid the jar, 
 
 The shock of elemental war, 
 
 This hope survived. — I said we stood 
 
 Beneath a ruined tower ; 
 Below, rushed on the sAvollen flood, 
 
 Above, the night winds scour: 
 Vividly still, across the expanse 
 Of Heaven, the forked lio-htninsfs fflance. 
 And with short pause, yet deep and strong. 
 Echoed the awful peal along! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Now veered the blast ; and now again 
 Met us in front the heavy rain : — 
 We turned, and where a narrow pass, 
 Thick overspread with tangled grass 
 And brambles, and an arching lime 
 
 Gave shelter, we withdrew: — 
 Great Heaven ! ere yet the wing of time 
 Sped forward on his flight sublime, 
 
 A fearful vengeance flew ; 
 Full on the donjon keep there came, 
 A living- mass of sulphurous flame.
 
 i\lOONLl(JHT. ill) 
 
 And witli stupendous bound, 
 The accumulated weight of years 
 Shivered in atoms, downward hears, 
 And crashing-, crumbling, widely tears 
 
 The desolated ground. 
 
 XX. 
 
 'Twas there— blest Providence ! — "twas there, 
 
 Even in the very spot we stood ; 
 And but for His preserving care 
 
 Stained were the earth with human blood! 
 Oh ! for the friend — if we mijiht claim 
 But the least part of friendship's name — 
 Who viewed the crushed and mano-lod limbs • 
 
 Of those he used to greet ; 
 Perchance his eye the tear-drop dims, , • .; 
 
 IJis heart may quicker beat! . . i 
 
 How fondly, when this life is o'er, 
 
 Its treasure idly spent, 
 Dream we that for the lavished store 
 
 There be, who will lament ! 
 How love we to believe the grave 
 
 Excludes not every sigh; 
 That Howers more freshly o'er us wave, 
 
 Wet from afl'ection's eye! ,; . 
 
 And 'tis a thought that well may bless 
 Heath's conquering hour of bitterness ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Poor Ellen, as the danger past, .j . • 
 
 A grateful, glowing look up-ca>f; : f...- 
 
 'A 
 
 u-
 
 120 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Clasped were her hands, the murmuring prayer 
 
 Rose on the stilled and tranquil air, 
 
 For now the dark clouds swept away, 
 
 And brighter flashed fair Cynthia's ray; 
 
 As if in pity to impart 
 
 Light to the sick and troubled heart ! 
 
 And seemed ii, as in that dread burst 
 
 The Spirit which the storm had nurst, 
 
 In its last agony had driven 
 
 A bolt that shook the stedfast heaven, 
 
 And, ere annihilation came, 
 
 Poured out its soul in blasting- flame — 
 
 So strong', so terrible the power 
 
 That fell upon that ruined tower: 
 
 And then the moon-beam re-appearing, 
 
 Like love, amid a world of woe, 
 Strengthened the heart, the spirit cheering. 
 
 While desolation stalked below! 
 Serenely shone that blessed light — 
 And still of this eventful night 
 (Come hours of splendor, hours of blight,) 
 
 The deepening thoughts return ; 
 And Memory, as she springs aloft, 
 Retards Time's hurrying flight, and oft 
 
 Visits the mouldering- urn, 
 Where rest within their peaceful bed 
 The ashes of the honored dead ! 
 
 XXI L 
 
 For she, the subject of my lay, 
 Withered ; and ere a distant day,
 
 iMOONl.IGHT. 121 
 
 As wakened from refreshing sleep 
 
 Hastens the g-iant sun to keep 
 
 His glorious path, the golden light 
 
 Streamed upon eyes that set in night! 
 
 The summer breezes lightly flew, 
 Descended healing drops of dew — ■ 
 
 But fate pronounced her doom: 
 That moon, that had beheld her glow 
 Bright as herself, and chaste as snow; 
 That storm-wrapped Heaven, whose darkened eye 
 Clanced fire, as though in rivalry, 
 Now play upon her tomb; 
 
 And beauty, youth, and love are gone, 
 
 But reckless nature laughcth on! 
 
 > I ■ 
 
 XXHI. 
 
 Seek ye the bitter cause to know 
 
 Of jrrief'tt corrodinu: smart? 
 The muse, shall bid the numbers flovr 
 Responsive to the note of woe, r 
 
 And haply soothe the heart : 
 And, Albion's bards! who whilome sung, ! , ; . 
 Your music dwell upon the tongue; •: 
 
 Your spirit Meave the syren spell, • :, i 
 
 And strike the lyre, ye loved so well! . 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The hours of childhood fleetly pass. 
 Scarce breathes ihc dew on life's fair glass,
 
 122 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Ere forms of wretcliediiess and pain 
 The darkened mirror sadly stain — 
 One moment there reflection brings 
 Tlie hues of death, the bosom's stings, 
 Then, ere the anxious eye may pause, 
 
 Time moves with stealthy pace. 
 And o'er the imaged feature draws 
 
 Oblivion's deepest trace! — 
 Thus, Ellen! thus, thy part hath been 
 On life's perturbed and mortal scene, 
 And, save within some faithful breasts. 
 Dark as the grave thy memory rests! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 No matter; they who know thee — they 
 Who felt thy virtues' gentle sway, 
 Though few, in sooth, with faith sincere 
 Have sorrowed o'er thy sable bier; 
 And though upon the lowly tomb 
 
 No scutcheons gleam, no banners flaunt; 
 Though one small flower, in summer blooia 
 
 Survives, thy lonely visitant: — 
 Yet brighter than the proud array 
 
 That glitters o'er the great. 
 The solitary tear shall say 
 
 We loved, we mourn thy fate; 
 Thy monument our bosoms bear 
 And kindly thoughts are springing there.
 
 [ 
 
 MOONLIGHT. 123 
 
 XXVI. ■,-.•;•. 
 
 But pass we to the hour that bid 
 The light dawn on her opening- lid, 
 And gave the gladsome world a wild, 
 A wilful, but a lovely child. 
 Sole daughter of her house, how gay > 
 
 Rolled infancy's fair scenes away! ' ^' ^ :. l 
 
 How dear, to heart of parent proud, • '-' •= " 
 
 She clapped her little hands and crowed, 
 Exultino- in the healthful tide 
 
 Of buoyant life, so newly tried! r;^ ■ '^J 
 
 The niornino- heard her lauoh — the niij-ht ' vJ' 
 
 Rose on her look of pure delight; 
 
 And if a tear were felt, the eye . - .i 
 
 Forgot it, ere the drop was dry ! , ^ J '.' -t 
 
 So passed her earliest life among . - . ' 
 
 A kind, but rude and gamesome throii"'; -■ ''■■'■ v 
 
 Boys her associates — for they were . ■■ - 
 
 Fraternal spells that bound; ' ■ n. ir • 
 
 Like holy Iamj)s, diffusing there • ' ;• . u-* 
 
 A quiet radiance rouml! ' > • '' 
 
 And she was now that favored thing, 
 
 Whom thought refused to arraign — : 'i','^^ 
 
 Whose heart's least formed imagining ;; ',,:', 
 
 Was never breathed in vain! ;; . ' 
 
 XXVIL 
 
 Time glided by; the child became 
 
 The accomplished Moman, with the same •
 
 124 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Affectioiiatc eudeanucnts given, 
 The same bright laughing look of hearen : 
 And how, indulged in every whim, 
 Could the blue eye its lustre dim? 
 With not a wish ungratified, 
 
 How could she smiles refrain, 
 The world itself— that world untried, 
 
 Where vice and misery reign? 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Her soul, the seat of youthful hope, 
 To feeling gave the wildest scope ; 
 And never throbbed a heart more warm, 
 Lodged in a frail and earthly form- 
 But unrepressed, or uncontrolled. 
 Onward the flood of passion rolled, 
 And impulses of doubtful birth 
 Mingled allay with matchless worth: 
 Pride had its power, and anger lent 
 The eye a fire that nature meant 
 To express whate'er was excellent! 
 Yet this soon died : the obscuring shade 
 Appeared, but light impression made; 
 Like storms, that dark the brightest day, 
 It had its hour, and passed away. 
 Still, ere amid the world she shone. 
 Her errors slept, her heart unknown; 
 Like fiery sparks (hat evening shows, 
 Unnoticed when tiie day arose!
 
 MOONLIGHT. « 
 
 Early she learnt the wayward will, 
 
 And drank the draug^Iit that flattery gave — 
 
 Oh ! softly flows that pleasant rill, 
 
 Grateful its taste, and bright its wave ; 
 
 But oh! how like that fount of ilM 
 
 Where magic voices, muttering- shrill. 
 Transformed whate'er its waters lave! 
 
 XXIX. , - 
 
 Nurtured among the hardier race, i 
 
 Perhaps her mind assumed a tono 
 Which after times mio-ht not cftace — 
 
 Soothly she clung to that alone. 
 Through her brief life's embittered span 
 Her friendships she partook with man. 
 And though refined as woman may, 
 From her own sex she shrunk away! 
 To love of admiration prone, 
 Perhaps they spoke her faults alone, 
 And censured in too harsh a tone; 
 Perhaps they struck the envious blow, 
 Which joys to bring- a rival low: 
 Or in disgust she turned aside 
 At faith profaned, and injured pride! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 This as it may — Though looks, that bless 
 With all the warmth of gentleness, 
 Were liers; though modest frankness hid 
 A powerful charm in all she did;
 
 126 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Though unaftected kindness broke, 
 And shone in every >vord she spoke; 
 Yet true it is, she shunned a near 
 
 Communion with her kind ; 
 And sought, but scantly found it here, 
 
 Union of mind to mind. 
 Hence when her evil days came nigh, 
 None was there to relieve the sigh; 
 None to advise, to soothe, to still 
 Pangs of inevitable ill; 
 For those to whom she might have turned 
 Strangely her wayward bosom spurned; 
 And in her *• heart of hearts" concealed. 
 
 While added griefs impend, 
 Woman's sweet shame her bosom sealed 
 
 To him, she felt her friend! 
 They too, whose ill-judged kindness threw 
 O'er morning's tint a shadowy hue, 
 Her parents died, and one by one 
 
 Her brothers filled the tomb; 
 Oh! how the heart, whose ties are gone. 
 
 Wraps it in cherished gloom! 
 Sadly that young enthusiast wepl; 
 And thought on thought confus'dly swept 
 
 In maddening* course along — 
 Reason stood shaken on her throne. 
 And she so lovely, and so lone, 
 
 Moved throuoh the world's rank throno' 
 Who viewed with cold and tearless look 
 Beauty obscured, and Reason shook!
 
 MOONLIGHT. - 127 
 
 xxxr. 
 
 Not long- remained she tlius; but neVn* 
 
 The \ur\it of laugliing eyes returned ; 
 And oft hatii burst the heart-wrenched tear 
 When, wendino- iu its brioht career, 7 
 
 O'er her the lamp of evening- burned: — . : \ 'J 
 'Twas such a season that she passed ! . ' . 
 
 With one loved brother— 'twas his last! . - : ./. 
 
 ■ XXXIl. ' .. '.'] ,^, " 
 
 She was much chang-ed — each ireful thouo-ht 
 
 Fled to the grave of those who died; 
 And gone was every feeling fraught 
 
 With darker stains of human pride. J 
 
 Yet still, she sought not to repose 
 On female love her joys and woes: 
 Still 'twas rejected, though not now 
 Beheld with half contemptuous brow, 
 Or marked ingratitude; in sooth ! . 
 
 No thankless min<l she bore — ,. ;/ 
 
 Truth she repaid with answering truth; 
 
 But there her part was o'er! 
 Her froward soul she failed to move, 
 She placed no hope on Avoman's love— 
 
 And man's was disallowed: 
 So stood she in this world of ill 
 Beautiful, followed, flattered; still 
 
 Alone, amid the crowd ' 
 
 , <
 
 128 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Oh ! if there be a human throe 
 More deathly than all other woe; 
 It is, where lives a single heart, 
 
 Of each impassioned feeling full, 
 With none to whom it may impart 
 
 The hopes that bless, the fears that dull; 
 And wearily the world must roam, 
 A stranger in its native home ; 
 No other grave it need to have — 
 It bears about a living grave! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Thus sad was Ellen's life, Avhen love 
 
 Came o'er her, in unhappy hour; 
 Yet to her eye it seemed the dove 
 
 Of peace, that blessed her lonely bower; 
 Welcomed it was with joy ; caressed 
 And treasured in her anxious breast, 
 With all that warm affection stirs 
 To phrensy in a mind like hers! 
 Imprudent girl! with thoughtless haste 
 That fervidness of love was placed ; 
 
 For he who fixed it there- 
 He who had raised the hope of bliss, 
 Who dragged her down the precipice. 
 
 Laughed on her heart's despair!
 
 MOONLIGHT. 129 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 I list not to bewray the force 
 
 Of that life-cheering dream ; 
 I speak not of the secret course 
 
 Of Love's beguiling stream: 
 I tell not of the agony '• - 
 
 That tore her heart, and filled her eye; - 
 The sleepless night, the morning fraught 
 With fearfully protracted thought ; 
 The lonesome hour's distempered mood, 
 At war with courted solitude ; 
 The fevered fancy's restless maze, — ; ' 
 The cherished hope of happy days 
 
 For ever — ever g-one ! 
 I pass them all: it skills not here '• ' 
 To note the quick advance of fear, ' 
 Or paint the unresisted tear — 
 
 I gladly hasten on; ' ' ' 
 
 Sorrow hath hours enough, and ye ' 
 
 Need not dilated misery. ' 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 He whom she loved, who long iiad given 
 The star that decked her clouded heaven, 
 Rv which she steered her venturous bark 
 Through wintry seas and billows dark; 
 That single star, that glittered through 
 The blackest storms of life, 
 
 K 
 
 'f 
 
 
 / ',
 
 130 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 That blessed ray, departed too— 
 Oh! chilly then the wild winds blew. 
 
 And loud the ocean's strife! 
 Yes, as she deemed the moment near, 
 
 When brighter still that star should rise, 
 And clouds and darkness disappear — 
 
 It vanished from her watchful eyes! 
 For rumors came, low muttering round, 
 And tongues officious spread the sound 
 
 Of secret marriage solemnized; 
 And quick, the startled maiden caught,— 
 Quick as the light, the desperate thought 
 
 Of death to all her bosom prized! 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 It was too true:— Tn earlier life, 
 
 When Prudence was with Love at strife. 
 
 When Passion proved the faithless guide 
 
 That haled him on, mid Pleasure's tide, 
 
 The sparkling lure that Beauty sent 
 
 Was all his soul's bewilderment; 
 
 Reason forsook, he rushed along. 
 
 Delighted with her magic song, 
 
 And soon, infatuation rife. 
 
 The mistress held the name of wife; 
 
 But, bound in loathsome chain of vice, 
 
 Abhorred, the purchase— dread, the price. 
 
 ISor long did the delusion last. 
 
 Away the loosened robe was cast ;
 
 iVIOOX LIGHT. 131 
 
 And then rej)entance — then distrust 
 Followed; suspicion conquered trust; 
 And, ere one moon had onward sped, 
 Afar, o'er other lands he fled — 
 And Fame entombed him with the dead. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 He named him now another name; 
 
 Few asked — none knew from whence he came. 
 
 Polished his manners; and refined 
 
 And powerful was his tone of mind: 
 
 So, soug'ht by all — by all approved, 
 
 And by one heart too dearly loved, 
 
 Rolled on the threatful hour ; 
 Then fell the bolt — and she who first 
 The treacherous fire so madly nurst, 
 Sunk 'neath that storm's tremendous burst, 
 
 A scorched and withered flower! 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 The voice of friendship calls aloud — 
 
 Alas! she fills the funeral shroud: 
 
 Love lifts a weeping eye to trace 
 
 The smiles of her impassioned face — 
 
 Alas ! the tomb is beauty's blot, 
 
 And Love and Friendship find her not! 
 
 Oh ! say not so— of ours a part, 
 
 Still lives that warm, that Broken Heart! 
 
 k2
 
 THK 
 
 FALSE ONE; 
 
 A TRAGIC TALE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 In €f)r tt ifrantos*
 
 " A tale, forsooth!— he Cometh unlo you with a tale; which 
 holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney- 
 corner." 
 
 Sir p. Sydney.
 
 ■>■ i. 
 
 f .J 
 
 "!(}:;;•• ■'. : , .> 
 
 THE foundation of the succeeding* poem may be 
 seen in Holinshed. It was, at one time, my intention 
 to put it into the shape of a drama, conceiving it 
 highly susceptible of dramatic effect. But I already 
 tremble at the boldness of my first attempt; and, 
 with good reason probably, am afraid to pursue the 
 course I have too venturously begun. Ilowbeit, I 
 leave this to those whom it may concern : if they pos- 
 sess good nature enough, they will easily find some 
 excuse for my temerity; — if thoy do not, nothing lean 
 say will impart if. 
 
 My disposition to dramatize, it will be observed, 
 has led me to throw more of the tale into dialoirue, 
 than is usual with productions of the kind. If it an- 
 swer my intent — that, namely, of bringing the actors 
 more immediately before the intellectual eye of the 
 reader, I shall be o-lad: and if in some instances it 
 seem to spin out the narrative to too groat a length;
 
 136 
 
 in others^ I trust, it will be found to prevent mono- 
 tony, and increase the interest of the piece. Houn- 
 SHED is uniformly prolix; and his relation of the 
 story contains nearly four folio pages : all that I have 
 taken from him, is comprehended, I believe, in one 
 or two short paragraphs, inserted in the notes ; and 
 which struck me on the first perusal as being un- 
 commonly fine. I hope I have not marred it in the 
 detail ; and that the decision of the reader will sup- 
 port my judgment.
 
 ; i- 
 
 Ml 
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 Canto tf)c ^iv&U 
 
 •' Like winter rose, and summer ice, 
 
 " Her joys are still untimely ; 
 " Before her, hope— behind, remorse ; 
 
 " Fair first, in fine unseemly." 
 
 Robert Southwill, Ed. 1590. 
 
 " Ave Maria ! 'tis a niijht of" fear ! 
 
 " Hark! how tlie wind sweeps liollowly among' 
 
 •' The branches of the forest! 'Tis as if 
 
 " It sighed upon the raven's morning- meal, 
 
 " O'er murder wrought at midnight ! Our wise host 
 
 " Of the Fleur dc Lh^ predicted so much for us! 
 
 '» Better have quafte<l till day his Slierris-sack * 
 
 '* Than thus to be bewiUlered: 'twas ill done ' 
 
 " To venture from our Iiostelry. A«lvisp, 
 
 «' Whither may we direct US'?— " ' ''
 
 138 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 Questioned thus, 
 In hoarse low tone— as from a sepulchre 
 A spirit might have muttered— Bertrand spoke. 
 « What reck 1? 'tis not the first hour I've couched 
 « Beneath the greenwood tree, and slept as sound, 
 " As heedless of the battling elements 
 " As of the rustling leaf. Belike tliou dream'st 
 « Of plunder? or, mayhap, of murderous deed 
 " Done in the deep of night? or goblin seen 
 " By the quick meteor, or the lightning flcish, 
 " To ride upon the storm; and like an ape 
 " Mowing at our disaster, pelt us on?— 
 *' What are thy terrors, honest Edwin? What 
 " Alarms thy fast integrity of soul ?" 
 
 His comrade answered not ; or if there came 
 A murmur from the lip, 'twas lost amid 
 The bellowing thunder. From his coal black steed 
 Leapt Bertrand to the earth. His armour rang, 
 And tke sheathed falchion clashed upon his thigh. 
 
 'Twas strano-e, between these midnight wanderers 
 How great the dissimilitude! The one, 
 Tall and broad-shouldered, with an eye of flame. 
 And heart like very Etna! Sallow his cheek. 
 Save Avhen the lava-flood of passion poured 
 A desolating redness; long coarse locks 
 Of raven hair spread downward; and his beard, 
 Jao-o-ed and short, curled round the tapering chin. 
 His look was a torpedo, numbing all 
 The heart's expanding feelings.— But the other 
 Was fair as light — most femininely fair.
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 139 
 
 His young limbs delicatelj' fashioned, yet 
 
 M ell knit, and promising" a warlike soul : 
 
 It answered not the promise; all within 
 
 Was vanity and fearfulness. The first 
 
 Leading on peril, from which turned the last 
 
 With a base craven's shudder. As a rose 
 
 His cheek bloomed beauteously, when nought of dread 
 
 Spread the wild lily over it: his eye 
 
 Shone like an animated gem, but full, 
 
 Where'er it glanced, of that licentious gaze 
 
 Which droops the lid of female modesty. — 
 
 For ever branded be the dastard wretch 
 
 Who puts the breast of innocence to shame; 
 
 And calls the Avarm blood to the tingling cheek 
 
 Of maiden honor— be he shunned for ave ! 
 
 They cast them from their steeds, beside an ohl 
 And withered oak, that flung its leafless boughs 
 To heaven, as supplicating the return 
 Of its past beauty and forgotten pride. 
 The trunk was hollowed, or by art, or time, 
 And there they skreened them from the tempest, while 
 They communed with their hearts. Had peace her home. 
 Had conscious rectitude a harbour there? 
 Alas! Vice held her revels — Vice in all ' 
 
 Her loathsome shapes claimed undisputed power ! 
 A bloody coronal enwreathed her brow, 
 Mino-led with tears of innocence boouiled — 
 Of broken hearts, and daggers drenched in gore ! 
 
 So, by that ancient oak, in moudy thought. 
 Sat Bertrand and young E«lwiii. It was like
 
 140 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 A thing thine eye hath scanned : a poison-flower 
 Of beautiful colors, springing by a grave 
 Of rank mortality— even such were they! 
 
 The sterner form seemed brooding on the strife 
 Of hostile fields; blood-shot his scowling eye. 
 In constant scorn, curled the proud lip, and on 
 His gauntletted left hand he rested him; the right 
 Mechanically poized an ashen lance. 
 The moon rose in her majesty ; ye had seen 
 A solemn sight, when her pale splendor streamed 
 Through Autumn's withered foliage, and on him 
 Shed an unearthly brightness :— then he smiled, 
 But 'twas a smile of ghastliness ; as if 
 It were the herald of Revenge ; the flash 
 That showed the consummation of a wrath 
 Implacable as death. 
 
 His fellow near 
 Slept not, though feigning sleep: his cautious eye, 
 Unclosed at intervals, in eager quest 
 Of that it would not; and his aching ear 
 Cauohtat the oentlest motion of the blast 
 Passing upon its way. The courser's tread, 
 As of advancing footsteps, startled him; 
 And the bio- sweat-drop, like a heart-wrenched tear, 
 Fell on his quivering bosom. Beads he told; 
 And grasped an amulet of wondrous power 
 O'er night-disturbing hags, and sprites unblessed 
 That rove in that wild season— but in vain! 
 
 There was a spirit in his heart, which not 
 The consecrated relic could destroy:
 
 THE FALSE OXE. 141 
 
 It mocks at incantations— it defies 
 
 The potentest magician that e'er charmed 
 
 By wizzard spells, the mighty prince of Air ! - 
 
 That spirit Avas his Conscience ; for he felt 
 
 It still was quick within him; still he felt 
 
 The goading pang that slumbers not, nor sleeps. 
 
 Mentally came before him, days gone by; 
 
 Hours not to be recalled — and innocence 
 
 Lost, when young life put forth its choicest flower. 
 
 There was a vision met his eye — perchance 
 
 In sleep, when nature was exhausted — but 
 
 There stood, inclining- over him, a form, ' ' ' 
 
 The shape of on(! whom he remembered. 'T«as ' 
 
 In feature as a woman; [)ale, but lovely 
 
 E'en in her very paleness. On her arm 
 
 She held anew-born babe! the infant wept 
 
 And struggled to be free, but could not— for 
 
 The female pressed her finger on its throat. 
 
 And its faint cry waxed fainter. Then it seemed 
 
 Gasping for breath; and then a livid stain ' -^ 
 
 Told that the pang was past. The cruel one 
 
 Gazed on the child, and in her countenance , •' 
 
 Despair and madness left their scathing trace. 
 
 The dead was in her arms — she bent, and placed 
 
 The lifeless corse upon the living heart 
 
 Binning beneath her; deathly cold it fell, 
 
 And heavy — like a monumental load .» 
 
 Up-piled upon him. One deep groan went forth, 
 
 A groan nnuKerably wild, as on ., 
 
 The earth he writhed ; and screaming fearfully
 
 142 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 The name of — "Julia!" — strove to grasp — but there 
 Was naught beside his touch, save forest-trees — 
 Naught human, save the associate of his way! 
 
 And laughed that man of darkness ; bitterly 
 The foul tannt passed, that stung him to the soul ; 
 Oft the tongue prompted a reply, but still 
 The faint heart failed him; so he turned, and stood 
 Caparisoning his courser. " Will the davrn, 
 " Come never?" he exclaimed impatiently. 
 " Yea," quoth the other, " ere thy courage break, 
 " The morrow will be on us — fear it not ; 
 " Else, by my fay, the night were all too long! 
 " Coward! go, wanton in thy lady's bower: — 
 *» Where tapers shine, and the light lute-string sounds 
 " Thy proper sphere is; not in purposes 
 *' That the day blushes to behold — though like 
 " Coy mortal maidens, she put wisely by 
 " Her modesty at eve. Thou trerablest, fool ! 
 " I hear the leaves shake to thy cowardice, 
 '' As if infected by it! Could'st thou not 
 " Keep thee at home? the winds of night respect, 
 " No more than I, thy silken furniture, 
 " Soft cheek, and delicate white hand. Go — go, 
 " They are no mistress for thee ! — Julia ! was't '? 
 " Thou might'st ere this have added to*t — Amelia : 
 « But that thy last night's sack outweighed thy love 
 « And caused us loiter, while De Frederick passed." 
 
 Edwin replied—" 'Twas not my will, thou kuow'st, 
 " To tarry on till midnight ; then, indeed, 
 ^* When storm and darkness covered heaven and us,
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 143 
 
 " I would have tarried, but thou sprang'st to horse; 
 « My mind foreboded ill!" 
 
 " When did it not 
 " Dostthink?— Had the slave guided us aright, 
 " All had been as it ought; his latest breath 
 ** Amelia's lord had breathed: nor matters it, 
 " The hour must come— it never 'scaped me yet! 
 " Fixed to its purpose, my high soul is, as 
 " The needle to the pole; but not like it, 
 " Or tliee — can tremble : — firmly set, it scorns 
 " To turn apostate, though the world turn with it! 
 " Away— thou keep'st thy promise? The reward—" 
 " Is thine, kind Bertrand!— oh! be satisfied; 
 " Would ye a pledge? Thou need'st but ask and have!" 
 " No, faith ! I need none other pledge than this — 
 " Tins, Edwin!"— As he spoke, his hand withdrew 
 Half from its scabbard, the bright blade; and then 
 Back to its rest he drove it, with a sound 
 That echoed gratingly in Edwin's ear, 
 And raised the involuntary shudder. He 
 In secret cursed him, but reply gave none. 
 Day dawned; and vaulting each upon his steed 
 They traced again the forest's wilderness; i 
 
 And ere the dew-drop left the chaliced flower, 
 Peered loftily above, the embattled dome 
 And Avave-washed mansion ofDe Frederick. — 
 
 Oh! 
 How sweetly morning's balminess comes o'er 
 The heart that is at rest! Hu|)piness is . : 
 
 lis inmate, and reflects upon the face
 
 144 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 A joy surpassing- beauty, — like the sun 
 
 Rising- serenely from a tranquil sea, 
 
 The solar radiancy is 'neath the wave, 
 
 But heaven is died with glory. Such is man — 
 
 Man unseduced to tread the paths of evil, 
 
 As yet unwarped by human vanities ! 
 
 And even to him, whom misery hath torn. 
 
 To whom the hopes of this world are not more 
 
 Than those fair beams, that touch the topmost watersr, 
 
 Short-lived and unsubstantial ; even to him. 
 
 If conscience be not an upbraider — there 
 
 Is peace; there riseth benutifully still 
 
 The morning's freshness, and the radiant heaven! 
 
 Clouds may flit o'er him, storms may blot the hour, 
 
 But on his heart the sun of righteousness 
 
 Gloriously shineth, and will shine for ever! 
 
 It was not so with those of whom I spake ; 
 They had no love for the magnificence 
 Of nature, spread around them and above: 
 Nor recked they of its Maker; they despised 
 His ordinances; worshipped at the shrine 
 Of the dark deity, themselves set up. 
 So they were given to an evil heart, 
 And followed their own lusts unshrinkingly. 
 
 On through the court they moved. A pilgrim there. 
 Of fourscore years and upward as it seemed, 
 Stood on the higher stepway. By his garb 
 A smiling urchin, aged enough to ken 
 His youth's protector, held. One fairy hand 
 Clasped a sniall portion of their daily meal,
 
 THE FALSE ONE: • 145 
 
 The boon of charity; and on his friend 
 
 He cast a wishful eye, importuning ' 
 
 Him, fondly to participate with all 
 
 The endearing arts that childhood could devise. 
 
 It was a lovely vision : and the man 
 
 Thanked with a warm, salt tear the little one ; 
 
 But gently turned aside its offering — till ' 
 
 Persistingly it followed him, and clung 
 
 Yet closer to his garment ; then he felt 
 
 It were a kind of cruelty to spurn 
 
 That gift of young" affection. So he took 
 
 The urchin in his arms; devoutly blessed» 
 
 With more than parent's blessing, its fond heart. 
 
 Laughed the fair child exultingly, and kissed 
 
 The old man's cheek, and clapped its hands for joy ! 
 
 Our fellow horsemen marked the thing; and if 
 They could have mourned o'er innocency gone, 
 Here might regret have risen — 'twas not so. 
 Envy, unmixed with penitence; rebuke. 
 And contumelious speech, the scofters dared 
 To fling on age, and unrepining want. 
 The child's eye sparkled, as the old man raised ' 
 
 His palsy-stricken hands to Heaven ; but not 
 As heretofore with joy — its tears flowed fast! 
 
 There is within the fearless, a contempt 
 Of Avrong, done purely for itself. Who feels H 
 
 Superior courage, wfistes it not on those 
 In whom is no resistance; save, perchance, 
 Prompted by wrathful ness, or by revenge— ' 
 
 Or some fierce working povver ! Not wantonly 
 
 L
 
 146 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 The strong- are cruel : 'tis the property 
 Of craven soiils^ that dare not wrong- for wrong- 
 That wishing- much, fear more; and dastardly 
 Wreak on the helpless their offence :— malign 
 Pour the full cup of passion on the wretch 
 More heartless than themselves, or whom the hand 
 Of Fortune hath less favored— such will do 
 Annoyance where they can, not where they would ! 
 As one who fiees the adder in its wrath, 
 Crushes the sting-less worm, that he may find 
 An impotent revenge, and trembling dream 
 Beneath him writhes the victim of his hate ! 
 
 So, with a mocking- gesture, and loud taunt, 
 Bertrand passed by the pilgrim and the child. 
 But as the other followed, all his soul 
 Teemed with malicious purpose. The old mail 
 Stood, even as ye have heard, still smiling througli 
 The tears that little one's caress had wrung; 
 His back borne by a pillar, verging on 
 The upper stepway. Gliding round, unseen 
 And as unweeted, Edwin — monstrous act! 
 Cast on the stone-slab of the court beneath 
 That way-worn wanderer, fourscore years and up- 
 ward ! 
 Bleeding and breathless on that spot he lay, 
 His white hairs streaming round him! Who that then 
 Inherited one kindly feeling-, or 
 Had but one spark of human fire within him, 
 Could have forborne to dash the savage spirit 
 (Dishonoring its fair abiding place!) from earth —
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 147 
 
 From mortal wickedness, to meet the arm 
 
 Of an immortal justice?— AVho had borne! 
 
 Even Bertrand's broAv urew darker, and the scorn 
 
 Of his proud lip rose up. — " Heaven! this is well ! — 
 
 « Whence comes the mighty warrior? Whence ap- 
 
 pears 
 « This soul of bravery— this doughty sir! 
 " Is 't not a marvel where such valour sprung? 
 " A gallant! — by my soul! a noble one, 
 " Meet for a lady's fancy : meet to be 
 " The guiding star of chivalry and love!" 
 
 Just as he said, uprose, with look severe, ' 
 
 The blood bespattered pilgrim ; he trod on 
 With slow, yet stern demeanour, and approached 
 That caitiff, coward villain. The support 
 Of many a Aveary step which he had traced, 
 Rested asrainst the column, where but now 
 Himself had rested. Eagerly he seized 
 The doomed avenger ; and at one home blow 
 Levelled him with the ground. Calmly then,hc turned. 
 And shaking his hoar locks, and rearing up 
 His tall form to its height, he stalked away. ' 
 
 With him the child ; while fixedly amazed 
 Stood Bcrtrand, gazing after him, as if 
 Some subtle spell had mastered all his might, ' 
 
 And left him without mind, or thought, or heart ! 
 « Grammercy, Pilgrim!" were his words at last, 
 And loud hoarse laughter followed. "Thou hast done 
 '« That which tliouhast my thank for— sooth, thou hast: 
 « Bcshrew thy old arm, there is mettle in it ! 
 
 l2
 
 148 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 " Ho, there!" His voice brought an attendant*—" Is 
 " My lord arrived ?" > 
 
 " This moment." 
 
 " Humph !— and my lady, 
 
 « Where is she?" 
 
 " In the long tapestried gallery 
 " That overlooks the lake ; methinks there is 
 " Impatience in her manner; and a strange 
 
 " Forgetfulness at times, that " 
 
 " Sirrah ! you 
 " To your vocation ; leave the lady's looks 
 « To those who've more concern in them. And here; 
 " Give Master Edwin thine attendance: he 
 " Droops his high crest to-day, a pity 'tis : — 
 *' The age, (conceive me !) boasts not many like him 5 
 « Which is another pity !— Fair sir ! on, 
 *' I'll follow ye at leizure." 
 
 Anger flushed 
 The brow of Edwin; shame it should have been! 
 Enraged but unabashed he moved along. 
 Betraying at each step the consciousness 
 Of an unimitable grace.— That port 
 Which majesty assumes Avhen it would awe-- 
 That charm, which from the wise extorts a smile 
 Of passing approbation — were his own. 
 But vanity, the foppishness that draws 
 Disgust and ridicule, and more than half 
 Conquers the fascination of the eye. 
 Was his too— and it might be happily ! 
 For else, what was there, that could free the heart
 
 THE FALSE ONE. U9 
 
 Chained (o exterior, and reo-ardlcss all 
 
 Of inward feebleness of mind, or worse, 
 
 Of desperate, hard depravity of soul ! • 
 
 The gallant's dress was something- thrown awry 
 By the fray lately toward. So he paused 
 A moment to arrange it, and shake off 
 From the hot cheek, its visible <lisorder. 
 His bonnet's plume sat vulgarly — ho gave 
 A fit direction to it; and drew more 
 To the left shoulder his mandilion ^ g"ay: 
 Then drained — to one he named not — a full cup 
 Of goodly ippocras;^ and passing on ' ' 
 
 Entered the arras'd corridor. — Beneath ^ 
 
 A latticed window's gothic tracery, 
 Where streamed the light, througji broken shadows 
 
 formed 
 By latter autumn's withering garniture— ' •'^ 
 
 Paced to and fro, the fair — the false Amelia ! 
 
 The lady was set forth in purple robe, • • 
 
 Slashed with embroidered white. Soft, dark brown 
 
 hair 
 In beautiful curls fell on her snowy breast, 
 Wantonning here and there. Her plover-eye, 
 I'lack, bright and restless, watched a puny b;nk 
 Bearing it bravely o'er the waters: on 
 'J'he delicate veined lid, and jetty IVinge 
 There seemed a trembling moisture; and (he \vhile 
 Circling each lucid worhl of splendor, swam 
 In its etherial dew, passion-dilated! 
 Oh! that large, heavenly eye— thaf it should «ant
 
 150 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 A heavenly heart too! Wherefore did it not 
 
 Dissolve in its own bitter tears — like pearls 
 
 The Egyptian wanton liquefied — even then, 
 
 When at the touch of foul lasciviousness 
 
 That pearl of price, its innocence, departed? 
 
 But it shone clearly, beautifully still, 
 
 Maugre the utter darkness veiled below ! 
 
 And there was that in her sweet face, that held 
 
 The gazer rivetted; that bound him down 
 
 Without or breath or motion : as if all 
 
 That eye could see, ear comprehend, heart feel, 
 
 Were uttered in a glance; and full it was, 
 
 Too full, of ravishing bewitchery ! 
 
 She had a pensive cast of languishment 
 
 At times, that gave strange softness to her look- 
 
 A gentle, fawn-like gaze, that turned on ye, 
 
 Not as it would command, but as it sought — 
 
 Sued for affection. 'Twas not modesty, 
 
 Nor yet the effrontery of impudence; 
 
 But, blended with the twain, it may be. So, 
 
 More to be feared than either; for it built 
 
 Its power on man's self-flattery and self-love! 
 
 Such, and so fair — so excellently fair, 
 De Frederick's faithless dame ! 
 
 As Edwin's step 
 Beat on the oaken board; and his white plume 
 Waved in the dimness of the distance, she 
 Started;— and with a tremulous quick heave 
 Undulates her white bosom. Not as yet 
 Bewrayed was the intruder. Nearer now.
 
 THE FALSE ONE. aSl 
 
 And nearer he approaches, fill the light 
 Fell with strong gleam upon his countenance — 
 Then, even as one delirious, with a bound 
 Sprang she into his arms. A burning blush 
 Sat on her cheek, and fire lit u|) her eye — 
 Like to a charnel-lamp that shows beneath 
 Corruption's lothliness! — The crawling Avprm 
 That battens on the dead, how like the youth 
 In her impetuous clasp! and he rcturnetl 
 The pressure with a kind of drunkenness 
 Of rapture. They were young- and beautiful — 
 iUit they were old in Sin» by Vice misshapen! "' 
 
 " Sweetest!" he said, and threw a fearful glance 
 
 Around: "Art sure thy lord 1 Know'st thou 
 
 we have 
 " Failed to effect our purpose?" 
 
 «' We have failed," 
 She answered in a voice more soft, more sweet, 
 Than zephyr breathes upon the magic harp 
 Q^olian; or the heart-uttered voice of song 
 Trembling upon the waters. — " We have failed, 
 " Rut to succeed more surely: 1 could mark 
 *' By his unlooked for coming, ye had sped not: — 
 " Good sooth! I started when the bugle rung, 
 " And horses' hoofs were clattering on the pavement! 
 " But more I started when that wily knave, 
 " My page, bade me rejoice, for he returned 
 " In safety to his halls! When we were met, 
 " yVnd my cold look thanked not his warm embrace, 
 " It crossed him bitterly. — The fool! he knows
 
 152 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 " I hate him with a hate that cannot change, 
 " Yet note his constant dotage ! 1 do marvel, 
 " If he possess or jealousy, or spleen? 
 a ^e giye hini cause, think'st not?" 
 
 « Much, by my faith ! 
 « But— let me whisper to thee— whither now 
 " Hath he gone forth? There's danger in discourse"— 
 « Becalm thee, dearest 1 thou hast nought to dread : 
 « Soon as beheld, I urged him to pursue 
 « Yon fishers;— thou may'st see the bark e'en now 
 " Toiling upon the water: he was worn 
 " With hunger and fatigue, and yet he went!'* 
 " Nay, 'tis a foolish loving soul — " 
 
 " Why, good now ! 
 " Let us think not of him, my Edwin!— Hark! 
 " Is Bertrand steady ?'* 
 
 " To his god — his gold, 
 " He is so ever; oh! the heliotrope 
 " Were but a mockery for an emblem I He's 
 " The most designing villain— but not less 
 " Meet for our purpose!" 
 
 " Well then, we will feed 
 « His humor bountifully. Come this way, 
 « I'll show thee my contrivance." They passed on 
 In low and earnest conference to a door 
 Fixed in the wainscot of the gallery, hid 
 By arras. Entering here, they turned, and then 
 Reached a with-drawing room, o'erspread with 
 
 rushes, * 
 And hung with tapestry from British looms. ^
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 153 
 
 Here miglity Saladiii, in silver field 
 And golden armour shining-, proudly knelt — • 
 And there the leader of the Christian host, ' 
 
 Waving the sword of knicfhthood over him, 
 Stood circled by dark men. Yet further on 
 The holy sepulchre was wrought; and long - 
 
 The monkish train around it. They held up 
 Their supplicating hands to Heaven for mercy, » 
 
 While sternly, scornfully the Infidel 
 Denied the boon they sought, — when, lo! a marvel! 
 The earth wide opens, and the infernal power 
 Bears back the conqueror in flames of fire; 
 Just as in air, a rosy hand holds out 
 The cyiblem of the faith!- Such the wUd forms 
 That superstitious terror grafted on .t 
 
 The record of past deeds.^ » 
 
 " But ye consent ; ,. 
 i To what ye have heard then?" asked the Lady: 
 
 . , , *' There s 
 
 " Is danger in it ; it were best he fell 
 
 " By poison; and that is bethink thee, how 
 
 " To hide the body, how convey it hence." 
 " I tell ye, Edwin 1" half impatiently 
 Exclaimed his leman — " 'Tis no time to idle; 
 " We must use means, and swift ones, to secure 
 " Our safety and our hopes. He dies to-night ! — 
 " Say, shall it be so?" 
 
 " Ay, if Bertrand care 
 " To undertake it : hark ! did I not hear 
 " De Frederick's bugle?"
 
 154 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 " Surely not; I guess 
 " He holds to his employment. If he come 
 " I shall receive him finely.— Sweet, thou art 
 " Some deal too melancholy: fie I that cloud 
 " Looks but unseemly on thee. I will chase 
 " With a warm sunny kiss the intruder." 
 
 « Hush!— 
 *' Again !— it was a horn most certain! — was't not?'* 
 " Nay, now thou mock'stme; shall 1 sing the lay 
 " Thou lov'd^st so?— Once it had a power to charm, 
 « Which I would see if it retaineth— doth it?'* 
 « All that thou dost, doth that; thou canst do nought 
 « Without it!" 
 
 ** Ah! flatterer ! — yet I trust to thee ; 
 " Thy honied accents captive draw mine ear, 
 " And drop so blissfully upon my heart 
 " I cannot but believe thee ! Wilt thou bring 
 " The virginals? "^ — or stay, my lute will serve 
 « It hangs so near thy hand: then thus— 
 
 " The voice of Love— the voice of Love! 
 
 How exquisite thy power! 
 Like a soft breath that sighs above 
 
 The perfume of the flower. 
 
 « The rosy wreath that beauty twines 
 
 May fade — and fade it will; 
 But when the pride of life declines, 
 
 The voice of Love lives still !
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 155 
 
 " The voice of Love— the voice of Love ! — 
 
 IIow eloquent tliou art; 
 With what a sweet vibration move 
 
 Thy tones upon the heart! 
 
 " By darkness, by despair oppressed, 
 
 The voice of Love supplies 
 A ho{)c, to animate the breast 
 
 And light the clouded eyes. 
 
 ** The voice of Love— the voice of Love! 
 
 lIow exquisite its power; 
 Like a soft breath that sighs above 
 
 The perfume of the flower!" 
 
 She ceased; and, suddenly up-rising, showed , 
 Her soul's uneasiness. " Edwin !" she said, 
 *' 'Twere wise to hasten Bertrand— Loiterer 1 why," 
 Tn lower tone she added — " Comes he not? 
 " But, if it [)leasc thee, bid him here at vespers; 
 " Thou canst disclose what he should know, and 
 
 " what 
 " I have possessed thee of: my sweet one! hie 
 
 « thee. 
 " Yet hold— bear that; a diamond may prove 
 " No bad reniend>rancer. Away, 1 hear 
 " My — no, no— not 7//?/ lord's — De Frederick's bugle," 
 
 There was alarm in Edwin's eye; a shoot 
 Of tremor in his heart, as rose the blast
 
 156 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 Sonorous. Hastily sped ho to obey 
 
 That treacherous Lady — that unfaithful spouse 
 
 That falsest of false women ! 
 
 END OF CANTO I.
 
 ?.i:i. 
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 (Santo t1D<^ ^cfontr. 
 
 *' For ray part 
 " I do not think she hath a soul so hlack 
 " To act a deed so bloody : if she liave, 
 " As in cold countries husbandmen plant vines 
 " And with warm blood manure them, even so 
 •« One summer will she bear unsavory fruit, 
 " And era next spring, wither both branch and root." 
 Webster. The White Devil. 
 
 IT is the vesper hour :^ grey twilight dons 
 Her dewy vestment, and the raw chill air 
 Bids the late traveller enwrap him round. 
 The sky looks sullen, and the murky cloud 
 Flits hazily along. No longer now 
 The radiance of the morning! far away 
 The storm broods heavily ; yet nigh yon tower, 
 Nested amrid the dark •blue water, shines 
 
 \: 
 
 I 
 
 • I'l i.t 
 
 ' /v
 
 158 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 Sing-Iy upon the face of Heaven, the star 
 
 Of evening, quenched not by the mist, nor veiled 
 
 By the black cloud that hovers round it;— like 
 
 An eye of brightness, beaming through life's glooms: 
 
 Though weeping-, lovely — loved, though desolate ! 
 
 And hark ! amid the fitful gale, the toll 
 
 Of the monastery bell ; perhaps the chime 
 
 That speaks the knell of some departed spirit: 
 
 Perhaps the call to penance or to prayer! 
 
 Tt rvas the call to death ! — That form that stands 
 In pale cold silence, near the tapestried hall, 
 Is — Edwin's: where is his companion now, 
 The dark ferocious Bertrand? Hist! — 
 Was it the wind that moaned? — Again! and did 
 The passing murmur of the gust create 
 Such a convulsive shiver? could it be ! 
 Oft on the threshold of that ante-room 
 Breathless he stood; and listened till the sweat 
 Of his soul's agony bedropped his brow ; 
 Oft grasped his clammy hand, a naked blade, 
 But the raised arm sunk nerveless as his heart! 
 There was a lamp burned over him; its ray 
 Lit up the colorless cheek and large dulled eye 
 That started from its socket — as the moon 
 In the stern hour of night shines forth to gild, 
 With yet more deathly lustre, the cold dead 
 Left on the battle field ! And it supplied 
 A wild, cadaverous aspect to his face ; 
 As if, from out his bosom's cemetery.
 
 THE FALSE ONE " 159 
 
 Where conscience lay entombed, its spirit hail 
 Darted, and lay incarnate in his eye ! ^ 
 
 Oh! what a pitiable thing^ is he 
 Who owns an evil heart. There may be griefs 
 That harrow up the mind : there may bo pangs 
 That sear the very soul, and turn the brain 
 To madness — but there is not, nor can be ^ 
 
 So poor a wretch, as him, who hath forsaken • 
 
 The path of light, and loves the walk of darkness! 
 An evil conscience is the worst of ills 
 That may befal a man. Haply ye deem 
 Its sting shall yet be deadened— quelled ; or that 
 The long- succession, and success of sin, 
 Shall indurate the bosom, and at last 
 Leave to it nought of anguish or of fear ! 
 Ye err — the surface may concrete, but not 
 The core; and there is that vitality of pain 
 Which is not to be vanquished. If it seem 
 To sleep, 'tis but the sleep of earthquakes, soon 
 To rise up in convulsion, and lay waste 
 The breast that it inhabits: 'tis the sleep 
 Of serpents coiled around their prey, that will 
 Strike with redoubled fury when they wake ! 
 
 Ye note that son of wickedness? let not 
 The limner be distrusted ; *tis the hue — 
 The mould of life — Jind tliou may 'st find it, Man! 
 
 Now rose a crash from the interior, where 
 Statue-like Edwin clung. It seemed to bring^ 
 Intelligence of struggle, fierce and lung.
 
 160 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 That ended ; and behold, a sudden rush, 
 
 Precipitous as tempests sweep the wave, — • 
 
 As full of fearful portent, brought to ken 
 
 The lost — for ever, and for ever lost 
 
 As wife, as woman — the unblessed Amelia! 
 
 Oh ! but to mark how terribly the power 
 
 Of passions working- in her heart had changed 
 
 That face, so fair of late! The swollen eye, 
 
 Wild as the deed it spoke of, had forgot 
 
 It e'er was practised in Love's cunning ; or 
 
 Could animate the marble form that there 
 
 Shrunk in full consciousness of all the ill 
 
 That hour was witness to: it had a fierce 
 
 And horrid glare; triumphant malice sat 
 
 Like a proud demon in it, and her heart 
 
 (Could she possess a heart?) beat with a high 
 
 Yet tremulous beat of exultation. — " Done — 
 
 " Yes, it is done!" she shrieked: no longer now 
 
 The sweet soft tone, that fell like harmony 
 
 Of seraphs on the earth; it was a shrill 
 
 But awful cry ! and at the rising- voice 
 
 Ye had said, the angry bolt of Heaven had passed 
 
 Throuo-h Edwin's shivering- frame. E'en Bertrand 
 
 paused ■ - 
 
 With something- of a tremor, as he strode, 
 Following the lady; stern and slow his step. 
 " Donel say ye? — ay, but more is to be done, 
 " Ere ye enjoy your triumph !— Gentle pair! 
 " And honest— (I avouch it) — first secure 
 *' Your safety, then your love, so please ye ! But —
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 161 
 
 '^ The g-oKl ! — I've nobly earned it. That shall he 
 
 " My passport and my joyance in far lands, 
 
 " Whither I now direct me. Yet — a word ! 
 
 " Why have / been subservient to your lust? 
 
 *• Not that I loved ye, nor so well your coin, 
 
 " As to give up my steel to such a service — 
 
 " But, he who fell once did me wrong-, and I 
 
 " For that have been avenocd. Not I, i/our tool, 
 
 " As ye suppose me ; ye are mine, and have 
 
 " Accomplished my resolves ! — I asked for gold, 
 
 " Is it forthcoming, lady V 
 
 With a smile ' '* 
 
 That flashed ten thousand scorns from her dark eves 
 
 ft/ 
 
 Snatched she the pendent ])urse of corded mesh 
 Fixed to her girdle ; and, with haughty mien, 
 Flung the full scrip beside him. He spoke not, 
 But bent his black brow on her ; pointed then 
 To the dark path they had so lately traced ! 
 A change came o'er her countenance ; he marked - 
 Its coming — that accomplice of her guilt — . • ' 
 
 And scant forebore the gibe; but that he felt 
 'Twas not an hour to prate in. So he turned 
 To his departure, and a kind of joy 
 It was to those he sped from. Little can 
 Crime bear with its remembrancer; and they 
 Who fear their fellow, hate him for that fear. 
 Long, when the sound of his retiring step 
 Had ceased, they listened for it ; when the ear 
 Sought it in vain, the busy eye became 
 Interpreter between them. They looked on 
 
 M
 
 102 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 Each otlior fearfully — as if in each 
 
 They apprehcnrlod an accuser, or 
 
 Death for the tleath they'd plotted and produced, 
 
 " Edwin !" exclaimed the lady, — " why is this? 
 
 " Dost thou regret the price at which is won 
 
 " Love and security ? Dost lament that thou 
 
 " Wilt be the lord of houses and fair lands; 
 
 *' Falcons, that strike at eagles, like the bird 
 
 *' In Persian story, but with fate less hard ;^ 
 
 *^ Steeds, that surpass the wind in fleetness; and 
 
 •* Gay housings — serving-men, with seemly badge, 
 
 ** To wait submissive on thy will? Are these — 
 
 " Are these, not worth the purchase ?" 
 
 Edwin's eye 
 Brightened into a sparkle, as she told 
 Of that, which in his narrow mind was more 
 Than love, than honor, or than innocence. 
 Even remembrance of the past had died, 
 As she recounted future vanities ! 
 His was a nature ever prone to ill. 
 But fearful of the event. The danger threw 
 Sometimes a barrier, which repelled the assault 
 Of a temptation else omnipotent: 
 So, he was virtuous by necessity. 
 Evil by inclination. She had spurred 
 His vacillating soul to murder with 
 The splendid picture she pourtrayed, of wealth 
 And pleasures inexhaustible. But ever, 
 With luiremitting care, his feeble mind 
 She drew from thought of peril : by degrees,
 
 THE FALSE ONE, " 1G3 
 
 Slowly, yet surely, lio advancod ia crime ; 
 
 And still with flital craft she magnified 
 
 The hazard ot receding ; while she spake 
 
 The onward path so fair and even, so 
 
 Secure in the accomplishment, that never 
 
 Could fear once operate to deter. lie had 
 
 Terrors enow : but with maonetic force ^ 
 
 One way they urged him — and that way was death. 
 
 When the foul deed was consummated — then 
 Came penitence ; if it may be, which mourns '* 
 
 Not for the evil, but the punishment! 
 He wist not of the former's lothliness. 
 But felt 'twas unavoidable the last : " 
 
 And such had been his life. ' •' 
 
 Ye have heard he prized 
 The pomp of greatness, but true greatness scorned : 
 Thus his soul sprang from its abyss of dread, 
 As flowed the >vords of Avitchcraft on his ear. •» 
 
 He dreamt ofjoys illimitable — bliss 
 That should attentl him, whercsoe'er he turned: 
 His fancy revelled in delight— and she 
 Who had created, and could yet create 
 So excellent a power, again rose up 
 All that was lovely — all that he could love! 
 " My Amelia! best, and dearest! why believe 
 " Regfret should min<>le in the thought that oives 
 " Thee to my arms? Fate there is impotent, -■ j' 
 
 " And on thy breasit is happiness supreme!" 
 
 He spoke : and would have caught her in his clasp, 
 M armed willi his own conceit ; but, horror-struck, 
 
 M 2
 
 IG4 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 Back he recoiled : his oyo glared on her, like 
 A maniac's phrenzied orb — and hers, as if 
 Affected by it, though she recked not why, 
 Assumed his look of terror! — 
 
 *' Stand — stand off; 
 " There's human blood upon thee — ay, upon 
 " Thy once white bosom — wherefore rests it there? 
 " Is it the grave, as it hath been the pillow, 
 " Of him ye swore to honor and to love ? 
 ** Hast thou built there his sanguine monument, 
 " Or raised it for a trophy of thy crime ? 
 " See, vengeful Heaven ! — see, 'tis a severed lock 
 " Of his black hair adheres to that red spot! 
 *^ Why thou — thou only wilt bring on discovery ! 
 " Thou wilt betray us both ; and I must pour 
 " My blood to sanctify thy lewdness! Oh! 
 " Had I not sinned so far, I would flee back, 
 " And seek that peace I never may find now. 
 *' Now heaven hath cast me from it, and the eartli 
 " Thirsts for the empurpling element of life ! 
 " Oh ! where may T repose me ? whither turn 
 " From thee, mine enemy?" 
 
 It was as he 
 Had said. Her palpitating breast, distained 
 With a long streak of clotted gore, attached 
 The steeped hairs of the murdered to it ! How 
 They had possessed them of the place, she knew 
 Nothing—almost remembered nothing — but 
 It made her shudder ; as with hasty hand 
 She cleansed the foul pollution. In the act,
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 165 
 
 The lamp above lliciu shed a bri<^hter flame, 
 
 And threw out sparks, tliat crackled as they flow 
 
 Diversely round them. — 'Tis not to be told 
 
 AVIiat vain things shoot dismay into the liearts 
 
 Of those who feel they merit what they fear! 
 
 Not the deep burst of thunder— not the flash 
 
 Lured by the tower's attracting- pinnacle 
 
 To embrace a ruin, and awake tlie roar 
 
 Of the lashed waters g-roaning- underneath : 
 
 Not echo's doubling- and redoubling- voice, 
 
 Sounding- among the mountains, when the storm 
 
 Howls with unearthly clamor — had called forth 
 
 Such agonising shriek of desperation ! 
 
 But there was none to hearken — all beside 
 
 Had purposely been placed where cry could not 
 
 Enter, though piercing as a spirit's be ! 
 
 'J'he emotion soon subsided in the one 
 
 Who seemed— n woman; and if she had had 
 
 A woman's heart, she had been something more ! 
 
 Time hurried on : 'twas needful to bestow 
 The body to its rest unhallowed. So 
 She strained all arts of flattery to lull 
 The awakened trepidation that enforced 
 A lukewarm penitence. And Edwin turned 
 An earnest ear, as one who would be wrought 
 Gladly to that which he would gladly And. 
 Cunningly worked she on his nature, till 
 y\gain a change of thought was visible — 
 Until again he half forgot himbclf.
 
 166 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 Then they departed for a season ; and 
 Returned with two stout knaves, whom they had h)U»d, 
 Or made what they would have them: they went in 
 To the place of slaughter. There De Frederick lay. 
 Spotted with wounds ; the rush-besprinkled floor 
 Drank his red blood, and in the struggle was 
 Reft of its covering. On the head and breast 
 The blows of fate were strucken ; but a g-ash, 
 Done, as it seemed, when all was over, shewed 
 Horrible contrast to the pallid cheek 
 And stiffened eye-lid: 'twas upon the throat. 
 And down the bared neck, had the crimson stain 
 Mournfully trickled. He was borne away 
 Through secret passag-es ; a postern door 
 Admitted them beyond the garden: thence 
 The church-way path conducted on, and they 
 Pursued its winding's. The bright star had fled, 
 That at the hour of vespers was put forth, 
 A flower amid the wilderness— or as 
 The guardian angel, that had kept its watch 
 Till evil triumphed over it ! All now 
 Seemed to proclaim the turbulence of storm 
 Hastening to do its mission. The wild wind 
 Blew coldly over them ; and the dead corse, 
 Filled with its violence, to these dark men 
 Oft took a voice of warninor' and lament. 
 That came upon the conscience startlingly. 
 Yet they persisted; yet they wandered on 
 To where the yew-tree flung its funeral shade.
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 167 
 
 Cooped ill a narrow corner of that land, 
 Death's rank repository! A rippling- stream 
 Played careless by its side. Even so, the world 
 Marks man convey his fellow to the grave, 
 And still tracks on its course— still speeds along^, 
 Sparkling in sun-beam a few hours of life, 
 Then sinks, like it, in darkness and decay. 
 
 Here, by this yew-tree, by this thing that florished 
 On the mortality of man, they laid 
 The bleeding trunk, and to the worm consio'ned 
 Without or shroud, or prayer, or gush of sorrow. 
 
 Heaven is more merciful than man ! ere yet 
 They moved, the storehouse of the cloud 
 Opened upon them, and the feathery snow 
 AV hite as the plume upon a maiden's hearse. 
 Became that corse's winding- -sheet: the breeze 
 Dying- into a murmur, softly sang- 
 The requiem over him; and, if thou wilt 
 ludulge imagination — think, the wreath 
 That fell upon the waters, and increased 
 The stream's full How; think, canst not?— that it wa.s 
 A tear to the sad obsequies ! — If man 
 Mourn not o'er his own kind that perisheth, 
 Nature is gentler, and niaij weep for him! 
 
 The snow-fall came apace; the twain beneath 
 The church-wall paused, bewildered ; for the flake 
 Drojjping upon the eyes' dimmed vision, filled 
 The lid with water: so they stood awhile, 
 Trembling with (old and krror. — Were they found 
 I>y other wanderers, and so near the dead,
 
 166 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 On tLem would fall the murder! If they sought 
 1 o venture the returning path, they might 
 Err in their footsteps, and suspicion fix 
 Upon them, when the morrow gave the work 
 Of death to day-light!— Then perchance they felt 
 How much had been their error, and they poured 
 The spirit of execration on the deed, 
 And on the doers— 'twas too late, poor wretches! 
 The curse fell back upon them, for they were 
 The abettors and partakers of the ill. 
 
 Now too, the horrors of the grave began 
 To encompass them about. The sting of thought— 
 That dreaded Deity, of those who own 
 No God but their own lust, rose, boding death ! 
 Visions of disembodied spirits passed 
 Terrificly before them: they could bear 
 All beside this; but this, what man can bear? 
 They fled confusedly, and as chance would, 
 Safely regained the postern; but the snow 
 Ceased, ere their steps achieved it. 
 
 The meanwhile, 
 What did Amelia? What did Edwin?— They 
 Strove to look happy, but the smile became 
 A very mockery of happiness. Not 
 That which they'd been; and oh I what they might be, 
 In future time, occurred; for still they thought 
 Their crime inscrutible. They yielded them 
 Not to forebodings of detection, but 
 To undefined, vague, incomprehensible 
 Emotions, that had reference to nought
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 169 
 
 Palpable and exterior. The black deed, 
 Wrought but so lately, by strong effort was 
 Banished; or tricked in colors such as die 
 The vapoury vault ol" Heaven, when the full cloud 
 Hangs darkling-, touched by intercepted beams 
 Of broken lioht. — Their li<>ht was broken; even 
 An artificial gleam, which Fancy threw 
 Amid the depths of fate. It was not joy, 
 Though they rejoiced ; nor the hope real 
 Which it elicited. Indistinct fears, 
 With which the mind possessed not power to grapple- 
 As 'twere a hand invisible that struck ' 
 A deadly wound, and the hot blood drained out 
 Drop after drop — so 'twas ordained for them! 
 
 The stains had been erased, that marked the place 
 Of violent death; and fresh green rushes strewed: 
 All but the heart Avas laved; all but the heart 
 Renewed. They sat them down to wassail ; and 
 The mantling cup brimmed lustily. With it ' 
 The swell of music rose, and all the power — 
 The blandishment of minstrelsy she proved ' " 
 To win him from himself — The voice of song 
 Mino-lcs a thrillino- cadence ! —As the brook 
 Gushinji' alon"- its interrupted course, 
 Joins the soft breath of zephyr, and accords 
 Well with the woodland harmony; so she 
 Adapted her sweet music to the string- 
 Her delicate finger struck; and every note 
 Seemed as it melted on the tongue^'', and dropped 
 Delicious dews of melody — it so
 
 170 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 Moistened the parched, tense heart ! 'Twas thus 
 The Siren's song rung- forth ; 
 
 " How beautiful rises the morning sun 
 
 When flitteth afar the shadows dun; 
 
 i\nd brilliantly flashes his blissful eye 
 
 As the gelid vapour forsakes the sky! 
 
 But faint the fair beams of that planet ^^ prove 
 
 To the first burning glances of youthful love! 
 
 *' Noon wanes ; and immersed is the solar ray 
 In the ocean flood — it hath passed away; 
 The cold hour comes with the evening breath. 
 And the storm is let loose from the caves of death. 
 
 " But the eye of the Lover 's more sparkling far 
 Than thought can imagine the brightest star ; 
 And his heart is warm, though the chilly air 
 Congeal the pure drop that trembles there; 
 And his hand is prompt as his heart, to save. 
 When the tempest flies on the wings of the grave! 
 
 «' There's a light in Love's eye, that can ne'er de- 
 part— 
 'Tis the lamp of the soul— and the soul of the heart ; 
 Unbroken in splendor, that waveless flame, 
 Throuo-h o-ood and throuHi evil, exists the same; 
 IJnquenched by the tomb, 'twill but purer be 
 Shiniuo on through all worlds of eternity !"
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 171 
 
 TIjc voice was heard no longer, but her hand 
 
 Made ravisliing- division, ^'^ and held on 
 
 The strain which it commenced with, soft and 
 
 low ; 
 Then suddenly swelled forth, as if to speak 
 In its best, sweetest kind, how well it loved 
 Tliat >vhich supplied its ehujuence; but, ere 
 The close synij)honious— from without rose high, 
 realing- upon the stillness of the night, 
 A trumpet's brazen clangor. — Had the sound 
 Of that all wondrous horn ^^ which whilom rang 
 To the rough breath of him, in knightly worth 
 Unrivalled — young Astolfo! had the voice 
 Of that enchanted music, which struck dread 
 Unto the valiantest and noblest heart — 
 Breathed on this instant, not with power unlike, 
 The afTrighting strain had issued forth — so shrill 
 It ran along their guilty veins; and poured 
 The tremors of an evil conscience over them! 
 
 Again — and yet again, the clarion's call 
 Sununoning to instant parley, rolled away 
 Unanswered; till at length the breathless twain, 
 To whom the dead oweil an ignoble rest. 
 Obeyed the imperious mandate. All the other 
 Of the long menial train, inebriate, 
 Had sunk to heavy shnnber, by the red 
 And smouldering end>ers of the wood-piled fire. 
 Stretched swinishly around the spacious hearth. 
 'Twas not a natural sleep; nor all the eft'ect 
 Of deep potalion — (or, commingled with it. 
 The poppy shook its spirif in the ( up.
 
 172 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 The arched stone portal was unbarred, and gave 
 Admittance to a troop of horsemen, clad 
 In military vest. The chief, or he 
 Who seemed to be so, spake in wrathful tone. 
 " Ye be sound sleepers here — methinks our blast 
 " Had roused the very dead to life, but ye 
 " Sleep out your slumber! What may be these knaves, 
 " Are they not yet awake? or be they drunk, 
 " Or fearful? peradventnre both — what think ye? 
 " Masters ! we seek the Lord De Frederick. How 
 " The fools gape on us ! do ye not conceive 
 " My meaning? we would see your lord; we bear 
 *^ Dispatches of importance from the council ! — 
 " Crack the knave's crown some one — will ye not an- 
 swer?'' 
 " He is gone hence:" replied the man — 
 
 " Gone hence? 
 " Ye dolt \ impossible ! he had yesternight 
 " Positive orders from the Lord Protector 
 " To await our coming: why, I'll wage my life, 
 " The fellow lies to save himself a trouble — 
 " Or to avenge the night's disturbance, faith! 
 " Sirrah ! look to it — ye had better, or 
 " The lash shall teach ye. Get ye gone, and say 
 '* Our message without further let.i* What, ho ! — 
 " Where is the other pelting rascal ? — run 
 " Ere he had ta'en our purpose ! This would chafe 
 " A statue— though of patience! Fe vouchsafe 
 " To do my bidding!" 
 
 " Yea; to whom?"
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 173 
 
 « Whom! 
 '* To your master, booby!" \ 
 
 " When my lorJ returns 
 " Be sure on't: speak your pleasure." '■ 
 
 " Ha! returns! 
 " Gerard! dismount, and castigate the scoundrel; 
 ** We may bandy words till luorning!" 
 
 ** Ay, and what 
 ** Will ye know more by harming me?" replied 
 The fellow scowlingly ;— " I tell ye sooth, 
 " He is not. here; if ye Mould further, seek 
 *' My lady: let her give it ye, — for me 
 " I care not, do your worst!" 
 
 « The slave !— why then 
 " Speed ye not to your lady? — if indeed 
 " Her lord be absent ! If he be, the news • 
 
 " Will startle Somerset, I trow ; no matter — 
 " Gerard, along with him; our charge must be i 
 *' Apolog-y for such intrusion." — They i 
 
 (The menial and the soldier) moved together : J 
 
 On to the hall of presence. There (ap|)rized 
 By him who'd gained a vantage-time— of what •> 
 
 The embassage should turn upon) apart. 
 And seeming- busied with the embroidery^^ 
 Of silver tissues, and rich cloths of gold. 
 The False One sat. At their approach, she spake: 
 " De Frederick ! thou hast tarried long', meseems, — 
 " Longer than thou wert wont. I prithee, what 
 " Detained thee from me?"
 
 174 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 " Ye much err, fair dame!" 
 Answered young- Gerard, smiling-: " 1 have not 
 " The honor of the name, nor know the bliss 
 " Of an espousal to the queen of love 
 *' And soul of loveliness; would that indeed 
 " It were so: not thus desolate and lone 
 *' Should beauty sit unhonored — sooth, it should 
 not !" 
 Alarm was well expressed in the dark eye 
 That turned upon the intruder. Majestic'ly 
 She moved; even more her stately form put on 
 The semblancy of stateliness — and it 
 Became her well; so well, she should have worn 
 That ever — ay, for ever: it had been 
 A corslet to the soul — a counter-charm, 
 (If inward truth confirmed that semblancy!) 
 To the resistless might that bore away 
 Her heart from its right sphere — the sphere of virtue I 
 For it had awed licentiousness, and driven 
 The wanton thou.oht far off! 
 
 *' Ah 1 an armed stranger ! 
 " Where be these varlets?— Rude, unmannered sir! 
 « Is't thus ye break upon my privacy? 
 " This speaks ye nothing geiitlei6_tl,ough ye bear 
 « The spur and belt of knight 1— And you, sir 
 
 knave 1" 
 Turning with prettily affected wrath 
 On his attendant there—" Art thou become 
 " A traitor to thy mistress'? this shall to
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 175 
 
 " My lord when lie returns; llioii })ear'st no more 
 " Thy blue coat, and tliy badge!" 
 
 " No fault of mine." 
 Fiercely replied the man; uuweeting wliy 
 He thus had been accosted— •■ 
 
 « Be it then 
 " On me the burden," said the soldier — " 1 
 " Would beg- a moment's audience, lady ! if 
 ** It suit with your good pleasure ; and may be 
 " I shall cast off the aspersions you have thrown 
 '* Not so deservedly, I deem, upon me: 
 " Meantime, I seek forgiveness, and your heart 
 " Strangely belies your eye, if 'tis denied ! 
 " Perish astrology, if there be not 
 " A benign influence ruling there! 1 would 
 " To hiohest Heaven, it were the star that shone 
 " On my nativity !" 
 
 " So— pentle Sir ! 
 " I do retract my assertion; for I see , ; • 
 
 " Ye lack not adulation, though ye lack - •' 
 
 " Some manners — courtier-like ! Please it ye, now 
 " To say why unannounced, unlooked for, here 
 " Fm honored with your presence 1" 
 
 " Fairer than 
 " Most fair 1" began the other — 
 
 " Generous Sir! 
 " I know the style of my address; ye may 
 " Proceed to other matter: if I marked 
 " Aright, your entrance spoke some haste !"
 
 ti 
 
 il 
 
 17 G THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 *^ Ye say 
 " Shrewdly— but well; I had forgotten that. 
 " We wanderers of the night, bear ill the flash 
 " Of sudden light: and when it comes upon us, 
 As vividly as woir— why, if we lose 
 Our senses, 'tis not much ! — But to my mission. 
 Here at your barbacan. Sir Edward Warner, 
 " Under a deputation from the Lord 
 " Protector of the realm; and in the name 
 " Of our Sixth Edward, bears commission to 
 " Demand a subsidy of horse and armour : 
 ** Which, joined to certain forces now on foot, 
 " Should, on the morrow, cope the rebels, led 
 " By the ruffian Ket.i^ But furthermore we bring 
 " Dispatches from the council ; for the which 
 " A courier yesterday was posted hither, 
 " To the intent your lord should be in readiness. 
 " So that the urgency that spurs us on 
 " Is not to be controlled. His absence will 
 " Create offence; and 'twas unwise in him, 
 " If he indeed have left his towers, to risk 
 " The consequence, at such a need as this ! 
 " 'Twill seem like disafl^ection, and the duke 
 " Will note it rigidly,— beshrew me, will he ! 
 *' Yet I conjecture— and I hope 'twill prove so, 
 " That still he may o'ertake us; for methought 
 " E'en as I entered, 'twas his step ye fancied. — 
 " I have said, fair Dame ! and hark, a bugle ! 'tis 
 " Haply the Lord De Frederick's!— No, not it;
 
 THE FALSE ONE. Uf} 
 
 ** 'Tis my inipatiejit chiers — 1 know it well:— > 
 
 " Your answer."— A short pause— a flush, and then 
 A sudden trembling- and a stifled sob, 
 Might, to a keen observer, or to him 
 Suspicion had awakened, have denoted » 
 
 Something- mysterious — Gerard, marked them not. 
 " Yes, 'tis my heart's warm hope, that my dear lord . 
 " Is not remote from hence. At vespers he 
 '* Departed; but, how solemnly, Iiis vow 
 " Pledged to my fond impatience quick return ! 
 " lie has, and it is strange, delayed ; but yet 
 " I do assure me, that I shall be blessed 
 " In some brief space. And still, now I recal, 
 " He went forth unattended, though I urged, 
 " Anxiously urged the danger! Oh! if aught 
 " Of evil have befallen him Oh ! sir! 
 *' The thought hath conjured up a thousand fears ! 
 " [laste thee, good Harold! rouse thy fellows; sound 
 " Loudly the alarum; let them arm, and skir 
 " The country in all parts— the church-ground, and 
 " All wheresoe'er thou canst bethink thee: Avhy 
 " Thou art a stone — away, away— Oh ! sir ! 
 " 'Tis my turn now to be forgiven by ye 1 i 
 
 •' Will ye entreat your captain to receive 
 " My poor accommodation — and assist 
 " Our people in the search for their lost lord? 
 " He may command all here — for what am 1 '? 
 " Just Heaven forefend my fears prove true — a widows 
 '* A most unliappy one — but yc can pity !" 
 " Lady, 1 can — yet calm yc; there maybe 
 
 N
 
 178 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 " Nothing to verify your dread; and thouoh 
 « The rebels be abroad, they would not dare 
 " (Expected as they know we are) to approach 
 " So near your towers; nor would De Frederick give 
 *' So much the advantage; he is wary, shrewd— 
 *' An understanding man, and would not run 
 " Heedlessly into danger! — but I go 
 *< To execute your wishes. Shall T first 
 " Usher my veteran chief into your presence?" 
 " So please ye— but oh ! speed— speed, sir ! lam 
 
 " Almost distracted!" 
 
 " Guess ye not the path 
 " He might pursue?- We were more certain then 
 " To trace his onward step."— The lady stood 
 As if in meditation; on her lip 
 The fair long finger pressed; and to her hair 
 Artfully gave she an admired disorder. 
 
 " It may be— my bewildered brain can scarce 
 " Call up its recollection— yet perchance 
 " The neio-hbourlng monastery's walls contain him; 
 « He had— what do I say? he had dispute 
 " About the tenour of a peasant's Avill, 
 " From which the old Abbot claims— I know not 
 
 '« what. 
 " Yet note that monk's ingratitude. Himself 
 « And all his order— hypocrites ! were saved 
 " In the last reign from ruin by my lord ; 
 " And but short time ago, when Somerset, 
 «' I pray ye note it, laid destroying hands 
 " Upon them, they were freed once more by force
 
 THE FALSE ONE, l/H 
 
 " Of miglity intercession; yet that monk 
 
 " Must aye be busy, where it not concerns him : — 
 
 '* And as I said, all he had wholly lost 
 
 " But for my husband's nobleness ! — I deem 
 
 " Ye may hear of him there. And now farewell! — 
 
 *' Farewell, sir! and Heaven speed ye! I had best, 
 
 " Believe mc, I had best retire; you may 
 
 " Commend me to your captain ; and to all, 
 
 *' Bear a right noble welcome — fare ye well, sir!" 
 
 Poor creature! thought young Gerard, as he met 
 The salutation, and gazed on the form 
 Of exquisite loveliness before him: — she 
 Feels all the intenseness of alarm, and is 
 Strangely disordered. Oh 1 when woman loves, 
 Ilcr passion hath no bound — no biding-place! 
 Love is the being- of her being; she 
 Ifath not a thought beyond it ; she creates - 
 A fairy palace in the heart, and spreads 
 All magic tints around it — peoples it 
 With young affections, fruitful as the hours. 
 And radiant as the sunbeam. Her eye is 
 An index to her heart ; a mirror that 
 Reflects the bosom's truth unerringi)'. 
 W hat woman lost to man, she oives airaiii ' 
 In her life-long attachments.^^ If she be 
 Pure, there's no ])urily like hers— it is 
 The promise of a future Heaven; that which 
 Sjjcaks to the soul as though an angel spake! 
 
 Such were the communings of Gerard's mind. 
 As he moved back to his suj)erior ; who 
 
 n2
 
 180 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 With fretful aspect, and impatient tongue 
 C hided the lengthened tarriance; then discussed 
 The nature of their conference : and in haste 
 The troopers guided by the serving-men — 
 Yet scarce roused up from that deep lethargy 
 The draft somnific wrought — in fair array 
 Scoured the adjacent paths. 
 
 END OF CANTO II,
 
 i't 
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 ..... ;i ■ » 
 
 " Her fair name, — . « 
 
 n. ' 
 " Late chaste as trembling snow who.se fleeces clothe 
 
 •' Our Alpine hills ; sweet as the rose's spirit, 
 
 «• Or violet's cheek, on which the morning leaves , " iii_ 
 
 " A tear at parting— now begins to wither 
 
 " As it would haste to death, and be forgotten." 
 
 Shirley. The Royal Master. 
 
 LOUD, find yet louder rose the frequent clash , . 
 
 Upon the convent gates; and to and fro \ \ 
 
 The lights danced rapitlly within. Alarm 
 
 Shook from tlieir niattressed pallets the cowled head 
 
 And craven heart. They tremhlcd for the wealth 
 
 Whose fatal lure already had drawn on 
 
 Their confraternity the gripe of power: 
 
 For nought tlie papal bulP^ availed them — nought 
 
 The alb and amice, cope and scapuhiire 1 "o
 
 182 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 One transitory gleam had yet to break 
 
 Over the gathering darkness ;2^ and then night. 
 
 With whelming storm accompanied, would bear 
 
 Monastery and monk to unbewept decay ! 
 
 The one, enveloped in the ivy-leaf — 
 
 The abode of silence, broken by the cry 
 
 Of the hoarse things, that hide their callow broott 
 
 Far from the truant's haunt, or stranger's foot, 
 
 Trampling upon ihe sculptured column and 
 
 The fallen archway; — or the voice that flings 
 
 Unhallowed sounds abroad; the reckless laugh ; — 
 
 The summer tones of beauty moulded in 
 
 The shape of song — the lightsome canzonet; 
 
 Or lighter breath of sportive childhood, as 
 
 It bounds, with shrill halloo, across the stone, 
 
 Moss-covered, glorying in its might! — Such to the 
 
 one 
 Was doomed in aftertimes; but what did fate 
 Design the other? — To be cast away. 
 E'en as the earth-corrupted bone the spade 
 Ejects from its dark hiding-.place; to yield 
 A moral and a tale I^'^— Yea, all the rest 
 Flits o'er the mind like phantoms of a night; 
 Leavino- less trace than shadows that the cloud 
 Throws on the gay green turf! 
 
 The convent's crowd 
 Pours tremulously forth. Perplex'dly they 
 Mark the stern troops of armed men, and stand 
 Awe-slruck. What next?— shall all their lands lie 
 
 waste,
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 183 
 
 Their sanctuary be desolated? — 'Twas 
 
 A moment of despair; they knew not what 
 
 Was asked of them, nor what to utter back ; 
 
 Till from the midst outstepped that pilgrim grey 
 
 Ye heard of heretofore. His had been a life 
 
 Of constant warfare, on a foreign soil ; 
 
 When old age came upon him, he retvirned 
 
 To the place of his nativity, and found 
 
 His kindred passed away, and all to him 
 
 Mournfully strange. Even their language was 
 
 A thing- for him to wonder at; and save 
 
 One cherished blossom, the wide world had not 
 
 A tie upon his heart,— but that, oh! that 
 
 Was as a strain of music, which returned 
 
 All that he once had loved, and all (hat made 
 
 The memory of the past so blissful, yet 
 
 So sad ! — It was the fondling of his dotage — 
 
 And had it been the child of his old age. 
 
 He could not more have loved the little one! 
 
 For him he claimed a patrimony, lapsed 
 
 By long secession from his country to 
 
 The lord De Frederick: it had been denied 
 
 To his huml)le suit; for the disputed land 
 
 (Neighbouring the hallowed fane) had been closed in, 
 
 And a fair monument erected. So 
 
 He kept possession— through persuasives more 
 
 Perchance than inclination — yet 'twas kept. 
 
 The lonlly abbot then took up the cause. 
 
 And sheltered the old pilgrim and tlie boy. 
 
 He had again been suppliant for the boon
 
 184 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 Of his paternal state, when Edwin and 
 
 The dark browed Bertrand crossed his path; the first 
 
 Smarted for his base action, as ye know. 
 
 The pilgrim spake. " The Lord De Frederick 'bides 
 
 " Not in these precincts; nor hath he been kenned 
 
 " Within them through the day." 
 
 " Would ye confer 
 
 " Witli the lord abbot?" said a monk, " he may 
 " Have other tidings!" 
 
 " Even so," replied 
 The voice of Gerard— " speedy be his step; 
 " W^e are constrained to use dispatch, and if 
 " Aught he can shew us, be it not delayed. 
 The question brought not the intelligence 
 They sought and hoped for— nothing there was known. 
 Confusion followed and amazement ; all 
 The imaoination was at work to form 
 Solution to the mystery ; and it Avas 
 As each conceited! The whole convent rose 
 In uproar. For the soldiers — they, (with more 
 Each moment added to them,) still kept on 
 The unsuccessful search. By Gerard rode 
 The pilgrim; and their earnest converse seemed 
 To tell of weighty argument. " Ye say 
 « This Bertrand passed ye at full speed, upon 
 « The hour of vespers; and, concealed behind 
 « A tall tree's stem, ye heard him mutter—' ven- 
 geance,' 
 " That hour De Frederick issued forth; and since 
 " That hour hath not been heard of! Bertrand is
 
 THE FALSE ONE. '' 1S5 
 
 « My lord's retainer— Know ye further yet?" 
 
 « Nothing so certain; what I think, must not 
 « Be said— I shrink at my own thoughts; and ye ' 
 " Would not accredit them!" "' 
 
 " It may be, notl 
 " And, pilgnm! are ye so besotted as * 
 
 " Not to perceive how circumstance concurs * 
 
 " To hurl upon thy head, the like suspect 
 « Tliat may be his,— his due, I not deny it! 
 " 13ul were ye then afar when Hesper came? 
 " What made ye in the forest at that hour ; 
 " Even— observe me — at the moment, when 
 " The Lord De Frederick is supposed to have passed? 
 " If guilt for this be fixed on him, Avhy not 
 " On you?— I pass his talk of vengeance; that 
 " May be your own too, in accusing Mm! 
 " Yet ye are here to testify ye saw 
 " And heard what yet lacks every thing — the proof; 
 " And may perchance involve ye in the crime T'.. 
 
 « That I am here, should testify for me, 
 « And will, to those who know me. IIow I chanced 
 " So opportunely there, is purely thus — 
 " It is my wont at early morn and eve 
 «• To wander 'mong the withering forest leaves, ... 
 " And offer up thanksgivings to the throne 
 " Of Him, at whose command the seasons change, », 
 " And nature wantons in diversity ! 
 " I love to be abroad, when starry myriads 
 " Sparkle upon the firmament; nor less 
 " When the loud elements give batde. It ...
 
 18G THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 " Reiiihuls ine of past times ; aiul I ngaiii 
 *' Feel, if not youthful, that I have been young ! 
 " And, please je to remark, I say not that 
 " Bertrand hath blood upon him. 1 relate 
 " That which I saw and heard— ye may deduce 
 " What inferences ye will ; T shall not shrink 
 " Vyhen I see cause to vindicate my honor !" 
 
 " Well, pilgrim ! knowing it, not wrongfidly 
 *^ Will Gerard charge another: we are yet 
 " Ignorant of his end, for whom we mourn, 
 " And ought not to prejudicate. If he 
 *' Be slain, and Bertrand fled, there will be ground 
 " To fix suspicion — but, meantime, let not 
 " The fancy be our guide, 'tis too oft fatal !" 
 
 They ceased discourse; and by the torches' glare, 
 Which cast a flickering and uncertain light 
 Around, they marked the place of sepulture; 
 Built up as if in mockery of the dead — 
 As if by splendid blazonry to make 
 Corruption incorruptible, and gild 
 The foulness of decay ! — The worm should be 
 Thankful to human vanity: the reptile that 
 May leave its slimy trace upon the slab 
 Of monumental marble; or can crawl 
 Luxuriously around the pillared dome 
 Funereal; should shew all gratitude 
 To human weakness!— for they better can 
 Enjoy that pomp putrescent — than the dead; 
 Ay, or the living! — let them give all thank! 
 
 " Lo! yon fair structure!" said the pilgrim, — "once
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 18/ 
 
 «« That portion of the soil on whicli it stands, 
 « My fathers were the lords of; it hath gone 
 " Cruelly from their grey descendant 1 Here, 
 " E'en in its very site their cottage stood, 
 " And well my aged sire delighted in 
 " The pleasant object which the house of God 
 " So near him did present. He was a cripple, 
 " Bed-rid, and in his dotage, but he ever, 
 '• As the loud anthem raised its swell to Heaven, 
 " And young* sweet voices joined the choral strain, 
 " Would set his thin pale features earnestly, 
 " And pushing back tlie long white hair that fell 
 ** In silky stream upon them, list each gush 
 " Of harmony — and almost, like the note, 
 " Would seem lift up above the world and all 
 " Its earthiness. They say, he scarcely died 
 " Ere the possession was attached; and sure 
 « Good cannot follow!— By your leave, fair sir ! 
 " One moment w ould I pause, and o'er that tomb 
 " Drop the warm tear, I feel my eye bewray 
 " For him who died— and him who wronged his 
 " death!" 
 From his steed tlieold man threw himself, and trod 
 With slow and mournful step beside the yew, 
 'Neath which the cold and stiffened corse was laid 
 Of the one their travail sought. He saw him not 
 Upon his first descent, but his bent eye 
 Caught the impress of footsteps in the snow. 
 Downward he held his torch ; attentively, 
 And not without surprise, he noted them
 
 188 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 « Sir knight!" he hallooed—" here be traces on 
 
 « The earth ! The snowfoll was not till the dark, and . 
 
 " there 
 « Hath been much trampling- since! 'Tvvere well if 
 
 ye 
 " Turned hither : but the men, meanwhile should be 
 « Stationed aloof; their feet and numbers else 
 « Will mar the search." So Gerard joined the piU, 
 
 grim, 
 Waving in either hand a blazing torch ; 
 And eagerly his eye roved round to catch 
 Something of more encouragement. At length 
 He bordered on the tree— the tree of death! 
 The quivering flame struck forward, and lit up 
 The solemn pale of that sunk countenance. 
 The snow-flake covered him ; through which the blood 
 Of his death-wounds had oozed, seeming like buds 
 Of roses plucked and scattered there— or as 
 The ripe red berries which the wild bird drops 
 Heedlessly on the bleached earth of the winter ! 
 
 It was a hideous sight, and Gerard turned 
 Heart-sick as he looked on. " Sir Pilgrim, here 
 « May our search end: this thing incarnadine 
 « Tells what I dreaded to believe, yet feared. 
 « It tells us of De Frederick's murder— but 
 « By whom, asks further thought. Ho, there"- 
 
 « Yet stay," 
 Ejaculated the old man, perceiving 
 He waved the soldiers to move up: " Ye do 
 " Rashly in this; the vestiges that mark
 
 THE FALSE ONE.' l«9 
 
 " The patliway of the murderers, must not be 
 " Erased so lightly !"— " Ye say truth," rejoined 
 The other—" Back" — and the troop wheeled back- \ 
 
 ward. 
 " Thy caution, pilgrim! hath removed the stain 
 " Which seemed to fasten on thee: — let us to 
 « Our task." 
 
 They bent them to it eagerly : 
 The keen eye glanced, where'er the torch-ray fell, 
 And left no nook unscanned. Step after step 
 They traced the tedious way ; and w here the men 
 Bewildered by the snow-fall had retired, 
 They too were in uncertainty. Ere long- 
 Success crowned the endeavour; they were led 
 On to the postern-door — but, closed against 
 Their efforts, it repelled assault. They stood 
 JMutely regarding- one another; and 
 Surprize or something- more, was visible • " 
 
 In the fixed eye of each. — " Whither now?" became 
 The question. — " Not unaided can we force 
 " The opposing- barrier :" 
 
 " Deem ye 1 should wind 
 " My bugle? but a breath will bring- itl" 
 
 '^ First 
 " Return we to the body; something- there 
 " May help to guide our judgniont — time at least 
 " Will more mature it." 
 
 To the cor[)sc once more 
 They .sped them ; once again they searched through 
 
 all
 
 190 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 The confines of the grave, but nought appeared 
 
 To point out the destroyer, or to lead 
 
 Opinion to its g-oal. — " Now may ye bring* 
 
 " Your soldiers," said the pilgrim. Gerard blew 
 
 A loud note in reply, and one and all 
 
 Ranged them around the dead. The stubborn eye 
 
 Melted as it beheld; and they who had, 
 
 Amongst that crowd, once served and honored him, 
 
 Mingled the manly voice with generous wail ! 
 
 They paused in consultation; and it chanced 
 
 The torch a soldier had up-reared «^ainst 
 
 The yew tree's stem, borne by a sudden gust, 
 
 Fell at the feet of him, who there lay slain. 
 
 " By the blest saints !" exclaimed the man—" what 
 
 meaneth 
 " That withered rush within the buskin ? ^s Lq ! 
 " Here be yet more below! these were not had 
 " In travel o'er the forest, as 1 trow!" 
 
 The exclamation, and the comment drew 
 All round him. Then the pilgrim »poke. *' Ye mark 
 " The hand of Providence, sir knight, in this! 
 *' Merciful Heaven ! how blind and bigotted is 
 " Mankind in error ! we run on, and dream 
 " Justice will ne'er o'ertake us : so we sliaht 
 " The All-seeing eye, and arm omnipotent, 
 " But, see ye here, even a rush may be 
 " The avenger and revealer of a crime I 
 " Doth it not speak aloud ? is't not a voice 
 *' That, while the bosom trembles to believe, 
 ♦* Comes to ye like a truth?"
 
 THE FALSE ONE ' 191 
 
 «' Oh 1 1 am lost 
 " III wonder," said the questioned : " Join to this 
 ♦' The snow-tracked pathway, leading— righteous . 
 
 Heaven ! 
 " To yon high towers that frown upon the deed! 
 " Rushes upon him! and yet he went forth 
 " At vespers — that she knew; but surely not 
 *< Bedight in such strange guise! Why then, from 
 
 " whence 
 « Do these things find ihcir way V* 
 
 " And Bertrand fled! 
 " Observe that,'' said tlie pilgrim—" lie who was 
 *' Much favored, niudi rewarded by— it skills not; 
 " Time will shew all!" 
 
 " Fla! and I noAV remember 
 « When in her haste, the lady bade that knave 
 <' (Harold, she named him; is he here dost think?) 
 " Search for her absent husband, she did hint 
 " The church- fjround as a place of likelihood! 
 " Fool ! 1 conceived she meant the abbey-lands, 
 « And true, it is somewhat! Is he not here 
 « That Harold?" 
 
 lie was not ; too much ho feared 
 The deed's investigation, and had fled. 
 But the strong arm of justice was not slow; 
 For as in darkness he moved on, the stream 
 Laving the abbey, which he needs must ford, 
 Was swollen; all unwccting where he stepped, 
 The wretch plunged in, and his faint bubbling cry 
 Was heard by one who passed; but nothing could
 
 192 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 Save or assist him, and to Jiis long- home — 
 
 To his sad doom, no preparation made. 
 
 He hurried from the world, with all his guilt 
 
 Heavily hanging on him— and to hang- ! 
 
 But Gerard and the pilgrim, turned them to 
 
 Earnest consideration. Their resolve 
 
 Was to pursue the footsteps in the snow, 
 
 Till lost in some impervious hiding-place. 
 
 Half of the band — the serving-men — and all 
 
 The stragglers who had joined the search, were left 
 
 To guard the body: the remainder then 
 
 Passed to the postern, and with strength conjoined 
 
 Fractured the oaken board. So they attained 
 
 Admittance to the garden-ground. With quick, 
 
 Yet due observance, they tracked on their course ; 
 
 And after many a circuit, many a maze 
 
 Intricate; they approached where grew a copse 
 
 Of shadowino' underwood, thick scattered o'er 
 
 With thorns and aged brambles. Here they paused. 
 
 For here no turn betrayed continuous marks 
 
 Of those who had preceded them ; yet to 
 
 This place the foot-print was apparent. Then 
 
 The pole-axe swept away the fronting bush. 
 
 Towards which, distinct, the traces pointed them; 
 
 And midst the entaifglement of trees and shrubs 
 
 A narrow pathway seemed, which they pursued ; 
 
 Onward, upon the branching of a tree, 
 
 The lioht olanced o'er a rose f^ that rose had been 
 
 Torn from the buskin of the murdered ! 'Twas 
 
 Plainly indicative that they had taken
 
 THE FALSE ONE 193 
 
 The path the murderers took ; nor was it long" 
 Ere a low door-way, artfully concealed. 
 Gladdened their anxious search. No bar presented 
 Impediment to progress: they who had 
 Passed hither, deemed not danger was so nigh. 
 
 First Gerard entered, then the Pilgrim, and 
 By one and one the troop. A winding stair 
 Conducted them above ; and next a gallery 
 Keceived the lengthened train : but here they foinul 
 No outlet — nor a sound to make their guide. 
 Cautiously struck they with their weapons, and 
 Where came a hollower cadence than the rest 
 They forced themselves a passage. So right on 
 Ascending- somewhat — with a rapid foot 
 They moved. AgTiin opposed a barrier; this 
 Gave them a path; and now a soft full tone 
 Fell, as if issuing from the distance, on 
 The ear. They stood and entered into council. 
 In serried ranks the men were stationed, m hilst 
 The Pilgrim and young- Gerard passed along 
 To whence the voice proceeded. 'Twas as if 
 Reproach was mingled with a wish to soothe — 
 As if resentment were suppressed, and made 
 Subservient to a kinder thought — or one 
 That much strove to appear so. Need 1 tell 
 From whom the magic charm of that sweet sound 
 Arose? need I reveal upon whose car 
 It sunk all bootless? Who, but Amelia ' , 
 
 Could utter music so delicious? mIio 
 But Edwin could have hearkened — yet not heed? 
 
 o
 
 J 94 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 And thero were words of passion said; for aU 
 His frame was filled with terror. Reason sat 
 Unsteadily: the soldiers and the search 
 Had raised alarms no tempering could correct- 
 No sophistry o'erturn ! Her lofty soul 
 Quailed to the despicable wretch, whom she 
 Had loved— 'twere hard to say how fondly ! But 
 Such ever is the event of lawless love, 
 It ends in its fruition : and to her * 
 
 Not only thus it had become, but she 
 Experienced the first loathings of contempt, 
 For him, her arts had worked to the commissiot» 
 Of crimes it is man's nature to abhor! 
 
 So she reaped all the bitter fruit of that 
 Her wayward will had sown — and it was meet. 
 Yet did she strive to hide the arrow, fixed 
 Deeply within her bosom ; and although 
 Sometimes its agony compelled a writhhig, 
 When the poor craven she was linked withal 
 Stubbornly ventured in his folly, to 
 Some act that might betray them— still she braved, 
 In outward seeming, all that could betide. 
 She did e'en more— she covered the full scorn, 
 That grew in spite of her, with blandishment ; 
 And soothed, and would have raised the coward's heart, 
 To the belief that it had courage, and 
 Might blow oflT, as the gossamer, what moved it ! 
 But it was not to be : the petty taunts, 
 Which in the fretfulness ot fear were poured 
 Upon her, were her recompence. How could
 
 THE FALSE UNEJ. 195 
 
 A burning- heart like hers — a haughty soul, 
 Such as in all her errors she retained 
 When crossed in her resolving-s — how could these 
 Bear with the petulant reproach, whicli though 
 It was her sin's right, scarce was so from him? 
 
 Oh! she was guilty! and if she suppressed 
 The throbs that half convulsed her, 'twas not that 
 The acuteness now was more endurable ; 
 Buf that more hung upon the issue, th an 
 The ebullition of her passions brought 
 Of spleenful feeling gratified. Yet oft 
 Impatience Mas depicted in her look. 
 And oft she seemed forgetful — never long; 
 It was a momentary conflict; passed 
 (At least from her clear aspect) as beheld. 
 
 " Why Edwin! what should torture thee? we are 
 " Nothing suspected, and our agents' faith 
 " Not to be doubted! Say, the soldiers should 
 " Find the dead body, as 'tis likely; then 
 " Let that cold-blooded villain, Bertrand, bear 
 " The accusation : he hath 'scaped, and must 
 " Be the reputed murderer. Ay? — wromjedwn^, he? 
 ♦' 'Twas a goo«l hint; we'll make the most on't too! 
 " Nay, cheer thee, Edwin!" 
 
 " Serpent! — fiend — she-devil ! 
 " Touch ine no more; there is a pestilence 
 " Creeps from thy hand upon me — would it might 
 *' Willi ten-fold fury turn upon thy heart ! 
 « Get thee afar, false ihing!" ' 
 
 « What!— have I then 
 o2
 
 196 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 '' From fhee df^sorved tins?" and she cast her eye 
 Fiercely upon him: " Dost thou think it nonght 
 " To have been what I have been — be what 1 am — 
 
 " A thing- not to be named ! and all • . But thou 
 
 " Art much forgetful Edwin ! / could rail, 
 
 *' An that would be of service; prithee have 
 
 *' Somewhat of man, in shew at least: the dead 
 
 " Will not return to life again, and if 
 
 •• Thou wouldst not be as he is, keep thee more 
 
 " Guarded from observation. We must not 
 
 " Even be subject to suspicion ; for 
 
 *• Once call attention on ye, and farewel 
 
 " To hope — to life ! suspicion soon finds proof! 
 
 " Think but on that, and act as may become ye." 
 
 " Oh! would I'd ever done so; I should now 
 " Be free from them — and thee, curst tempter! yet 
 " There 's wisdom in thy cunning — if I had 
 " The power to use it!" 
 
 " Art thou then an idiot? 
 
 " Hast thou not reason ? hast not ? but vain 
 
 hope !" 
 Despondingly she uttered in a faint 
 And tremulous^tone — " Mountains may rise up 
 " And fling the load of ages from their heads, 
 *' Ere he will quit his fears! — Mark me, there is 
 " But one alternative. Either resolve 
 " To banish from thy dastard thought, the dream 
 " Of cowardice, or perish like the brute, 
 " Albeit, so blest not, or so worthily! 
 . " Chuse ye between them, then "
 
 THE FALSE ONE. 197 
 
 JSlie could no mure, 
 For fioiii beneath the arras, like a spirit, 
 l^reparetl to execute a righteous judgment, 
 Gerard broke forth; he wound a short shrill note, 
 And all his comrades ranked about him. " Bind 
 *' The mnrderer and the murderess'^ — A wild shriek 
 Of utter, extreme anguish, Edwin jioured. 
 And fell motionless. But the woman stood 
 With folded arms, and eye-lid drooped. The pale 
 Of her changed cheek was deathly. Not a sob, 
 Or sii»h burst out. All was concluded — that 
 She saw, and litile recked what followed. A\ ord 
 Passed not her lip, and her eye never dared 
 To raise its sparkle upward. .She did shed 
 No tear; but ye might see there wrought a power 
 
 Fearfully in her heart! . They who had been 
 
 The instruments of Providence, to brin^ 
 This deed of guiltiness to proof, went on 
 Their way in sorrow. E'en the battle-storm, 
 Hurtling around that young- and valiant heart, 
 Drove not the memory of the False One from 
 The oppressive, but kind thought. To the lar day 
 Of <lcath, he ne'er forgot her; ami though high 
 in aftertime he rose, beneath the sway 
 Of the Imperial Virgin'-''; ami went down 
 Loaded with honors to the grave, still dwelt 
 The dream of his young days uid>Iotted. ib^ 
 Joined him to one as lovely — but more ltlos<-((l, 
 She never wanderetl from the track «>r honor. 
 Life was a morn unt loiuled, and he set 
 Like a majestic sun. gazed at with a^ve,
 
 198 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 And followed to Lis rest by the pure drops 
 AfTectioM weeps upon the tomb of Love ! 
 
 Not such the fate of those, of whom ye heard f 
 Not such was their departure ! I pass by 
 The hours of justice and of judgment: all 
 The solemn pomp — inquisitorial tone, 
 And long- harangue : proofs that were nothing- needed, 
 And evidence that spoke its fancies, not 
 Its knowledg-e — I pass by them all. The doom 
 Was death !— blood for the blood that they had spilt! 
 
 Yet not the same their destinies. Fear had 
 So wrought upon the lady's paramour; 
 That when remanded to the dungeon's sloom. 
 And left to the alarms of wickedness — 
 The desperation of an evil heart — 
 Reason forsook her mansion. Phrenzy seized 
 The frame that terror had convulsed and torn ! 
 Wildly ferocious grew his countenance; 
 But in his eye, the fire of madness seemed 
 Less terrible than that within his heart! 
 Nature bore not the struo-o-le Ions' : w ith strength 
 Scant human, he wrenched off the manacles. 
 And 'g-ainst the stone-wall of the prison cleft 
 His skull, and perished. Anhelose be lay, 
 As oped the iron-guarded entrance, and 
 Two forms were present. In the one, appeared 
 The venerable sanctity of priesthood ; 
 And in the other, 'tired in mourning- weeds, 
 The eye acknowledged the already changed. 
 And fatal excellence of loveliness !
 
 THE FALSE ONE. ^^^ 
 
 lUit now lirr //^v/ri was softonod; slie lia<l (omul '^ 
 llelio ion's blessed emollient; and the tears 
 Wliich came not till that hour, poured plenteously 
 Their streams of soul-refreshing penitence! 
 
 Fast fell the drops, like evening- dews upon 
 A parched and barren soil, as they beheld 
 The prostrate suicide. 
 
 " Oh Father! can 
 " Tliere yet be hope of Heaven for one so lost? 
 " Am I not all an outcast— doomed to be 
 " Condemned by the Almighty, as by man? 
 " This too have I to answer— this must 1 
 " Add to my deep enormities! — Oh! hast 
 " Thou flattered me with hope, when hope is not?" '* 
 
 *' Think'st thou, my daughter! it is well to fix 
 '^ Limits to the All-Merciful? To Him 
 " That saith there is more joy in Heaven o'er one 
 " Frail mortal who repenteth, than o'er all 
 " The just that need it not?— The prodigal 
 " Was welcomed home with minstrelsy and mirth! 
 " Thou hast sinned much — hast much to be forgiven, 
 " But never should'st despair. Cleanse thy whole 
 
 heart, 
 '* And let the incense of its prayer rise up 
 " ToHimwho hath shed His grace; and, aswith lighf, 
 " Touched thy soul's darkness! mIio hath given thee 
 
 time, 
 <' While yet time is, to find ihc peace of Heaven! 
 " Look on this saddening specfaclr, and feci 
 " How much should be thy gratitude ! lie hath
 
 200 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 " Passed to his dread account — alas! with all 
 
 " That mass of imperfections on his head ! 
 
 " And — though it lessen not thy sin — be sure, 
 
 " Hadst thou not tempted him, another had ! 
 
 " His wickedness was of the heart, and not 
 
 " The child of circumstance. 'Tis soothing to 
 
 " The fallen one, to dream that he had stood 
 
 *' In safety, had not that particular vice 
 
 " Swept him away ! Good sooth ! temptation comes 
 
 " In every varied shape; and he who trusts 
 
 " To his own strength, and not to the support 
 
 " Of Him, who only can deliver — falls 
 
 " Be he tempted how he may ! Let, then, thy death 
 
 " Be happier than thy life ; and though thou goest 
 
 " In all the prime and witchery of youth - 
 
 " To an early unregretted grave — believe 
 
 " If thou hast felt true sorrow for thy crimes — 
 
 " If in thy heart the love of God hath gained 
 
 " A conquest over sin — thou'It yet partake 
 
 " The cup of life, and crown of righteousness. 
 
 " Come then, my daughter! since too late we bear 
 
 " To this poor wretch the comfortable hope 
 
 *' Which thou hast tasted — as a heavenly spring 
 
 " Of living water, rising in the midst 
 
 " Of desolation — come thy ways; prepare 
 
 " With christian fortitude to undergo 
 
 " The fate that yet awaits thee. Dost thou know 
 
 " Its terrors? — 'tis, poor thing! it is the slake."^^ 
 
 A shudder, though a transient one, o'erspread 
 Her form to whom he spake. But she had found
 
 THE FALSE ONE. . 201 
 
 A courage never yet possessed ; and as 
 
 The words of blessing flowed, her eye assumed 
 
 A lustre, like an angel's. The red blood 
 
 Ran vividly across her cheek, and ne'er 
 
 Had beauty been more honored than 'twas now. 
 
 Oh! the blest sight, to see a creature turn 
 
 From evil unto virtue ! — to bewail 
 
 The past, yet feel the future's opening comfort! 
 
 The dread hour came: the faggots were piled high 
 Around the pillar, and commingled with 
 Bituminous essence, soon about to be 
 Invested with new properties. A train 
 Of halberdiers led up the criminal ; 
 And their rough features moistened as they cast 
 A look at her calm wretchedness. She was 
 So altered in her whole deportment; so 
 Gentle — and oh! so beautilul, 'twas like 
 A wrongful sacrifice, not the decree 
 Of just and needful justice. Eyes that ne'er 
 Till theno'errun, wept bitterly; and of 
 The thousand, and ten thousand witnesses 
 That there pressed on Avith eager aspect, to 
 Catch a last glimpse of that fair being, scarce 
 One, but groaned inwardly. Perchance there were 
 Many who deemed her innocent — who thought 
 Nothing so lovely could work evil ! but 
 Who shall bewray the power of beauty on 
 The human heart! And when in penitence. 
 In scalding tears, and agony that wrung 
 And seemed to wring the very soul — who could
 
 202 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 Remember her iniquity? who could 
 Pause to reflect how merited her doom? 
 
 The holy man was there; his hallowed words 
 Were her support; so much, that ere she gained 
 The fatal spot, a tempered joy diffused 
 Its blissful spirit o'er her countenance. 
 
 The long rich ringlets of her dark brown hair 
 Had been dissevered ; and a sable sheet 
 Enveloped her tall form. She clomb the pile; 
 Her trembling hands convulsively were elapsed, 
 And faint the murmur of her lip went up 
 Amid the solemn silence that prevailed! 
 They bound her to the stake — Oh ! Heaven! the thrill 
 That shot through that assembly ! all were moved 
 As if by an instinctive terror. And 
 From those soft bosoms in the crowd, that were 
 Female, or filled with female tenderness, 
 An audible cry escaped ; but when the flame 
 Burst rapidly, and fiercely burnt above, 
 Arching its gleamy neck, and menacing 
 Inevitable, dread, immediate fate — 
 When the wood crackled, and the piercing shriek 
 Of that devoted woman rose on high — 
 A shout that made the welkin ring, expressed 
 The feelings of the multitude. Her youth, 
 Her matchless beauty, her high rank, were then 
 Right eloquent, right powerful advocates 
 In her behalf — but lasting not! And she — 
 Her dark eyes raised to Heaven — or firmly closed, 
 As if to shut out sense of puin ; her lip
 
 THE FALSE O^E. ^^ 
 
 Qmverino- with rapid motion, as in prayer; 
 
 While her distorted features spoke too well 
 
 The anouish of that moment — she became 
 
 A nothing to the world. As passed the smoke ' i 
 
 Of her red funeral pyre — as died the shriek 
 
 Of agony, — the murmur, and the wail, 
 
 So, hath she passed away! Her very fame •♦* 
 
 Hath sunk into oblivion. That wide crowd 
 
 Which marked her sufferings, and awhile retained 
 
 The crime and its due punishment — too soon 
 
 Forgot both them, and her! — Now they too are 
 
 Gone to their last account, and many a spring 
 
 Hath walked above their crumbling sepulchres! 
 
 Many a fair flower hath lived and withered there, 
 
 Since they lay down to rest; yet may the voice 
 
 That speaks as from their graves, bid ye control 
 
 The growth of evil in its infancy. 
 
 If not — in vain will ye attempt to bind 
 
 The giant's limbs matured : the blighting course 
 
 Yourselves prepare, and even as ye may 
 
 Meet the event — despair, and shame, and death! 
 
 Bertrand escaped not ; ere he could embark, 
 The fangs of justice fastened on him! High 
 In the wild breeze his rattling bones were heard; 
 Bleached by the beating storm. Nor happier he 
 The fellow-bearer of the murdered dead! 
 Conviction followed him; and unatoned 
 The dark transgressions of his lawless life. 
 Blasphemous and impenitent he <lie(l ! 
 
 The Pilgrim hud his rijjht: but where the corse
 
 204 THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 Beneath that yew-tree lay, never again 
 
 The green grass flourished.^? Long it was, and rank 
 
 All round ; but there no cultivation could 
 
 Produce the by-past verdure!— Oh! ill thrives 
 
 Injustice; let the world take note — the curse 
 
 It brings, is all-destroying to the heart! 
 
 It never blooms — it never prospers, as 
 
 It ought. The sun may shine — the dew-drop may 
 
 Yield it a plenteous moisture, but it shows 
 
 A barren thing, while all around is full 
 
 Of hope's increase, and heaven-blessed fruitfulness! 
 
 END OF CANTO Ht.
 
 NOTES;
 
 4
 
 NOTE TO MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Note i, Page 125, line 5. 
 But oh! hoio like that fount of ill. 
 ** About this fountain, which doth slowly break 
 '• Below yon mountain's foot, into a creek 
 «♦ That waters all the valley, giving fish 
 *' Of many sorts to fill the shepherd's dish. 
 « This holy well (my grandame that is dead, 
 " Right wise in charms, hath often to me said) 
 «* Hath power to change the form of any creature, 
 *♦ Being thrice dipped o'er the head, into what feature, 
 «« Or shape, 'twould please the letter-down to crave, 
 " Who must pronounce this charm too, which she gave 
 " Me on her deatli-bed," 
 
 The Faithful ShcphcrdcsSf A. 2. S. 3. 
 
 .1.1
 
 208 
 
 NOTES TO THE FALSE ONE. 
 
 Note 1. Page 137, liiie 7. 
 Better have quaffed till daif his sherris-sack. 
 This wine, so celebrated of yore, was brought from Xcres (an- 
 ciently called Escuris, says Skinner) in Andalusia, situated at tlir 
 mouth of the river Ana; and hence its name. That merry old 
 soaker, FiilstatF, hath so excellently commended the many virtuous 
 qualities of this wonder-working liquor; that 1 hope my reader 
 will not be ill gratified, if I i>ledge him once again, in the 
 *' parcel-gilt goblet" of " plump Jack." 
 
 " A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold operation in it. It 
 ascends me into the brain ; dries me there all the foolish, and 
 dull, and crudy vapors which environ it: makes it apprehensive, 
 quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes; 
 which delivered o'er to the voice (the tongue), which is the birth, 
 becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent 
 sherris is — the warming of the blood; which, before cold and 
 settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pusil- 
 lanimity and cowardice: but the sherris warms it, and makes it 
 course from the inwards, to the parts extreme, [t illumineth the 
 face; which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this little 
 kingdom, man, to arm : and then the vital commoners and inland
 
 209 
 
 petty spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart; who, great, 
 and puffed up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage; and 
 this valour comes of sherris: so that skill in the weapon is 
 nothing, without sack; for that sets it a- work; and learning, a 
 mere hoard of gold kept by a devil ; till sack commences it, and 
 sets it in act and use." 
 
 " If I had a thousand sons, the first human principle I would 
 teach them, should be — to forswear thin potations, and addict 
 themselves to sack." — Hen. IV. 3d part, A. 4. S. 3. 
 
 Note 2. Page 149, line 10. ,{ 
 
 To the left shoulder his maudilion gaif. /• 
 
 Mandilion is a horseman's, or perhaps more correctly, a soldier's 
 cloak or cassock. *^ Ah It. MaiuliffUone : — hoc d Lat. Mantelum; 
 itndeetVr.G.Manteau et nostnim^lantlc." See Skinner's Etymolo- 
 gicon, in voc. Ed. 1671. And he adds of Mantle, that it is " ab 
 It. Mantello, pallium ; d, lai. Mantelum, hoc est manus tela, qubd 
 vnanus tantiim tegat." " Primurib siynificavit Blantile, scu 
 ^si^oi/.xx.r§oi Grcccorum; secundarib ob similitudinem etiam vestem 
 instar involucri, collo et hrachiis circumjectam, posted etiam ad 
 pallium translatum y — which seems to me, a curious specimen of 
 etymological analogy ! 
 
 Note S. Page 149, line 12 
 Of goodly i[)pocras. 
 
 Ippocras — or Hipocras, is a w iue brewed with spices ; of the 
 method of making of which, Pliny gives the following account, 
 B. 14, c. If). 
 
 " I find also, that they used to make a kind of spiced wine or 
 Ipocras, not for sweet perfumes and ointments onely, but also for 
 drinke. At first (as I haue shewed) they made these aromaticall 
 wines with myrrlie onely, but soone after they added thereto Nard 
 Celtick, sweet Calamus and Aspalathus: either slicing these drugs, 
 or putting them by gobbets into new must or some dulcet wine. 
 Some aromatize their wine with Calamus, Squiiiawth, Costus,
 
 210 
 
 Spikenard, Amomum, Gasia, Cinamon, Saffron, Dates, and 
 Azara-bacca put therrto in like manner by gobbets. Others take 
 Spikenard and Malabathrum, of each halfe a pound to two gallons 
 of new wine. Much after the same manner toe spice our wines 
 no20-a-daies also, but that we adde i)epper and honeif thereto; 
 which some call condite, others pepper winetS^ Translated by 
 Philemon Holland, Doctor in Physicke, 1601. Tome 1, p. 421. 
 
 To this beverage Queen Elizabeth is said to have been extremely 
 partial ; but what she thought of the " aunc.ient time," when 
 *' women in Rome were not permitted to diinke any wine," 1 
 know not. Yet it appears, that a " certaine Romane dame, a 
 woman of good worship, was by lier own kinsfolke famished, and 
 pined to death, for opening a cupboard, wherein the keies of the 
 wine-cellar lay. And Cato doth record, that hereupon arose the 
 manner and custome, that kinsfolke should kisse women 
 when they met them, to know by their breathe whether they 
 smelled of Jemetum — for so they used in those daies to terme 
 wine!" Id. p. 418. Quare — Is this the origin of kissing? If 
 it be, it had a vile unmannerly beginning! 
 
 Note 4. Page 152, line 29- 
 Reached a with-drawing room oersprrad with rushes. 
 
 Before the introduction of carpets, and indeed long afterwards, 
 it was the custom of our ancestors, to strew the floor of their 
 apartments with rushes. Seldom, however, had they the good 
 fortune to be removed; it being thought enough, as one lair grew 
 fouled, to pile another above it. So that the tout ensemble, 
 might not be unaptly likened to a dove-cote; where sticks and 
 straws and feathers, and much diversity of rubbish, are mingled 
 together, and at last carried away en masse, to the great benefit 
 of the careful owner. High occasions were the only inducements 
 to cleanliness; and even the extravagance of fresh rushes was 
 but indulged in, on the arrival of a new guest ; as appears from 
 tlie following extract. 
 
 ** I am sorry, Euphues, that we have no green rushes, consider-
 
 211 / 
 
 ing you have been so yreat a stranyer." Lyly's Euphufs and his 
 England. 
 
 That the use of rushes was continued after tne comfort of a 
 carpet became known, we may gather from a passage in Beau- 
 mont and Fletcher, Cox-Comb, A. 4, S. 3. 
 
 " Take care my house be handsome 
 " And the new stools set out, and bouglis and riisheSf 
 ** And flowers for the window, and the Turkey carpety 
 ** And the great parcel-salt, Nan, with the cruets ; 
 •* And prithee, Alexander, go to the cook 
 *• And bid him spare for nothing, my son 's come home," "' 
 
 Note 5. Page 152, line 30. 
 Aiid hung with tapestry from British looms. 
 Tapestry, or Arras (so called from Arras a city of Artois, in 
 the low countries; where it was extensively manufactured) fre- 
 quently decorated the mansions of our forefathers. " The halls 
 and chambers of the wealthy," says Dr. Henry, "were surrounded 
 with hangings; sometimes with arras, and replenished with a 
 cupboard, long tables, or rather loose boards placed upon trestles; 
 forms, a chair, and a few joint stools." Hist, of Great Britain, 
 vol. G. p. 6.51. 4to. "The term is now appropriated to a kind of 
 woven hangings of wool and silk, frequently raised and enriched 
 with gold and silver, representing figures of men, animals, land- 
 scape, &c. The invention of tapestry seems to have come from 
 tlie Levant; and what makes this the more probable is, that for- 
 merly the workmen concerned herein, were called, at least in 
 France, Sarazins, or Sarazinois. Some have supposed, that the 
 English and Flemish, who were the first that excelled therein, 
 might bring the art with them, from some of the croisadcs or ex- 
 peditions against the Saracens." Chambers's Diet. 1783. But 
 this seems at variance with what follows: "The art of weaving 
 tapestry was brought into England by William Sheldon, Esq., 
 about the end of the reign of Hen. Vlll." Idem. 
 
 P«
 
 212 
 
 NoTk C. Page 153, line IG. 
 
 Such the Wild forms 
 
 That superstitious terror grafted on 
 
 The record of past deeds. 
 A note is added in this plare, to guard against any imputed 
 anachronism. Of course the "wild forms" here spoken of, are 
 the relicts of anterior times ; and if the manufacture of tapestry, 
 as appears probable, was brought into England at the period of 
 the crusades, the subjects represented would naturally turn upon 
 what had then the greatest interest. The Saladine tenth, which 
 was " a general tax imposed upon the laity, and even the clergy 
 of the Latin church, for the service of the holy war," bears in- 
 contestible evidence. Gibbon says, to the terrors inspired by the 
 oriental conqueror. On this account, therefore, I have intro- 
 duced him into the text. A story exists, intimating that he solicited 
 and obtained the profane honor of knighthood from the Christian 
 general; and to this is the allusion. But the " grand finale'' of 
 the infidel, as expressed in the poem, however much like the his- 
 tory of those times, is not, we believe, historical ! 
 
 In later periods, sporting subjects, viz.— hunting, and especially 
 hawking, were those generally depicted upon tapestry : and of 
 such, if my memory fail not, is what may still be seen in the 
 curious old edifice of Haddon Hall, in Derbyshire. 
 
 Note 7. Page 154, line 18. 
 Wilt thou bring 
 The virginals ? 
 . " The virginal" (or more properly virginals) " is a keyed instru- 
 ment of one string, jack, and quill to each note, like a spinet; 
 but in shape resembling the present small pianoforte. It has 
 been imagined to have been invented in England, during the 
 reign of Queen Elizabeth, and to have been thus denominated in 
 honor of that virgin princess ; but we have here, not only a 
 proof of its use in this kingdom before she was queen, but a 
 drawing, and description of it, appeared in Luscinius's Mrtsurgia,
 
 2VS 
 
 before slie was bom." General Hist, of Music, by Charles 
 Buriicy, Mus. D — Oxen. vol. 3. p. 5. 4to. 1789, 
 
 The ^roo/ above hinted at, relates to a list of " Musitions and 
 Players," in the reign of Edward VI., in which the names of cer- 
 tain male performers on the virginals are recorded. They were 
 however principally confined to the practice of virgins, and from 
 this circumstance derive the name. "Sic dictum quia plerumque 
 puellce virgines, hoc instrumentum pulsare discunt.'' — Skinner. 
 
 Note 8. Page 157, line 1. 
 
 It is the vesper hour; gi'ei/ twilight dons 
 
 Her dewy vestment. 
 By this notation of time, twilight is now very generally under- 
 stood. Mr. Fosbrooke however (Britisli Mouachism) describes it 
 by the phrase " after dinner.'' I should conceive this incorrect, 
 if we are to suppose the usual dinner hour of our ancestors to be 
 signified ; because they were accustomed to take this meal at 
 twelve o'clock, and often, even as early as eleven,* The different 
 portions of conventual life, are thus marked by Mr. Fosbrooke. — 
 " Matins or lauds (midnight); prime (6 a.m.); thirds or tierce 
 (9 a. m.) ; scxt or sixths (12 at noon) ; nones (3 p. m.) ; vespers 
 (after dinner) ; complin (7 p. m.)" 
 
 Note 9. Page l62, line9. 
 Falcons, that strike at eagles, like the bird 
 In Persian story j hnt ivith fate less hard. 
 The story to which the text has reference, is thus very prettily 
 related in Thomas Heywood's " Ro gal King and Loyal Subjects' 
 
 * Tlic following extract from Sir John Harrington's " Orders for 
 liouseliold Servantes," will illustrate this observation : . 
 
 " XI. Item, The table must be covered halfe an houer before 11 at 
 dinner, and 6 at supper, or before, on paine of 2d. 
 
 " XII. Item, That nieate be rcadie at 11 or before at dinner, and 6 
 or before jt supptr, on paine of 6d." »
 
 214 
 
 * A Persian history 
 *' I read of late: how the great Sophy, oute 
 *' Flying a noble falcon at the heme, 
 " In comes by chance an eagle sousing by ; 
 ** Which, when the hawk espies, leaves her first game, 
 ** And boldly ventures on the king of birds. 
 " Long tugged they in the air, till at the length 
 " The falcon (better breathed) seized on the eagle, 
 *• And struck it dead. The barons praised the bird, 
 " And for her courage she was peerless held. 
 *• The emperor, after some deliberate thoughts, 
 *' Made her no less : he caused a crown of gold 
 " To be new framed, and fitted to her head, 
 ** In honor of her courage. Then the bird, 
 *' With great applause, was to the market-place 
 ** In triumph borne; where, when her utmost worth 
 *• Had been proclaimed, the common executioner, 
 *' First, by the king's command, took oflf her crown, 
 ** And after, with a sword, struck oflf her head, 
 *' As one no better than a noble traitor 
 " Unto the king of birds !" 
 The Sophy's " barons" would read an excellent lesson in the 
 decree, though perhaps little to their taste. 
 
 Note 10. Page I69, line 29. 
 Ajid every note 
 Seemed as it melted on the tongue. 
 So Dryden, in his translation of the Flower and the Leaf. 
 " So just, so small, yet in so sweet a note, 
 *' It seemed the music melted in her throat." 
 Or, as Dan Chaucer hath it, but not altogether as rendered by 
 Dryden— 
 
 *' Began anonc 
 " A lady for to sing right womanhj 
 " A bargaret in praising the daisie.
 
 215 
 
 Note 11. Page 170, line 7. 
 But faint the fair beams of that \Amet prove. 
 As the sun was once held eiratic, it is conceived there can be 
 little impropriety in the appellation here applied. Not till late in 
 the sixteenth century was the Copernican system promulgated. 
 
 Note IC. Page 171, line 2. 
 But her hand 
 Made ravishing division. 
 This word, according to Mr. Steevens, the excellent annotator 
 of Shakespeare, was anciently used " for the pauses or parts of a 
 musical composition." It occurs in the tragedy of a " Woman 
 killed with Kindness" — by Heywood. 
 
 "Her lute! — Oh God! upon this instrument 
 *' Her fingers have run quick division, 
 " Swifter than that which now divides our hearts." 
 And again in a beautifully descriptive passage of Ben Jonson's 
 Masque of The Vision of Delight. 
 
 " The chirping swallow called forth by the sun, 
 *' And crested lark, doth his division run ; 
 *' Tiie yellow bees the air with murmur fill, 
 " The finches carol, and the turtles bill." 
 These lines I think uncommonly sweet and expressive. ■ ' 
 
 Note 13. Page 171, line 11. 
 Had the sound 
 Of that all wondrous horn, which whilom rang 
 To the rough breath of hi)n, in knightly worth 
 Vurivallfd — young Astolfo ! 
 Alln«liiig to the horn given by the fairy Logcstylla to Astolfo, 
 in tlie()rlan<lo Furioso, Canto \b. stanza 1.5. 
 
 " Dico che'l coi-iio e di si orribil suono, 
 " Ch' ovunque s'oda, fti fuggir la gente. 
 " Non puo trovarsi al mondo un cor si buono, 
 '* Che p'.'sba non fuggir coiuc lo bciitc."
 
 216 
 
 NoTK 14. Page 112, line 25. 
 Get ye gone, and say 
 Our message toithoui further let. What ho !— 
 Where is the other pelting rascal .* 
 Let, here is hindrance, or impediment; and pelting, in the 
 next line, means low, pitiful:— it was the common phraseology of 
 the day. 
 
 Note 15. Page 173, line 25. 
 Apait 
 And seeming busied tvith the embroidery 
 Of silver tissues, and rich cloths of gold. 
 The False One sat. 
 *' Before the Reformation, young men were educated in monas- 
 teries, women in nunneries; where the latter were instructed in 
 writing, drawing, confectionary, needle-work, and what were 
 regarded then as female accomplishments, in physic and surgery." 
 
 Henry's Hist, of Great Britain, vol. 6. 
 
 Note 16. Page 174, line 25. 
 This speaks ye nothing gentle, though ye bear 
 The spur and belt of knight. 
 Gentle, in its original signification, implies well born,— noble. 
 
 Thus, in a " ballad made by Chaucer, teaching what is gcntelness,. 
 
 or whom is worthy to be called gentill.'" 
 
 *' This first stocke was full of rightwisnes, 
 ♦' Trewe of his worde, sober, pitous and free, 
 " Clene of his goste, and loved besinesse, 
 «' Against the vice of sloutij in honeste; 
 " And but his eyre* love vertue as did he, 
 " He is not gentill though he rich seme, 
 " All wear he miter, crowne, or diadcme," 
 
 • Mr, Chalmers, in his glossary of Chaucer, interprets eyre, by air: 
 this is a palpable error, for ittvideutiy signifies heir. However, it 
 may be a misprint.
 
 217 - ; 
 
 , NoTK 17- Page 176, line 14. ** 
 
 Cope the rebels led 
 By the ruffian Ket. 
 Robert Ket, alias Knight, was by trade a tanner, resident at 
 Winiondham (called also by contraction, Wind ham) about six miles 
 from Norwich. In the third year of the reign of Edward VI., A. D. 
 1549., he put himself at the liead of a body of rebels, who had . 
 risen in that part of the country, under the plea, that certain pas- 
 ture grounds near the city, to the immunity of which they con- 
 ceived themselves entitled, had been unlawfully inclosed and oc- 
 cupied. They committed great depredations, and the govern- 
 ment (then beset with difficulties from opposing factions) being 
 dilatory in applying means for the suppression of them, their power 
 rapidly increased. After defeating the Marquis of Northampton, 
 who had been sent against them,1hey were finally routed, with great 
 slaughter, by the Earl of Warwick ; and Ket, together Avith his 
 brother William, hanged in chains; the one upon the top of 
 Norwich Castle, and the other on Wimondliam steeple. Sir 
 Edward Warner, mentioned in the text some lines preceding, 
 was field-marshal, under the marquis of Northampton, in the 
 »mfortunatc defence of the city of Norwich. 
 
 Note 18. Page 179, line 25. 
 What woman lost to man, she gives ayain 
 In her life-long attachments. 
 This sentiment has, I think, been expressed before, though I 
 cannot remember where. An old writer of a curious book (en- 
 titled, 77(c English Gentleman, and English Gentlewoman)* 
 has the following epigram upon woman, which to nic carries all 
 the force of originality. 
 
 " Had woman, man's choyce succour, neVe beone sinner, 
 " Pure as slue's fairc, slued had no error in her: 
 
 • The full title runs thus, "The English Gt-ntlcniiin : containing sun- 
 drj eicdlcnt rulcf, ur riquisile observatiuns, lending to direction of
 
 218 
 
 " Now, humble soule, her error to descrye, 
 
 " She still reteincs the apple in her eye." 
 And what makes the point yet better, it is affixed to liis list of 
 errata in the " EngHsh Gentlewoman." He obsei-ves, — "To 
 describe an English Gentlewoman without an errors were a 
 glozing palpable error; and to free her more than an English 
 gentleman of error y were to incurre a prejudicate censure of 
 both; which, without farther apologie, the presse hath saved me 
 a labourer yet, reflect upon the weaknesse of her sexe (whose 
 purest selfe dignifies her sexe) and the subject will injoyne thee to 
 hold it thine highest honour to salve her error with an ingenious 
 candor. So maist thou vindicate the authoi', and by beeing a ver- 
 tuous lover, gain a most deserving mistresses favour." — There is 
 good sense as well as wit in the passage. 
 
 Note ig. Page 181, line 8. 
 For nought the papal bull availed them. 
 In the twelfth year of the reign of Elizabeth, Pius V. pro- 
 
 every gentleman of selecter ranke and quality; liow to demeane or 
 accommodate himselfein the manage of publike or private affairs." And 
 "The English Gentlewoman drawne out to the full body: expressing, 
 what habilliments doc best attire her, what ornaments doe best adorne her, 
 what complements doe best accomplish her. The third edition revised, 
 corrected, and enlarged, by Richard Brathwait, Esq. London, printed 
 bjT. Dawson, 1641." The book concludes with "The Turtle's Triumph, 
 presented in a supplement highly conducing to an useful application, 
 and graceful understanding of the two former subjects." This Author 
 also wrote a treatise, called the "Huntsman's Raunge;" but which I 
 have never seen. In the " Biographia Dramatica" (appendix) he is said 
 to be a voluminous writer; and amongst other things produced — 1 
 Mercurius Britannicus; or, the Englith Intelligencer. T. C. 4to, 1641. 
 —a. Regicidium, T. 8vo. 1665.
 
 219 
 
 nounced sentence of doposilion a gainst this famous Queen ; anil 
 the bull, sent over to England for that purpose, was found at- 
 tached to tlie gate of the bishop of London's palace, in St. Paul's 
 Church-yard. As the document is curious, it may be "behooful" 
 in the words of the historian, " here to interlace some rorings of 
 the same, as I have gathered them out of one that I am sure had 
 a conscience to tell the truth." 
 
 " Sententia declaratoria contra Elizabeth, &c. 
 ** Pius episcopus servus servorum Dei, &c. Missaj sacrificium, 
 preccs, jcjunia, ciborum delectum, ciElibatum, ilia (regina Eliza- 
 betha) abolevit. Eadem occupato regno supremi ecclesiae capitis 
 locum, in omni Anglia, ej usque pra3cipuam auctoritatem atque 
 jurisdictionem monstrose sibi usurpans, regnum ipsum rursum in 
 miserum cxitiuin, revocavit. Rcgium concilium ex Anglicu no- 
 bilitate conflatum dircniit. Ilominibus obscuris implevit. Ho- 
 nnnibus haereticis coniplevit. Ad quern velut ad asylum omnium 
 infostissinii perfugium invenerunt, &c. Declaranms praedictam 
 Elizabetham, eique adlia;rentes in praedictis, anatheniatis seu- 
 tentiam incurrisse. Quinctiam ipsam practenso regni praedicti 
 jure, necnon omni ctquocunque doniinio, dignitate, privilegioque 
 privatam. Praccipimus et interdicinms- universis et singulis pro- 
 ceribus, subditis, et po[)ulis, et aliis pracdictis, ne iili ejusfiuc 
 nionitis, mandatis ct hgibus audeant obedire : qui secus egerint 
 cos simili anatheniatis sententia inuodamus. Onmes qui illi quo- 
 modocunque juraverunt, a juramento Imjusmodi ac omni prorsus 
 dominii fidelitatis et obsccjuii dcbito perpetuo absolutos dccla- 
 ramus, &c." 
 
 •' A sentenre denonnced against Elizabeth. &c. 
 " Pius bishop, servant of God's servants, &c. Slice (queciic 
 Elizabeth) lialh clcauc put awaie the sacrifice of the masse, 
 praiers, fastings, choice or ditlerence of nioals and single life. 
 Shoe invaded the kingdonic, and by usiir|)ing nionstrouslie the 
 place of the supreme head of the church in all England, and the 
 chcefc authoritic and jurisdiction of the same, hath againc broght 
 the said rcalnn^ into miserable (1( struct ion. Siin hath rcnioovcd 
 the noble men of England iVoin the kniga couucell, She hath
 
 220 
 
 made her couiicell of poore, darke, bcggerlie fellows, and IiatTl 
 placed them over the people. These councellors are not oiilie 
 poor and beggerlie, but also heretikes. Unto her all such as are 
 the woorst of the people resort, and are by her received into safe 
 protection, &c. We make it knowen, that Elizabeth aforesaid, 
 and as many as stand on her side in the matters above named, have 
 run into the danger of our cursse. We make it also- knowen, 
 that we have deprived her from that rigiit she pretended to have 
 in the kingdome aforesaid, and also from all and everie her autho- 
 ritie, diguitie, and privilege. We charge andforbid all and everie 
 the nobles, and subjects, and people, and others aforesaid, that 
 they be not so bardie as to obeie hir, or hir will, or commande- 
 ments, or laws, upon paine of the like accursse upon them. We 
 pronounce that all, whosoever, by anie occasion, have taken their 
 oth unto hir, are for ever discharged of such their oth, and also 
 from all fealtie and service, which was due to hir by reason of 
 hir government, &c." 
 
 But the day when the thunders of the Vatican would have been 
 felt, was passed ; and now 
 
 *' Nought the papal bull availed them! nought 
 " The alb and amice, cope and scapulairel'* 
 
 Note 20. Page 181, line 9. 
 The alb and amice, cope and scapulaire. 
 The alb, in monastic phrase, is a surplice; the amice is the gar- 
 ment worn beneath; the cope is a covering for the head, deduced^ 
 say the etymologists, from the word cop, a head; but it has also 
 been understood to signify a cloak, and probably because it en- 
 veloped the upper parts of the body, while it extended to the feet. 
 The scapulaire is that part of the dress which enwraps the shoulders, 
 from the Lat. scapula, a shoulder-blade. " What betokeneth your 
 great hood, your scaplecr, your knotted girdle, and your wide 
 cope ?" saith honest Jack Upland, •' Why be ye wedded faster 
 to your habits than a man is to his wife? For a man may leave his 
 wife for a year or two, as many men done ; and if you leave your 
 habit a quarter of a year, ye should be holdcn apostatatcs."
 
 121 
 
 Note Q1. Page 189, line 2. 
 One transitorii (/ham hud yet to break 
 Over the gathering darkness. 
 Alluding to the next reign; when the bij^otted Mary gave occa- 
 sion to the last exulting throb, of the Romish church, in England. 
 
 Note 22. Page 182, Hne 29. 
 To he cast away. 
 E'en as the earth-cvrrupted hone, the spade 
 Ejects from its dark hiding place; to yield 
 A moral and a tale ! 
 
 If any truth be in history, or any thing but caricature in the 
 *♦ Monks' Hymn to Saunte Satan," which I subjoin, with a transla- 
 tion; tliere is no undue censure conveyed in the language of the 
 text 
 
 The original of this " hymii' is found among the papers of Sir 
 John Harington, and given in the " Nuga; Antiquae." It is also 
 cited by Sir John Hawkins in his history of music, who annexes 
 a translation, -which does not appear to me to possess the spirit of 
 tlie Latin text. I pretend not to think that my own succeeds bet- 
 ter; but it seems (in idea at least) that the Italian " ottava rima" is 
 better adapted for communicating it. Where I could, the transla- 
 tion is literal, otherwise it is paraphrased. But there needsau apo- 
 logy; and I hope 1 may be allowed to adopt tliat which has been 
 already offered, in the words of the first translator: " These lines 
 are certainly corrupt, but as they arc singularly humorous, and 
 nearly resemble the facetious rhymes of Walter de Mapes, who 
 lived in the time of Hen. II. and, as Camden says, filled all Eng- 
 land with his merriments; the following transl:ition has been at- 
 tempted, under all tin; disadvantages that must arise from the ob- 
 scurity of an original so dilHcult to be understood." — Hist, of Music, 
 p. 438. ■ -^i- 
 
 ** The Monks' Hymn to Saunte Satan, chaimtede dailie in (heir 
 cells, till goodlie Kyngc Henry spoiled their singing, 1546.
 
 222 
 
 O tu qui dans oraciila, 
 Scindis cotem novacula. 
 Da nostra ut tabernacula, 
 Xiinguse canant vernacula, 
 Hujasmodi miracula. 
 Sit semper plenum poculum, 
 Habentes plenum loculum. 
 
 Tu serva nos ut specula. 
 Per longa et laeta saecula, 
 Ut clerus, ut plebecula. 
 Nee nocte, nee diecula, 
 Curent de ulla recula. 
 
 Dura vitemus spicula, 
 Tacentes cum amicula. 
 Quae garrit ut coruicula. 
 Sea tristes, seu ridicula. 
 
 Turn porrigaraus oscula. 
 Turn corrigamus floscula, 
 Ornemus ut ccenaculum, 
 Et totum habitaculum, 
 Tum culi post spiraculum, 
 Spectemus hoc spectaculuni." 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh ! thou, who shrilly bawl'st with pipes oracular, 
 
 Cutting a grindstone with a razor small ; 
 Give us, we pray thee, in our tbngue vernacular. 
 Right lustily tare canticles to squall : 
 
 Devoutly we believe no little crack you are. 
 So, after a crack breakfast, may we all 
 
 Thank thee, for miracles like these, my honey • 
 
 Cups ever full, and endless bags of money!
 
 I 
 t 
 
 223 
 
 II. 
 
 Like to a beacon-tower, we pray thee, keep us. 
 Through long and joyful ages yet to come ; 
 
 We have a huge aversion to grave weepers. 
 With tlieir impertinent and dreary hum! 
 
 Preserve us ever from hfe's care-w orn creei>ers, 
 Stealing upon ye, like a muffled drum. 
 
 Solemn and sad. Dear Impe ! nor day, nor night, 
 
 JLosc we one precious moment of dtlight ! 
 
 III. 
 
 But while without reflection, we reflect 
 Our jovial visnomies in polished glasses. 
 
 Let us avoid (we speak with due rcs[)ect) 
 
 The thorn that sometimes for the floweret passes : 
 
 And oh ! beseech ye, in soft bands connect 
 The laughing, loving, blue eyed, bonny lasses. 
 
 That (by mine halidom !) like any chough. 
 
 Mournful, or merry, gabble ye enough. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thus, let us lengthen out the long, long kiss ; 
 
 Collecting many a flower of rich perfume. 
 To decorate — ah! more than mortal bliss! . 
 
 That paradise of man — the supper-room ! 
 Yea, be the mansion all prepared for this. 
 
 And every ventricle, a spacious tomb : 
 Then, being at ease, we'll squat us on the floor. 
 Think on what's past and bother thee for more. 
 
 Note 23. Page 190, line IG. i 
 
 Bif the llest saitits! exclaimed the 7nan, wJiat meaneth 
 That withered rush witJmi the biiskin ? 
 The extract following begins after the commission of the mur- 
 ilcr, and relates pretty nearly all tliat has furnished the ground-
 
 224 
 
 work of tlie poem. The characters, it sliould be observed, are of 
 lower rank, and of less importance, than it has been the aim of the 
 author to assign them in this work. 
 
 " After supper, mistres Arden caused hir daughter to plaie on 
 the virginals, as they dansed, and she with them, and so seemed to 
 protract time, as it were, till maister Arden should come; and she 
 said, I marvell where he is so long ; well, he will come anon, I am 
 sure ; I praie you in the meane while let us plaie a game at the ta- 
 bles.* But the Londoners said, they must go to their host's house, 
 or else they should be shut out at doores, and so taking their leave, 
 departed. When they were gone, the servants that were not privie 
 to the murder were sent abroad into the towne, some to seeke their 
 maister, and some of other errands, all saving Michael and a maide, 
 Mosbie's-f sister, and one of mistres Arden's owne daughters. 
 Then Ihey tooke the dead bodie, and caried it out, to laie it in a 
 field next to the church. In the meane time it began to snow, and 
 when they came to the garden gate, they remembered that they 
 had forgotten the kaie, and one went in for it, and finding it, at 
 length brought it, opened the gate, and caried the corps mto the 
 same field, as it were ten pases from the garden-gate, and laide him 
 downe, on his backe streight in his night-gowne, with his slippei-8 
 on; and betweene one of his slippers- and his foote a loiig rush or 
 two remained. When they had thus laid him downe, they return- 
 ed the same Way they came, tlirough the garden into the house. 
 
 They being returned thus back agaiiie into the house, the 
 doores were opened, and the servants returned home that had been 
 sent abroad. And being now verie late, she sent fooi-tli hir folks 
 againe to make inquirie for him in diverse places, namelie, among 
 the best in the towne, where he was wont to be; who made an- 
 swer, that they could tell nothing of him. Then she began to 
 make an outcrie, and said, never woman had such neighbors as 1 
 liave, and herewith wept; insomuch that hir neighbors came in. 
 
 * 
 
 Backgammon. t Mosby, was Mistress Arden's confederate.
 
 225 
 
 atid found hir making great lamentation, pretending to marvell 
 what was become of hir liusband. Whereupon the maior and 
 others came to make search for him. The faire was wont to be 
 kept partiie in the towne, and partlie in the Abbeie ; but Arden, for 
 his owne privat lucre and covetous gaine, had this present yeare 
 procured it to be wholie kept within the Abbeie ground, which 
 he had purchased, so reaping all the gaines to himselfe, and bereav- 
 ing the towne of that portion which was wont to come to the in- 
 habitants, got many a bitter cursse. The maior going aboute the 
 faire in this search, at length came to the ground where Arden 
 laie; and as it happened. Prune the groser getting sight of him 
 first, said, staie, for metliinke I see one lie here. And so they look- 
 ing and beholding the bodie, found that it was Maister Arden, 
 lieng there throughlie dead; and viewing diligentlie the maner of 
 his bodie and hurts, found the rushes sticking in his slippers; and 
 marking further, espied certeine footsteps, by reason of the snow, 
 betwixt the place where he laie and the garden doore." 
 
 The character of Arden's wife was long infamous previous to 
 this scrutiny; and the mayor " knowing hir evill demeanor in 
 times past, examined hir of the matter." The usual concomitants 
 of murder— bloody knives— stained articles of dress, &c. &c. sub- 
 stantiated the suspicion ; and she and her accomplices underwent 
 the puniihment of their crime. 
 
 Note 24. Page 192, line 28. 
 
 The light ylauced o'er a rose ; that rose had been 
 
 Torn from the buskin of the mnrdered. 
 This was a large bunch of ribands, formed into what was termed 
 a rose. The gallants of the age were preposterously extravag-ant 
 in their adherence to this uncouth fashion. " Men of meane 
 ranke," says Stowc, speaking of his own time, " wore garters, 
 Sii\i\ shoe-roses oi more than tive pounds apiece;" and the per- 
 fectly equipped courtier of a similar period, is thus described in 
 the Steele-glats of CJascoigne ; as quoted by a late editor of 
 I3t;aumont and I'letchcr. —
 
 22G 
 
 " Our bunibast hose, our double treble ruffes, 
 " Our suites of silk, our comely garded capes, 
 " Our knit silke stockes, and Spanish lether shoes 
 *' (Yea velvet serves oft times to trample on) 
 ** Our plumes, our spaugs, and al our queint array 
 " Arc pricking spurres, provoking filthy pride." 
 
 Note 25. Page 197, line 26. 
 Beneath the sway 
 Of the Imperial Virgin. 
 
 Queen Elizabeth. — One of the last editors of Shakspeare — and 
 none of the best — has got up the following observation. 
 
 " The political wisdom of this princess is still revered, for the 
 best of reasons, because every act of her history proves her to 
 have possessed it; but her beauty, her mercy, and her chastity, in 
 spite even of Shakspeare, are • like the baseless fabric of a vi- 
 sion,' they ' leave not a rack behind.'" No — they do not leave 
 a rack: or one might be tempted to recommend the application in 
 this place, " Con amove !" 
 
 The question of her beauty, and her mercy, I will pass. If 
 the judgments of her contemporaries, (which this writer would 
 call interested, and " a compliment wisely enough paid by a poet 
 to a living sovereign!" *) be not satisfactory; — if the eye that «au>, 
 and the living hand that pourtrayed, may not be accredited ; it is 
 in vain to expect conviction of her beauty to rest on the tradition of 
 succeeding times. And her mercy — when opposed to the cruel blot 
 •which the sacrifice of the Scottish Queen presents in the annals 
 of her life — will unfortunately be still less capable of defence. 
 But for her chastity, I have yet a word or two to offer. Whatever 
 dark hints may have been thrown out respecting the early life of 
 Elizabeth, there never has been the remotest shadow of a proof 
 adduced in support of them. Young, and inexperienced, and 
 
 * The same remarks.
 
 227 
 
 placed in a situation of such peculiar difficulty, as to draw all 
 eyes upon her actions; it is not to be doubted, but some things, 
 seen so dimly through the distance, may have assumed a gloomier 
 tinge than was their due — especially, when they were afterwards 
 left to be moulded in the hands of her inveterate enemies, the Ca- 
 tholics. But dull, indeed, must be his imagination; and cold and 
 unenviable his heart, who finds not in the glorious career of this 
 unequalled woman, sunny spots enough to lighten all the pitchi- 
 ness of uncorroborated asseveration — and reasons, strong enough 
 to be up-held, at the heavenly tribunal of charity! 
 
 Yet, if the author, whose remarks have drawn me thus far into 
 the subject, has neither a fancy to be warmed, nor a charity to 
 bestow ; let him not affect a candour which is so much calculated 
 to deceive — or retail on the authority of bare assertion, what he 
 cannot know to be a fact, and should not speak of as such, until he 
 does! 
 
 Note 26. Page 200, line 28. 
 'Tw, poor thing ! it is the stake. 
 
 *' Mistres Arden was burned at Canterburie, the foure and 
 twentieth of March," 1551. A tragedy upon this subject, by an 
 anonymous writer, (4to. 1592) I find noticed in tlie " Biographia 
 Dramatica," under the following title, — "The lamentable and true 
 Tragedie of M. Arden, of Fevershani, in Kent, who was most 
 wickedlyc murdered by the means of his disloyall and wanton 
 wyfe, who for the love she bare to one Mosbie, hyrcd two des- 
 perat ruHins, Black Will and Shagbag, to kill him." Lillo, 
 (author of the celebrated dramatic " History of George Barn- 
 well,"^ also produced a play upon the same occurrence; but 
 which, my authority says, was left imperfect, and afterwards con- 
 cluded by Dr. John lioadley. I had seen neither of these per- 
 formances, when " The False One" went to the press. 
 
 Note 27. Page 204, line 2. 
 Where the corse 
 Beneath that yew-tree lay, never again 
 The green grass flourished. 
 *' This one thing scemeth verie strange and notable, touching 
 
 «i2
 
 228 
 
 Maister Arden, that in the place where he was laid, being deaU 
 all the proportion of his bodie might be scene two years after and 
 more, so plaine as could be, for the grasse did not grow where his 
 bodie had touched : but betweene his legs, betweene his armes, 
 and about the hollownesse of his necke, and round about his bo- 
 die, and where his legs, amies, head, or anie other part of his 
 bodie had touched, no grasse growed at all of all that time. So 
 that manie strangers came in that meane time, beside the townes- 
 men,to see the print of his bodie there on the ground in that field. 
 Which field he had (as some have reported) most cruellie taken 
 from a woman, that had beene a widow to one Cooke, and after 
 married to one Ricliard Read, a mariner, to the great hinderance of 
 hir and hir husband the said Read." 
 
 The reader will account for this " verie strange and notable'* 
 circumstance, as it pleaseth him— so that he affront not the honest 
 chronicler by any heretical unbelief. He may discover that the 
 enormity is of greater magnitude, and the consequence less mar- 
 vellous, if he reflect that to " a woman, that had been a widow," 
 and moreover " to one Cooke," all this was done. That it was 
 the cause, also, he is at full liberty to believe— if he list; and it 
 is so admirable a feature in the history of retributive justice, that 
 it ought not to be overlooked ! Surely the poet bad reason on his 
 Bide, when he said, 
 
 " What things they are, 
 " What precious things these widows!" * 
 I presume, however, that the writer speaks seriously ; and this 
 should not be lost sight of; or I may be suspected of a smile, 
 whereas, in truth, I am as grave as a judge! 
 
 • " Wit without money." Act 2.
 
 POEMS.
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 — " Create of airy forms a stream, 
 
 •' It must have blootl and nought of phlegm; 
 '♦ And though it be a waking dream, 
 " Yet let it, like an odour, rise 
 " To all the senses here—] 
 " And fall like sleep upon their eyes, 
 *' Or music in their ear." 
 
 Vision of Delight, 4lo. 1640. 
 ..1, ■■, 
 
 I. 
 
 What is so sweet, when o'er the world Heaven throws 
 [ts sliury mantle in night's quiet noon — 
 
 AV'lit'H the light dew-drop weeps upon the rose, 
 Moistening her blushing cheek — and the chaste 
 moon 
 
 Looks lovingly on earth, and brighter grows, -•. 
 
 Proud that felicity is made her boon — 
 
 What is so sweet, as in those hours of bliss 
 
 To look upon the ryes where kindness is'^
 
 232 POEMS. 
 
 n. 
 
 To grasp the hand that trembles at the touch, 
 Thrilling with ecstacies at every pore : 
 
 To speak of love (if ye acknowledge such !) 
 In passion's eloquence — but breathing more 
 
 The voice that Friendship hears and feels so much. 
 Than the betraying- thoughts, which madly ponr 
 
 Destruction on the soul: — 'tis only sweet, 
 
 When innocent hearts, in unstained fondness, meet, 
 
 III. 
 
 Then, when soft tongues speak first in true love's 
 tone 
 
 And softer voices murmur in reply — 
 When the full bosom would its feelings own, 
 
 And transport trembles in the impassioned eye: 
 Who that thus felt, though happiness have flown 
 
 Rapidly past, as fairy tokens fly — 
 Hath not remembered, to life's parting hour, 
 How sweetly o'er him came that gentle power? 
 
 IV. 
 
 When, too, the friend thy heart hath treasured long. 
 With thee hath Avandered o'er the flowery sod ; — 
 
 With him who loved thee, and amid the throng- 
 Loved best, and best deserving — to have trod 
 
 Precipitous paths, the morning- clouds among. 
 And listened to the audible voice of God 
 
 Sounding within thy heart. — Oh! say, could there 
 
 Be dreams more blissful, or a scene more fair ?
 
 POEMS. 2;J3 
 
 V. 
 
 Aim! it is sweet, yea, exquisitely sweet — 
 Though absence veil ihefriend — thoughloversjKut — 
 
 (They who have seen life's early blossoms fleet, 
 As brief as beautiful!) to tell thy heart 
 
 That still in dreams your waking- fancies meet; 
 
 That there be thoughts which kindly, warmly start. 
 
 Anil, like good spirits, wing their unknown ways, 
 
 Rich with the memories of other days. 
 
 VI. 
 
 At the lone hour of midnight I have gazed 
 
 O'er the calm front ol' heaven ; and on mine ear" ' 
 
 Rolled the deep roar of Ocean as it chased 
 The rebel wave along : — I love to hear 
 
 Such sounds — they are the voice of nature raised 
 In prayer unto her jMaker; they appear * 
 
 Like swelling anthems on the breezes hurled. 
 
 Music sublime — the organ of the world ! 
 
 VH. 
 
 And such may yield glad moments; care and grief 
 Flee the torn heart awhile— as Satan fled 
 
 The ear of Eve, touched by the angel chief: 
 
 And Fancy then, whom dove-winyed Hope hfilh 
 led. 
 
 Atrial being gives to every leaf 
 
 That floats in moonlight — fashions evcrv lliKad » 
 
 The gossamer hath spun, lo crealun s bright 
 
 Wiih prefernatural and inimmlal light!
 
 234 POEiMS. 
 
 VIIT. 
 
 * Sure in this world of sorrow, if there spring 
 
 * Kind thoughts from loving hearts; they are not 
 
 cast 
 
 * As some despised, unprofitable! thing, 
 
 * To the wild phrenzy of the scathing blast. 
 
 * What if, as issuing from the soul, they cling 
 
 * To purer life, eternally to last; 
 
 * And starting on, with eager fondness warmed, 
 
 * Encircle him, for whom they first were formed ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 * And there are seasons when the heart reposes, 
 
 < AVith fuller, stronger joy on what it loves; 
 
 * When Memory comes, like breath of evening roses, 
 
 ' Charged with diviner perfume! — when it roves 
 
 * Delightedly through distant worlds, and loses 
 
 * Remembrance of what is, in what it proves — 
 
 * When oratitude for good deeds is less weak, 
 
 * And the soul burns with more than tongue may 
 
 speak ! 
 
 X. 
 
 « What if such spirits, formed in kindly hour, 
 
 * Prompted this hallowed feeling!— if they gave 
 
 * The wandering, wayward heart to fix the power 
 
 < That pendulates, as though 'twere chance's slave !— 
 ' What, if they took all shapes !— a leaf, a flower, 
 
 * Will bring forgotten feelings from their grave— 
 
 * Nay, e'en the very bubble which the stream 
 « Carries ajong' and even thus 1 dream !
 
 POEMS. ?35 
 
 XI. 
 
 Time speeds away ; — I woukl not I couKl wake p 
 
 From that delicious dream, nor ever find 
 
 The bliss that Fancy can so fondly make, j 
 
 Is folly's frost-work to the sterner mind: 
 
 I would for ever <lream yon leaves partake [ 
 
 Of something- I have loved, as in the wind 
 
 They hurry round and round me, and seek rest, 
 
 Falling, but vainly falling-, o*er my breast! 
 
 XH. 
 
 I would believe that flower rude hands have (orttT.;» \ 
 But glowing yet, in bright unnumbered dyes; 
 
 Was not alone in pride of beauty worn [ 
 
 On Emma's breast — that uselessly it lies! — 
 
 Fd deem it rather a kind spirit, born > 
 
 In thoughts of kindness, and from human eyes 
 
 There veiled — there breathing in its perfumed I^iss 
 
 The soul of love — the purity of bliss ! 
 
 XIII. 
 And as 1 wandered by the pebbly stream. 
 
 And marked it dancing carelessly away ; 
 For ever and for ever would I dream. 
 
 That in its bul)ble some loved spirit lay! — 
 How few things earthly be there as they seem 
 
 To the common herd of men, and even they. 
 The wise ones of the world, no further see 
 Than what all find— that all is vanity!
 
 236 POEMS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Then ye should pause, ere >vith contemptuous eye, 
 Ye quit the dreamer's page — content if he 
 
 Find there that happiness which passeth by 
 The myriads of mankind ; — or though it be 
 
 But a bright moment's bliss, wouldst thou deny 
 That heavenly moment? — envy ye the tree 
 
 Which blooms to-day, to. morrow waxeth dim? — 
 
 Pause, fellow-mortal! spurn nor envy him ! 
 
 XV. 
 And go thy ways, thou that with aspect dark, 
 
 Nor scorns, nor envies him, who frames such lay ; 
 But bids the storm howl round his laboring bark. 
 
 And shoots red lightning o'er the ocean way: — 
 Go — and when loudly sings the mounting lark. 
 
 And bounds thy bosom in life's sunniest ray ; 
 Bethink thee then, why thoti dar'st scatter woe-^ 
 Man of dark visage ! I beseech ye, go.
 
 POEMS. 237 
 
 A NIGHT SONG. 
 
 : .-jO 
 
 TO JULIA. I 
 
 Good night, dearest Love ! good night. 
 The world is a world of light, 
 
 To him who spies. 
 
 In the maiden's eyes, 
 Love's hope-star, burning bright. 
 
 Good night. 
 
 .i 
 
 Sweet, sweet is the heavenly dream. 
 That floats on the midnight beam. 
 
 When young hearts unite, 
 
 In the throb of delight. 
 Full and deep, as the silent stream. 
 
 Good night. 
 
 The voice of mankind is past; 
 
 There stirs not a breath for the blast — 
 
 But the bright eye speaks, 
 
 And the ijlowingf cheeks 
 Say well, that dear blushes arc rising fast. 
 
 Good nicli'.
 
 238 POEMS. 
 
 The moon — the coy moon just now 
 Threw a veil o'er her silvery brow ! 
 
 Oh ! was't to conceal 
 
 How the heart must feel, 
 At a time when so hallowed its blessing^s flow ? 
 
 Good night. 
 
 Or, kind to her votaries, Love ! 
 
 Does she treasure her splendour above. 
 
 That the pure touch of lips, 
 
 In that moment's eclipse. 
 May be hid from the shapes that in moonlight rove ? 
 
 Good night. 
 
 Good night 1— May the dream of thy Fancy meet 
 Life's joys as delicious, but ne'er so fleet; 
 
 May thy blue eye close 
 
 In blest repose 
 And open like Heaven, benignly sweet! 
 
 Good night. *
 
 POEMS. 239 
 
 TO A LADY PLAYING ON THE HARP. 
 
 •• Friends are the lamps which gild the soul, and shed 
 
 " Light on the heart of man, reflecting all 
 
 •♦ The charm of virtue there." 
 
 '< Angelo," a Fragment. 
 
 Yes, harps have rung- in bower and hall, 
 When love glanced on from heart to eye — 
 
 But ne'er did voice of music fall 
 Upon the soul so soothingly, 
 
 As that sweet air which poured along, . . 
 
 Love's magic, in the charm of song ! 
 
 Lady, how was it, that it brought 
 No thrill of sorrow back to thought — 
 No hour of anguish — not the day. 
 When pleasure came and past away, 
 Leaving a stain — like blood-drops spread . 
 Where life by desperate hand was shed — 
 To call up memory, and relume 
 The darkness brooding o'er its tomb?
 
 240 POEMS, 
 
 It ever hath been thus — the strain, 
 Which joyous seemed, was mixed with painj 
 And deep, and strong, and undefined, 
 Kuslied all the feelings of the mind. 
 But 'twas not now as it hath been: 
 That form— that harp— that moon-light scene- 
 That swell of song — the eye that took 
 The heart's impression in its look— 
 The red lip, and the cheek that strove 
 
 For mastery — as floated by 
 Some feather from the wing of Love, 
 
 Some quip from Mirth's exulting eye! 
 
 I MARKED them all— could sorrow start 
 With such an impulse on the heart? 
 Could ills t© come, or evils past. 
 The present sunshine overcast? 
 1 felt them not; amid that scene 
 They were, as though they ne'er had been; 
 Amid that glow of bliss — to me 
 They were, as though they ne'er should be: 
 All was forootten; all that fate 
 Hath stored of dull or desolate 
 
 In that blest moment died — 
 1 but beheld a vision— bright 
 As those which cross the dreams of night 
 
 On Fancy's sparkling tide: 
 And, oh ! it wore the mien — the tone 
 Quick feelings best delight to own;
 
 POEMS. 241 
 
 !t breathed of kindness, and it spoke 
 Such witching- words of friendship too, 
 
 That the proud soul, in pride unbroke, 
 Dissolved before its touch, like dew. 
 
 Search ye the spheres of earth and heaven- 
 Search (harder still) the human breast; 
 
 There's not through all a rapture given 
 So dear, as feelings unrepresscd 
 Of kindness, can impart — 
 
 They spring before ye, bright and pure, 
 
 The night-chilled wanderer's cynosure— 
 The day-star of the heart! 
 
 A spell it hath, of powerful name, 
 So full of life-redeemingf heat; 
 
 That, though ye knew it but deceit, 
 
 You'd love the fair dissembling cheat. 
 And court the painted flame. 
 
 'Tis even so: though T have stood 
 
 Haughtily, 'gainst the haught of blood — 
 
 Thouirh some there be who deem me rife 
 
 With fancies that engender strife; 
 
 And charge to me emotions fraught 
 
 With sickly and distempered thought — 
 
 Beshrew mc, if afar I've turned. 
 
 When near the lamp of kindness burned ; 
 
 Besbrew me, if 1 have not pressed 
 
 Its warming splendor to my breast. 
 
 And treasured with a miser's care , , 
 
 The brilliant light that glittered there! 
 
 R
 
 242 POEMS. 
 
 Aye, I have loved il, when it came 
 Even a dim, and doubtful flame; 
 Have o'er it breathed the last cold breatli 
 Of hope — and, not to hope, was death ! 
 They cannot say my heart is cold — 
 
 They cannot call affection chill — 
 Whate'er the whispering' tongue hath told 
 
 Of evil, not to me that ill! 
 No, lady — I have had some grief — 
 
 Some pleasure, too, perchance I've known ; 
 But be life's moment dark as brief, 
 
 When love is lost, and feeling flown ! 
 
 For thee — for thee, from whom the dream 
 Of soothing- kindness sprung- — I deem 
 (If waking visions may have aught 
 Of truth, beyond an empty thought) 
 Thou'lt not deny me friendship — not 
 Forget — 'tis hard to be forgot ! 
 Thou Milt not scorn me, if I bless 
 Thy form's majestic loveliness — 
 Thou wilt not bend an eye of pride 
 
 Coldly on one who wisheth thee 
 The light of love to gild the tide 
 
 Which glideth to eternity: 
 Who lifts to heaven the heart-felt prayer. 
 That life may pass untouched with care; 
 Blessed by thy fate, beyond the scope 
 Of man — yet something- left to hope ;
 
 POEMS. 243 
 
 Something" to keep alive the bliss 
 That dies on fortune's precipice ! 
 
 Is there auoht more ? Oh, ask thine heart ! 
 
 Think if it be not sweet to see, 
 Around, the lovely image dart 
 
 Of pure, unsullied infancy- 
 Bright cherub smiles, that rapture speak, 
 Reflected in a mother's cheek ! 
 
 Is there aught more ?— earth hath not got 
 A blessing that I wish thee not ;— 
 On thee and thine— on him who shares 
 Thy life's best joys, and pleasing cares— - 
 On him — on all, betide the spell 
 Of this prophetic lay — farewell ! 
 
 28th May, I82I. 
 
 • ■ - f > 
 
 :1 
 
 ■wr 
 
 :M 
 
 R2
 
 244 POEMS 
 
 LINES 
 
 AFTER THE MANNER OF 
 
 PRIOR'S ALMA„ 
 
 " Basia mille patent, basia mille latent." 
 
 '* Fore Pol"— said I, with sudden twirl — 
 " Miss Mary, you're a glorious girl!" 
 Miss Mary, curtsying, thus began — 
 " And you?— you are a glorious man!" 
 " Indeed !'*— quoth I, with sudden sneeze, 
 " We'll join — (tish!)— glories, if you please; 
 " And— stay ; I have as noble a fancy 
 " As ever yet did eye of man see — 
 " I'll be yoar sun, and you shall be 
 " My moo7i — so take your light from mo \ 
 « What think you, Mary ?" Mary bent 
 Like Venus—without compliment ! —
 
 POEMS, 245 
 
 Indeed she is (no joke between us) 
 
 Venus herself- a living Venus! 1. 
 
 And there are hosts of Cupids fly 
 
 Thicker than hail, from either eye : 
 
 So thick— that, if I tell you true, 
 
 Certes viy eyes must have them too; 
 
 Because, when she has looked with care. 
 
 She says, they've been quadrilling there— - 
 
 And far— ;/*ar too gallant am I 
 
 To shout—" fair Lady, that's a lie I" 
 
 But as I said,— or should have said- 
 Miss Mary bent her gracious head ; i 
 
 Just as provoking! Not to hit 
 
 A simile that's new and fit ! 
 
 Just as a violet? 'twill not do, 
 
 She blushed— the violet blushes hluel^ 
 
 Just as a rose-bud, charged with rain? — 
 
 What luck is mine!— I'm out again! 
 
 Had she but wept, we might have said, 
 
 As such a rose, she hung her head; 
 
 But she was laughing— out upon her. 
 
 To mar my verses' hard-earned honor: ' 
 
 Yet 1 will search the depths of learning, 
 
 Each nook and crook and ma/y turning, " 
 
 And ye shall laud my shrewd discerning. 
 
 Just as- plague on the tiresome elf. 
 
 She's like — like nothing but herself; 
 And to hcviielf, without more stir, 
 I shall take leave to liken her!
 
 246 POEMS. 
 
 Now be there poets (old or young^. 
 Living or dead) who've said or sung ; 
 Or will pretend to say or sing 
 
 That they, from their imagining 
 
 (And old Dan Phcebus too, to boot. 
 
 With laureird pate, and tinkling lute ?) 
 
 Can, in one day produce a noAver, 
 
 An apter, prettier, or a truer 
 
 Simile, or comparison. 
 
 Performing more than I have done — 
 
 Why, let them, faith ! let them produce it— 
 
 Though poesy no other knew, 
 For my part, an I'd power to chuse it, 
 
 Nick Lucifer should have his due ! 
 
 And here, it strikes me just to mention, 
 If any claim my new invention 
 Of likening things unto themselves— 
 If any pilfering, swaggering elves 
 Dare but to wrong me — they shall see 
 I am the only patentee ! 
 Observe the label — " Duly made 
 " By so and so — the best i'th' trade :" — 
 And then — " the Maker's own appointment, 
 " At this poetic shop, they sell 
 " Verses that run as smooth as ointment, 
 " And poppy-like to sleep compel! 
 *' Sonnets for colds by lovers caught, 
 " And stanzas for fine feelings wrought : 
 " Best buttered sentiments in rhyme "— 
 Of which we'll thuut another time.
 
 POEMS. ' 247 
 
 In epic song', your lonesome road 
 Is cLeered by many an episode, 
 Scattered like stars, on frosty nights, 
 And g-leaming- just like vapor lights — 
 (I'm happier here, and to be free, 
 This same's a shining simile!) 
 Even so my lay — nor is it wrong. 
 To follow thus the epic song- — 
 And therefore Reader ! en cette mode 
 
 Digression none, but episode, 
 
 J. 
 
 But Mary bent her head, and then * 
 
 AVhat followed? why it rose agen — * 
 
 Rose I protest, with such a sly, • 
 
 And such a laughter-beaming eye ; 
 And such a sweetly swelling lip — 
 (I dared not, though I longed to sip;) 
 And dimples— that to memory gave 
 Soft eddies in a moon-lit wave — 
 And such a chin, so smooth, so w hite, '', 
 
 It seemed as newly touched with light, 
 Caught haply from her radiant eyes — 
 (Take notice — tins is mere surmise:) 
 Then such — I pause, my gentlest Reader, 
 One moment, but to bid you heed her — 
 *' Take notice," as I said above, ' * 
 
 Of this sweet form of sweetest love; ' ' ' 
 
 And say — but no, all words were weak, ^ ' " .» 
 
 Thine eye must know, thy heart must speak, 
 Or vainly would'st ihou dream the charms 
 That stand before rac, up in urnis— *"
 
 248 POEMS. 
 
 As vainly would my paper tell 
 
 The music of the sound, that fell 
 
 From those red lips, T lately said 
 
 Were appertaining to her head; 
 
 As thus she uttered replication 
 
 To my sublime imagination : 
 
 Which Reader! if thine eye would keny 
 
 Look back, some dozen lines agen — 
 
 From the beginning, nine or ten. 
 
 ** Friend" she exclaimed — *' although I can see 
 " Something that's fine, in this thy fancy — 
 " I doubt not, if I had my will, 
 " But I could make it finer still." 
 *' Pause there, fair maid 1" quoth I, directly, 
 *' And what you speak, speak circumspectly ; 
 " Mean you to dress in baby linen 
 " My lofty thoughts? — is that your meaning? 
 
 *' 1 beg " but like the testy nettle 
 
 That, lightly touched, will shew its mettle, 
 She did upon my ear propound 
 Such weighty arguments, 1 found 
 Conviction, rising at the sound ! 
 
 " Mean you to interrupt" quoth she, 
 *' My well spun thread of orat'ry? 
 *' Have I not listened oft and long 
 " To many a prosy, tiresome song — 
 « Have I not still kept waking, — nay 
 " Perused, and reperused your lay, 
 " That is — the binding — day by day?
 
 , ; 
 
 POEMS. 249 
 
 " Have I tlisdaineil not tube spattered '» 
 
 *♦ With anocl-clianns— so loved, so flattered, 
 
 " That soiuetiines, I have half forgot 
 
 " If I were mortal or were not ? 
 
 " And do yon dream without offence 
 
 " To stop my flood of eloquence? 
 
 *' For Heaven's sake, how can you presume 
 
 " To talk when I talk '/ mighty Rome 
 
 " Bore not two Coesars ! — either I 
 
 *' Will rule, or know the reason why !" . -f 
 
 It was in vain, I saw, to offer 
 One word from my o'erflowing coffer; 
 Her store no further augment needed — 
 I sighed, looked sad, and she proceeded. 
 
 " Well, dear ! as I was going to say — 
 " But yours is such a teazing way; 
 " I could improve upon your thought, 
 •* Give it a color bri<>hter too: — 
 " But you disdain so to be taught, 
 *' By me, or any— that you do." 
 Now /was touched, and might have got 
 Into a scrape ; but even then 
 Perceiving th;it the bile grew hot, 
 She smiled— and I was calm agen. 
 
 Fixing licr eye, no longer gloomed, 
 In smiles on mine, she thus resumed. 
 ♦' So you will let me tell you? wcli, 
 *' Thut'skind at Icastjand I will tell:
 
 250 POEMS. 
 
 " You said— wliat was't you said ? 'tis past, 
 ** And I've forgotten sure— wliat was't ? 
 ♦* True— true : you said, that I, the moon, 
 " Was lighted by the Star of noon ; 
 " And you — Sir Vanity you are — 
 " Presumed you were that radiant star! 
 " VYhy, let it be; for once I grant 
 " You are the very thing you vaunt — 
 " But though you are yon sun above, 
 " /am the fire, that lights you, Lovel" 
 
 Just as the Maiden closed her chapter, 
 1 felt impressed with high-wrought rapturej 
 My bounding soul, was altered quite — 
 " You are," — quoth I — " you are my light; 
 " My heart's pure flame— the kindling sparky 
 " That dying, leaves me, cold and dark: 
 " My world will then lose every ray, 
 " And ebon Night resume her sway!'*
 
 POEMS. 251 
 
 EPICEDIUM. 
 
 Quis desiderio sit piuk)r, aut modus 
 Tani c)iari capitis ? Prscipe lugubrcs 
 Caiitus, Melpomene, cui liquidam pater 
 Vocera cuin cithara dedit. 
 
 HoR. Cab. I. xxiv. 
 
 I. 
 
 There came a form from Heaven, and it was fraught 
 With all that man holds beautiful or rare; 
 
 Quick, beaming- eyes — the interpreters of thought — 
 The life of loveliness! Expression there 
 Was soft, and chaste, and excellent: — Mhale'er 
 
 Thy dreams have pictured thee of winning love, 
 Young, warm, and tender — exquisitely fair — 
 
 This, she was all to us; regret believes, above!
 
 252 POEMS. 
 
 II. 
 
 She died— and never to my eye did death 
 Wear such a look of terror! It was not, 
 
 That beauty had departed with the breath 
 Of life — when the blue swelling vein forgot 
 Its active functions. Seldom this the lot 
 
 Of such sweet innocence; a charm is given. 
 Death even lingers to destroy — to blot 
 
 What Heaven regards and owns; and 'tis the seal of 
 Heaven ! 
 
 III. 
 
 It was, that she whom we had loved so well ; 
 
 She, that had been so beautiful — so bright. 
 Had fled that earthy where we were doomed to dwell. 
 
 Had parted from us, like a shape of light: 
 
 Like lightning flashing through the gloom of night, 
 Leaving intenser darkness; leaving fear. 
 
 Bewildering thoughts, confusedness of sight, 
 And all that sinks the heart— that bids it tremble here! 
 
 IV. 
 
 But she hath passed — her sorrows are no more! 
 
 And though regret may mingle with long years 
 Of our humanity; though the eye must pour. 
 
 In very bitterness of heart, its tears. 
 
 And even our hopes, demonstrating our fears. 
 Precede us to tlie grave — 'tis bliss, that o'er 
 
 The troubled world of waters, she nor hears 
 Nor heeds the wind-swoln wave~/ier sorrows areno 
 more.
 
 POKMS. 253 
 
 V. 
 
 And Death's ralin sleep, shesleopeth !— WiM flowers 
 grow 
 
 Lavishly on the sod; flourishing- there 
 Reckless and pitiless of what below 
 
 Moves silently to dust. The summer air 
 
 Wafts many a gentle breath— the storm will spare 
 Her quiet grave; 'tis sheltered, and secure: 
 
 But what avails it? Bootless all that care; 
 Will the dust give ye thank?— the sacrifice is poorl 
 
 VI. 
 
 Follow her footsteps ; be ye pious, meek^ 
 Let her fair memory dew thy withered heart; 
 
 Mark the sad tear-drop on her pallid cheek, 
 And let it comfort to thy soul impart : — 
 For deeper sorrow, than thou know'st did dart 
 
 Consuming fire upon her, yet she bore 
 
 Unmurmuringly her ills!— Whoe'er thou art 
 
 Away, and do the like— her sorrows are no more! 
 
 Novembery 1820.
 
 .^54 POEMS. 
 
 STANZAS TO MARIA 
 
 AVE MARTA!— Many a form 
 
 Of beauty, lingers on my mind ; 
 Like flowers that scattered by the storm 
 
 Yet leave their fragrance long breath behind. 
 Bewildering eyes, and rose-wreathed cheeks, 
 
 And crisped locks of luring gleam, 
 The memory of the past bespeaks— 
 
 And dear, though faint, the shadowy dream ! 
 
 Ave Maria !— Far above 
 
 All other that my soul hath tried, 
 Tliou passest with the glow of Love 
 
 O'er life's bedimmed and troublous tide : 
 For there's a melting radiance sent 
 
 Forth from thine eye's enthroned might ; 
 Whose pure etherial element 
 
 Sparkles witli intellectual light.
 
 POEMS. 255 
 
 'Tis there alone that Love abides '' 
 
 Bathed by fresh streams of limpid dew; 
 'Tis there on twin-born waves he rides, 
 
 Where feeling-, star-like, flashes througli ; 
 Buoyant, he flings the red rose-leaf, i 
 
 Thy blushing- cheek and lip upon, 
 And gayly laughs — that urchin-chief! — 
 
 To mark the lily's whiteness gone. 
 
 Ave Maria !— Is it so? 
 
 And canst thou love — and wilt thou share 
 The heart, that would not pleasure know 
 
 While thine was touched with mortal care? 
 I may not bring thee costly gems, 
 
 Nor with tiaras bind thy brow — 
 But Love will spurn at diadems. 
 
 To win the life-unshaken vow! . ' 
 
 Nor would I break my faith to thee, ' ."- • T 
 
 Though for a throne— and wilt thou then, 
 Cast heedless from thy memory [^I't" 
 
 The love, that seeks but love again? 
 Thou may'st in sooth — thou may'st despise! — '^ 
 
 But no, I'll not so poorly deem ; 
 The living light of those sweet eyes 
 
 Beamed never with a scornful beam !
 
 256 POEMS. 
 
 Yet— if lliou roultlstnot g-ive tliy heart 
 
 In full and free exchang-e for mine — 
 IM l)ear the veriest wretch's part, 
 
 Ere link my proflfered hand with thine! 
 I'd rather yield me up to death 
 
 Than to thy beauty —if to find 
 Thon'dst breathed to Heaven a perjured breath. 
 
 And traced thy vows upon the wind. 
 
 Thou too wouhVst die, ere thus to be 
 
 A thing" that should incur man's hate — 
 A hollow, smiling- mockery. 
 
 Most gorgeous, when most desolate. 
 I know thou would'st — then love me, sweet ! 
 
 Bid me not turn, and coldly say — 
 " A fairer form thine eye may meet, 
 
 " And bend beneath a fitter sway." 
 
 I care not for a fairer form— 
 
 A fitter sway I will not seek j 
 Why should I quit a heart so warm. 
 
 To gaze upon a brighter cheek ? 
 And thou, though haply thou may'st know 
 
 A higher and a worthier name, 
 Wilt meet with none to love thee so. 
 
 And burn with less diminished flame !
 
 POEMS. 2J7 
 
 Ave Maria! — loved and dear. 
 
 For thee I'll build a sacred shrine, 
 AVhose altar is a heart sincere 
 
 That fond affections closely twine: 
 The thought thou tliinkest, 1 will think ; 
 
 Thine through all change of good and ill. 
 Till the last drop thy lip shall drink 
 
 Of life, and time its murmur still. 
 
 Then, if it be my fate to stand, 
 
 Where death moves on with noiseless stir,— 
 To o-rasp— great Heaven'.— thy clay cold hand, 
 
 And raise the dew-washed sepulchre — 
 The silent voice of woe shall creep 
 
 E'en to thy place of rest; and love, 
 That lives, thoiigh it forbear to weep, 
 
 Shall waft an endless prayer above! — 
 
 Ave Maria! 
 
 Fehrvary, 
 
 %
 
 258 rOEMS. 
 
 To the Fneiuh of my Heart, 
 
 1. 
 
 To the friends of my heart, here 's a health ; fill it up, 
 Let the spirit of happiness float in the cup ; 
 While with feelings unfeigned, we re-echo the pledge, 
 And the lip courts the bumper that bathes the bowl's 
 
 edge. 
 To the friends of my heart! — Were the red wave, we 
 
 filled 
 From the bright-running fountains above usjdistilled — 
 Were it nectar we drained, and immortal its kind, 
 'Twere too poor for the bliss that enraptures the mind 1 
 
 IT. ^ 
 
 Oh! who that believes, that his memory glows 
 Enshrined in the bosom of friendship; who knows 
 That whenever the star of his fortunes may set 
 There is Love will be with him, and shine round him 
 yet —
 
 POEMS. 259 
 
 Wiio that feels, not e'en fate — though in sorrow she 
 
 cast 
 A cloud o'er tiie future, which shadows the past — 
 Can destroy the affection, Avhose absolute power 
 Through the blight hath preserved all the bloom of the 
 
 flower!— 
 
 III. 
 
 Would not quaff a full cup — if but one— to the breasts 
 AVhere esteem has its home, and true tenderness 
 
 rests? 
 Where the warmth of the heart lends a ray to the 
 
 eyes. 
 That but breaks out the clearer, if darkness arise? — 
 To the Love unextinguished, undimmed, that will 
 
 be 
 As a watch-light on Time's ever turbulent sea. 
 Reflecting a radiance, pure, placid and bright. 
 Mid the roar of the Avaters and gloom of the night ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, my friends ! when I feel not your love, may I 
 
 lie 
 As a leaf, in the pride of its summer, thrown by; 
 May the sod o'er me wither, where flowers used to 
 
 spring, 
 And my grave want the tear that affection should 
 
 brini»-. 
 
 r5" 
 
 s2
 
 260 POEMS. 
 
 Be no voice of lament o*or my sepulclne heard. 
 Nor its solitude cheered by the son^ of the bird; 
 May the dew never fall — nor the sun-beam, thai 
 
 sweeps 
 O'er the turf, fling a smile, where ingratitude sleeps ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Yes — round me let Thought every bitterness roll, 
 If e'er I forget ye, dear friends of my soul! 
 If my bosom wax cold, or one feeling grow dim, 
 Which should shine as a star from the drinking- 
 
 cup's brim: 
 For it is not the wine-drop, though sparkling it fall. 
 Nor the sound of the harp, nor the feast of the hall, 
 That should tempt me to join in the Bacchanal's part,— • 
 'Tis the pledge of sincerity warm from the heart!
 
 POEMS. 261 
 
 To my Friend, the Ilev\ C. G. S, 
 
 I KNOW not what there is in life, 
 That man should hate or prize it: 
 
 Sorrow there is enough, and strife — 
 And joy too — but where lies it? 
 
 Some pleasant hours we've had, in truth, 
 And may have more, no question ; 
 
 On our side yet, are healtii and youth, 
 Though reeds they be to rest on. 
 
 There's Love ! — ay Love 's a dainty thing 
 
 The daintiest, I've a notion ; 
 lie flutters such a radiant winjj — 
 
 But changeable as ocean. 
 
 And Friendship — that I can't deny 
 
 A cordial, rich and cheering-; 
 But time, must often meet the eye 
 Unkindncss springs a tear in.
 
 262 POEMS. 
 
 It skills not whether brought about 
 
 By our, or others' errors— 
 The hearts we never dared to doubt, 
 
 Shrink from affliction's terrors. 
 
 Yet wave-like, still each hour slides on, 
 Still good and ill enwreath it ; 
 
 And as light gilds the rising one, 
 'Tis darkness all, beneath it. 
 
 Then what should make us covlt 
 Or what should make us spurn it? 
 
 The sun -beam breaks the ocean's strife, 
 And clouds again inurn it! 
 
 Look to the life beyond ; 'tis there 
 
 Alone that Love's immortal ; 
 That Friendship never fades ; and Care 
 
 Nears not the heaven-ward portal. 
 
 Look to the world beyond • its sun. 
 
 With quenchless rays hath crowned him ; 
 
 And wreaths, that honor victory won,— 
 Eternal wreaths, bloom round him I
 
 roi'.MS: 263 
 
 EYES AND STARS. 
 
 " But tliese puling lovers, I cannot but lauj^Ii at them, and their enco- 
 miums of their mistresses." 
 
 Lingua. 
 
 You may talk as you will of yon beaiitii'iil star, 
 And believe, if yc list, notliiiio; briglitcr can rise; 
 
 1 will tell ye, the blaze that is brillianter far, 
 Hath its source in ray Mary's soft eloquent eyes! 
 
 But it is not at all, that for stars yow would take them, 
 
 As a fanciful Bard, somewhere joyously sing's;* 
 Antl could ye from sleep, see their sweet lids forsake 
 them, 
 You would feel, on my life, they were much belter 
 things. 
 
 Eur there they are — brilliant and burnins;-, and full 
 Of the richness of love, and the spirit of jny; 
 
 And he whose conceit calls them stars, is as dull 
 As the ass who took thistles for herbage, my boy !
 
 264 POEMS. 
 
 Stars! — glow-worms of Heaven that flock to their 
 stations, 
 
 And brightest appear on the frostiest night! — 
 Oh! Jove keep my Mary from such congelations, 
 
 She is warmer on earth, and I'm certain as bright! 
 
 The fair western planet, that glitters so staidly too, 
 And looks, as ye say, like a beautiful eye; 
 
 Is placed there on purpose to liken your lady to. 
 But nothing like milieu will ye find in the sky. 
 
 Faith ! no — you may cleave to your planets and angels; 
 
 Though excellent things in their way, I'll allow. 
 Yet, I think, in my heart, it were fairly to change ills. 
 
 To take for warm woman a goddess of snow ! 
 
 Ne'ertheless, if some star would a compliment pay. 
 To the belle of the sphere, his opinion to vary; 
 
 By a monstrous hyperbole, thus he might say — 
 " You're as bright, my fair Star! as the Poet's love, 
 Marifr'
 
 POKMS. 265 
 
 COME SING. 
 
 Come sing-; I'm in a merry mood, 
 
 iViiil fain would have a song-: 
 Come sing', I say— By all that's good, 
 
 Thou'It anger me, ere long. 
 
 How can'st thou spoil my bosom's glee 
 
 With that bemoaning' face, 
 That looks forsooth, as if— now see, 
 
 She's singing" Chevij Chase V\ 
 
 " Then prosper lour/ our noble kinrf"— 
 Well, well, with all my heart; 
 
 But prifhet', dost intend to sing- 
 Both first and second part? 
 
 Twere pretty if thou should'st; and then, 
 For once, good counsel take ; 
 
 " Da Capo^'—s'iug it o'er again, 
 I'll try to keep awake! 
 
 /r
 
 266 POEMS, 
 
 Humph! — that's a blessed tunc; what is*t? 
 
 What Hero sang Lean der'/ 
 Now, vengeance ! by my father's fist. 
 
 It's " Goosy, (joosy gander V^ 
 
 Gipsy ! did ever mortal find 
 Such freaks since Eve and Adam? 
 
 But, an ye sing not to my mind, 
 I'll trounce ye, my fine madam ! 
 
 What would I have ? why sure you know, 
 
 I've said it oft sincerely ; 
 The tune that makes my heart dance so— 
 
 '' /'// love youy ever dearly.^'
 
 POEMS. 267 
 
 To a withered Branch of Stveelbriar dropl bij 
 Miss . 
 
 [These lines were iiilendcd for music. Sefe the Air, " If (hou'U be 
 ininc,"&c. iu the 7th Number of Moore's " Irish Melodies."] 
 
 T. 
 
 I WISH some fay, with her magic wand, 
 
 When thou wcrt plucked, fair branch! had been 
 near; : 
 
 And 'stead of thee in the snowy hand 
 Of that hidy brii>ht, had set nie there— 
 'IVere a blissful fate to have perished so! 
 
 II. 
 
 For did 1 not see thee driitk her breath, • • 
 
 More sweet than thine odors were; and sip 
 
 The frao^rant dew from the rosy wreath -t 
 
 That hung in its bloom, around her lip, 
 
 Which .spoke thee blessed to have perished sol
 
 268 POEMS. 
 
 III. 
 
 And basked ye not in her sunny eye 
 
 While richly thy perfume courted her sense? — 
 Then, thou'rt a proud thing that would'st not die. 
 
 Possessed of a nobler recompence 
 
 Than all bright forms that have perished so ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh ! had there but been some favoring Power 
 Then wafted by on its sparkling wing; 
 
 I'd have heaped on its shrine, each odorous flower^ 
 And to be but as thou, ungrateful thing! 
 
 Would have smiled in joy, while I perished so! 
 
 V. 
 
 Yet, fed from such founts, how could'st thou die? 
 
 Good faith, thou hadst all that in life is best; 
 And how did thy spirit dare to fly 
 
 From the tremulous heave of that gentle breast — 
 Methinks / should not have perished so I 
 
 VI. 
 
 And thou, if still thy home had been there, 
 
 Would'st have lived, nor lost thy fragrant breath; 
 
 But, cast aside by the scornful fair, 
 
 'Twas that which alone produced thy death, 
 And, sooth to say, I had perished so!
 
 POEMS. 269 
 
 VII. 
 
 But fare thee well; though withered thou art, 
 And forgotten by her, fair branch! — thou'st been 
 
 What Avakes our envy, and in my heart 
 
 Thou shalt bloom in thy freshest, fairest green. 
 And my verse proclaim why ye perished so! 
 
 April I6thy 1822.
 
 270 POEMS 
 
 Fragment of a Ballad on the New Year, 
 
 *' Ring out the bels, plucke up your spreets, 
 
 " And dress your houses gaie; 
 «« Run in for floures to strew the streets, 
 
 " And make what joy you may." 
 
 OuoSoNG. 1571>. 
 
 Another year Iiatli fleetly gone 
 To that which went before ; 
 
 And hearts the bright sun slione upon 
 Now feel its shine no more. 
 
 Excellent ones have passed away. 
 And eyes that smiled not then. 
 
 For very bitterness — Oh ! they 
 Laugh now on living men. 
 
 The fresh mould — 'tis not long ago— 
 Was heaped on bosoms dear; 
 
 We scarcely turned, and lo ye now! 
 'rh<' loiia' arass orowt Ih liere.
 
 POEMS, m 
 
 Love Imtli been owned, and many a heart 
 
 Hath wept at love's decay; 
 Tlie tear-drop fell, and past — the smart 
 
 Died with the year away. 
 
 * * 
 
 *
 
 272 POEMS. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 [The little pieces that follow, originally occupied a place in some 
 prose attempts, aJso intended for publication ; but which the 
 Author's better judgment has determined him to suppress.] 
 
 There is a line of lii^ht that plays 
 
 Along the clouded west — 
 Like fiiiry dreams of other days, 
 
 That lig-ht the mourner's breast. 
 
 There is a bright ray, glancing- o'er 
 
 The face of the troubled deep — 
 And thus, lorn hearts that joy no more 
 Smile, even while they weep. 
 
 There is a green and verdant leaf, | 
 
 On a Avithering sapless bough— I 
 
 Even so the soul, though seared with grief. 
 May blissful moments know. 
 
 1
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Tliere is a fln«;h of linflitiiinir ffoiie 
 From a dark and .sullen cloud — 
 
 And so the heart — the heart hath shone 
 By deepest anouish bowed. 
 
 There is a spot where the sun-beams melt 
 
 O'er a waste of sullied snow — 
 And the bosom thus, where sorrow dwelt, 
 
 Oft transiently will g-low, 
 
 ^. ,i ■ 
 
 There is a star-like lig-ht above, ' 
 
 And it sparkles through the gloom — 
 It seems to me, the soul of love 
 
 That sits on sorrow's tomb. 
 
 Oh! every woe finds some relief; 
 
 Some Hower on life's rocky shore — 
 As morning smiles on the faded leaf, 
 
 And wiirms — though it bloom no more. 
 
 273 
 
 ') 
 
 </ 
 
 '...
 
 274 POEM?i, 
 
 Purk. " How now, spirit! whither wander you? 
 Fairy. " Over hill, over dale, 
 
 *• Thorough bush, thorough briar, 
 " Over park, over pale, 
 
 •« Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
 *' 1 do wander every where." 
 
 Midsummer Nighi's Dreamt 
 
 Oh ! lightly press yon verdant sod, 
 Where fairy feet perchance have trod, 
 And in the moon-Leam's soothing ray. 
 Have chased the dews of night away. 
 
 Pause, ere ye crush the floweret fair, 
 That loves alone the evening air; 
 And deem, within its perfumed breast, 
 Some lovely shape of light may rest. 
 
 A richer bloom that floweret knows 
 When night's soft zephyr mildly blows— 
 And who can tell but slumbering there 
 Breathes sweetly some pure child of air !
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Well may tliry love Ihe floM'or whose clmrms 
 The day-stnr in its radiance warms — 
 Which filled with all that treasnred lijrht 
 Reserves it for the gloom of night. 
 
 Hast thou not seen, and marked it well, 
 Where aye the brightest moonlight fell? 
 E'en there — in that calm silvery ray, 
 'Tis said that fairy forms will play. 
 
 And there the tale of love is told 
 
 To kindling- hearts of heavenly mould. 
 
 That cannot know of change the name, 
 
 But still live on, and live the same* i 
 
 Then herbs have spells, and many a flower 
 Is rich with that heart-healing power. 
 Which falls amid night's smiling- noon 
 Enlighted by the yellow moon! 
 
 'U, 
 
 For how can fairy hearts adore, 
 And fairy eyes, with bliss run o'er. 
 And not on all they touch dispense 
 Their sweetest, kindliest influence? 
 
 'Tis hence they say, to lovers' hearts 
 The rapture that the moon imparts — 
 The quickening- pulse— the o'erflowing- eye 
 That speaks the soul's full ecstacy! 
 
 t2
 
 0(5 
 
 53 POEMS, 
 
 AWAKE-AWAKE. 
 
 If heavenly visions o'er thy head, 
 Their bright unreal transport shed. 
 And to thy wounded bosom bring 
 The balm that soothes misfortune's sting, 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on. 
 
 If thou canst flee the pangs of thought 
 With more than real misery fraught, 
 And still the gnawings of despair, 
 That vulture-like will revel there, 
 
 Sleep on,, sleep on. 
 
 If feelings dead thy soul possess, 
 Whose life created happiness; 
 (Pure as the spark ere yet extinct^) 
 To all thou lov'st— that loved thee, linked. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on.
 
 POEMS. 277 
 
 If pleasure's ever sparkling- Ime 
 Hath gladdened (lice— and left thee too; 
 And fixed upon the embittered heart 
 A pang that rends, but will not part — 
 
 Oh ! yet, sleep on. 
 
 But if not e'en in sleep thou'rt blest — 
 
 If torturing visions break thy rest — 
 It while the phantom bids thee stay. 
 Mocking- thy grasp, it fleets away, 
 
 Oh! then— awake. 
 
 If demons laugh, and horrors seem 
 More real than thy waking dream; 
 If fancy, in each awful form. 
 Broods, like the thunder in the storm, 
 
 Awake — awake. 
 
 If feelings, all alive to ill, 
 Even in sleep pursue thee still; 
 And, roused to keener anguish, throw 
 A deeper shade to de(!pest woe, 
 
 Awake— awake. 
 
 If joy forsake— if hope be dead- 
 Asleep — awake, if both have fled— 
 Though man ha»h wronged tiiee— sorrow riven, 
 Wake to the holier hope of Heaven- 
 Awake — awake.
 
 278 POEMS, 
 
 Till: 5^TOR3L 
 
 Gone— <j>'one, like happiness .j^oiic, 
 
 Is the uiooa-lii^iH fVoju the .stitum: 
 And tlie wave itself hath Heeled on, 
 
 Lost as the radiant beam. 
 
 The willo\y had bent her drooping leal 
 VVhere the liiiht (Voni Jleaven came; 
 
 jMethoui^ht it looked like the smile of grief^ 
 Or the glow of modest shame — 
 
 And as such it lied, while a dark cold grave 
 
 Concealed it from the sight; 
 And the verdant branch, where the leaf did wave/ 
 
 l)ied ere the morning light.
 
 rOEMS. 279 
 
 A tall dec laiiglicd in the evening breath, 
 
 It btootl by tliat ciUTent's side — 
 At morn it was blanched with the hue ol death j 
 
 'Twas blasted — and it died. 
 
 Beneath it there did the violet bloom, 
 
 And the primrose, pale of hue; 
 But the morning wept o'er their fateful dooii^^ 
 
 Even they had perished too, 
 
 A rose had been kissed by the moonlight ray 
 
 As it quaffed up the silvery dew; 
 With the break of the dawn, it withering lay, 
 
 And its leaves the wild breezes strew. 
 
 For the storm had burst from the thunder-cloud, 
 And the lightning's scathing power — (. "^ 
 
 So the moonJight fled, and the tail tree bowed, ' " 
 And perished the lender flower, ■ •" • •; 
 
 .11 
 
 .1: J < 
 
 • '■ ,.i
 
 2S0 POEMS. 
 
 tlNES, 
 
 (The scene of which is a Church-yard.) 
 
 t=: 
 
 I. 
 
 Do ye come to weep at the touib oi the dead 
 For the love ye have lost, in the soul that's fled? 
 Do ye come far away in the uopn of night 
 To kneel at their side by the pale moonlight? 
 Away, away — let the worm carouse 
 Merrily in his charnel house! 
 
 II. 
 
 The living are tliey, for whom ye should weep, 
 Not the dust of the earth—not the buried in sleep: 
 Are they worth regret, coifld it call them to life 
 Who have struggled with anguish, and died in the 
 strife'? 
 
 Away, away — let the worm carouse 
 Merrily in his charnel house!
 
 POEMS. 281 
 
 III. 
 
 Ay, grieve lor the living; lor tliem who are cast 
 Like chaft on tlie wave — like a leal on (he blast — 
 Let thy heart be to bitterness lastiiijily wed, 
 But lament lor the quick — they will scorn thee the 
 dead ! 
 
 Away, away — let the worm carouse 
 Merrily in his charnel house 1 
 
 There's a grave at thy foot — ye mark it? — arrayed 
 In the shroud oi his late, its inmate i:^ laid; 
 Grey, grey was his head with the pressure of ill, 
 And he sunk info dust — weep, fool! if ye will! 
 Away, away — let the worm carouse 
 Merrily in his charnel house! 
 
 V. 
 
 There's a maiden who died: they tell ye she gave 
 >Ier love and was lost — so she dropped to the grave: 
 Do ye mourn that she lived not? — the dark eye of 
 
 scorn 
 To the tomb has pursued her — how idly ye mourn? 
 Away, away — let the wonn carouse 
 Merrily in his charnel house!
 
 NOTE S.
 
 I
 
 NOTES TO TflE MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Note I. Page 238, line IS. 
 
 These irregular lines were suggested by Herrick's "Night Piece 
 to Julia;" which last seems an imitation of a beautiful little Song in 
 Ben Jonson's Masque of "The Gypsies Metamorphosed," — As it is 
 short, I transcribe it. 
 
 . ■ • , • ■ .1 .' . " 
 *' The faery beame upon you. 
 The starres to glister on you; 
 
 A moonc of light 
 
 In the iioone of night. 
 Till the fire drake hath or'egon you. 
 
 " The wheele of fortime guide you — 
 The boy with the bow beside you, 
 
 Runne aye in the way 
 
 Till the bird of day 
 And the luckier lot betide you." 
 
 Note 2. Page 245, line 8. 
 
 Because when she has looked with care 
 She sat/s, thfi) \e been quadrilling there. 
 
 " Look, Babies in your eyes, my pretty sweet one, 
 *' Then's a fine sport." 
 
 The Loyal Subject. A. 2. S. 4.
 
 286 
 
 Note 3. Page 945, line IG. 
 
 Jusi as a violet ? — 'twill not do. 
 She blushed — the violet blushes blue! 
 
 We read, liowever, of a young Lady who appears to have J)a- 
 tronized the color. 
 
 " And, when thou hcar'st it, thou wilt blush for met 
 " And hang thy head down like a violet 
 " Full of the morning's dew." 
 
 A King and No King. A. 4. 
 
 Note 4. Page 263, line 6. 
 As a fanciful Bard somewhere joyously sings—' 
 
 " Lest in watching the flighty 
 " Of bodies of light— 
 ** He might happen to take you for one, my dear!" 
 
 MoORE> 
 
 THE END.
 
 287 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CflsTLfi Dedicatory i[i 
 
 Preface .^ir; , xi 
 
 The Heir ofFoiz; A Dramatic Sketch 1 
 
 Notes to The Heir of Folz 73 
 
 Moonlight IO7 
 
 The False One 133 
 
 Canto I -.<►...-. 137 
 
 Canto II •••• 157 
 
 Canto III 181 
 
 Note to Moonlight • 207 
 
 Notes to The False One • 208 
 
 Poems 229 
 
 Stanzas 231 
 
 A Night Song 237 
 
 To a Lady playing on the Harp 239 
 
 Lines after the manner of Prior's " Alma" 244 
 
 Epicedium 251 
 
 Stanzas to Maria 254 
 
 To the Friends of my heart 2.5» 
 
 To my Friend, Uie Rev. C. G. S. 26l
 
 * 
 
 28S 
 
 Eyes anil Slavs • '••* 26 
 
 Come Sing 965 
 
 To. a withered Bi'ancli of Svveetbriar dropt by Miss— — • •• 2C7 
 
 Fragment of a RaJlad ou the New Year 270 
 
 Stanzas — " There is a line of light" 272 
 
 ** Oh lightly press yon verdant sod " • • • •. • 274 
 
 Awake, Awake • • ^ 27G 
 
 The Storm 278 
 
 Lines (The scene of which is a Church-yard) 280 
 
 Notes *........ 285 
 
 FINIS, 
 
 yy. .M'BewaU, Pri,U.-i\ PfmLiho,. Rjk-, Govgk Sjii3rr, 
 rUet Vlr«e,'.
 
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