And some, who look their long and last adieu
To the white cliffs, which vanish from their view.
While youth still blooms, and vigour nerves the arm,
The blood flows freely, and the pulse beats warm,
The hapless female stands in silence there.

So weak, so wan, and yet so sadly fair,
That those who gaze a rude, untutored tribe,
Check the rude question and the wounding gibe
And look and long to strike the fetter off,
And stay to pity, though they come to scoff.
Then o'er her cheek there runs a burning blush,
And the hot tears of shame begin to rush
Forth from their swelling orbs. She turns away,
And her white fingers o'er her eyelids stray;

And still the tears through those white fingers glide,
Which strive to check them or at least to hide.
And there the stripling, led to plunder's school
Ere passion slept, or reason learn'd to rule,

Clasps his young hands, and beats his throbbing brain,
And looks with marvel on his galling chain.
Oh! you may guess, from that unconscious gaze,
His soul hath dream'd of those far fading days,
When rudely nurtured on the mountain's brow,
He tended day by day his father's plough;
Blest in his day of toil-his night of ease-
His life of purity-his soul of peace.
Oh, yes! to day his soul hath backward been
To many a tender face and beauteous scene;
The verdant valley and the dark brown hill,
The small fair garden and its tinkling rill,
The grandame's tale, believed at midnight hour-
His sister singing in her myrtle bower;
And she-the maid of every hope bereft-

So fondly loved--alas! so falsely left.

The winding path, the dwelling in the grove,

The look of welcome, and the kiss of love.

These are his dreams--but these are dreams of bliss

Why do they blend with such a lot as this?

And is there nought for him but grief and gloom

A lone existence, and an early tomb?

Is there no hope of comfort, and of rest

To the seared conscience and the troubled breast?
Oh! say not so! In some far distant clime,
Where lives no witness of his early crime,
Benignant Penitence may haply muse
On purer pleasure-and on brighter views;
And slumbering virtue wake at last to claim
Another being and a fairer fame.

Beautiful land! within whose quiet shore
Lost spirits may forget the stain they bore.
Beautiful Land! with all thy blemished shades
Of waste and wood, rude rocks and level glades,
On thee-on thee I gaze-as Moslems look
To the blest Islands of their Prophet's book!
And oft I deem, that, link'd by magic spell,
Pardon and peace upon thy valleys dwell-
Like two sweet Houris, beckoning o'er the deep
The souls that tremble, and the eyes that weep

Therefore on thee, undrying sunbeams throw
Their clearest radiance, and their warmest glow;
And tranquil night's cool gales and gentle showers
Make bloom eternal in thy sinless bowers.
Green is thy turf-stern winter does not dare
To breathe his blast, and leave his ruin there;
And the charm'd ocean roams thy rocks around
With softer motion, and with swifter sound.
Among thy blooming flowers and blushing fruit
The whispering of young birds is never mute;
And never doth the streamlet cease to swell
Through its old channel in the hidden dell.
Oh! if the muse of Greece had ever strayed
In solemn twilight through thy forest glade,
And swept her lyre, and walk'd thy meads along
The liquid echo of thy ancient song--
Her fabling fancy in that hour had found
Voices of music-shapes of grace around.
Among thy trees, with merry step and glance

The Dryad then had wound her wayward dance,
And the cold Naiad in thy waters fair

Bathed her white breast, and wrung her dripping hair.

Beautiful land! upon so pure a plain
Shall superstition hold her hated reign?
Must bigotry build up her cheerless shrine
In such an air-in such an earth as thine ?
Alas! religion from thy placid isles

Veils the warm splendour of her heavenly smiles;
And the wrapt gazer on the beauteous plan
Finds nothing dark-except the soul of man.

Monsieur Voltaire, I am your very humble servant.

VOLTAIRE.

Where have you hid yourself this age? Do you not know how glad I always am to meet you? I could almost suspect you of avoiding me.

SHAKSPEARE.

Why, really Monsieur, you keep such high company, that I think it would be very presumptuous in me to intrude myself

on you or them. You are so surrounded with princes, dukes, duchesses, and folks of that description, that I think it best becomes me to keep a respectful distance.

VOLTAIRE.

Yes yes; as you say, they are so numerous, that they often become troublesome; but pray don't let them keep you away. No matter who may be with me, I shall always be happy to recognize

you.

SHAKSPEARE.

I feel very grateful indeed for your condescension, but really the personages you are so familiar with, are of so elevated a rank, that I scarcely can muster courage enough to avail myself of your kindI think it was but yesterday I saw a king detaining you by the lapelle of your coat.

ness.

VOLTAIRE.

I recollect; it was that plague of my life, Frederick. The other day he stopped me, and as usual seized my breast button; but looking behind him for a moment or two, to speak to Maurepas, who was passing at his back, I took the opportunity of drawing out my penknife, slipping it off, and mixing in the crowd. This was done in a moment, and when he turned his head, all he found in his hand was the button, with which to consult on those detestable verses of his, with which he so eternally persecutes me.

Excellent.

SHAKSPEARE.

VOLTAIRE.

The fact is, I find him a nuisance of a very serious nature; and he presumes infinitely too much on the circumstance of his having been a king when on the earth. He has a variety of means, too, of boring his unfortunate acquaintances. I thought my head would have been split this morning, listening to him blowing the upper notes on a cursed new flute he had laid hold of.

SHAKSPEARE.

The acquaintance of a monarch is a great honour, and that is generally bought, Monsieur Voltaire, as you must well know, at a high price.

VOLTAIRE.

Yes; but I have latterly taken a great fancy for bargains, and must therefore decline dealing with him. In fact I have made up my mind to give him a broad hint, and that very speedily, that I do not wish to be troubled any further with him.

SHAKSPEARE.

Indeed! surely you would not go so far as that.

VOLTAIRE.

I certainly shall. He has not got the myrmidon here, whom he let slip at me once before, when we had a trifling misunderstanding; and to be candid with you, I have an old grudge against him, notwithstanding our apparent reconciliation, for the manner in which he laid me and my neice by the heels at Frankfort, which I shall

some of these days satisfy in a friendly way. But again, my dear Shakspeare, I request you will not be so unsocial and shy as you have lately been, but that you will come amongst us, and in a word become one of our circle.

SHAKSPEARE.

I am honored by your notice, Monsieur Voltaire; but really it becomes the son of a poor wool dealer to have a little modesty, when invited into such company; and really, I—

VOLTAIRE.

Nay, now you display too much; and you may take my advice on the point, when I tell you I was remarked myself once for diffidence and mauvaise honte, and that they very much injured my early prospects and progress.

Ahem!

SHAKSPEARE.

VOLTAIRE.

However, the applause I received, and the honours which were heaped upon me, I confess, soon cured these defects in my character. I corresponded par par with Kings and an Empress-received as many boxes from them, as would contain the stock of a respectable snuff dealer-and above all, was crowned with laurel at the Comedie Français.

SHAKSPEARE.

These were indeed honourable distinctions, Monsieur Voltaire. All I can boast of are thrown into the shade by them. Some indeed I think you would smile at, if not consider me disgraced by.

VOLTAIRE.

Nay, my dear Shakspeare, you wrong me there. But to what do you allude?

SHAKSPEARE.

The first night of the performance of my first play, Romeo and Juliet, the boys, whom I had formerly employed to hold the horses of the gallants and rufflers, who frequented the theatre (when business came in too fast on me to perform it all myself), carried me in triumph through the streets to my lodgings in East Cheap, and kept bonfires lighted, and huzzas, deafening the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, until the sun rose. As to pecuniary patronage, all I ever obtained from the great, was a gift of one thousand pounds from the Earl of Southampton, when I was in difficulties, to complete the sum with which I purchased the little estate to which I retired in Warwickshire.

VOLTAIRE.

That testimony of admiration was certainly more to the purpose than your horse boys' acclamations. They certainly were not the best of critics, nor was their applause of the most refined and flattering description, or that which would raise a man much in his own estimation. But you must recollect, Shakspeare, that what I received was more the reward of my scientific efforts, and my studies as a natural philosopher, than of my productions in literature.

SHAKSPEARE.

So I have always understood; for you know, of these matters Ì am entirely ignorant; and indeed of others, which men of letters are versed in, nearly as little. I got but a smattering of Latin at school, and when Ben Johnson returned from Flanders, he used to make such a parade of his French, that I was forced to learn some in my own defence.

VOLTAIRE

What a pity your education was so defective. Who can say, had you received the advantages in that way which I did, what you might not have accomplished. As for myself, you are possibly not aware that my works embrace examples of history, biography, epic, tragic, comic, and miscellaneous poetry, politics, ancient and modern, theology, criticism in all its branches, novels, satires, disquisitions on the fine arts, epigrams, letters on all imaginable subjects and translations.

Wonderful!

SHAKSPEARE.

VOLTAIRE.

Not to enumerate what I have done in the exact sciences, which I need not particularize, as from your deficiency in the preparatory studies necessary to comprehend them, the very name of my essays would scarcely be intelligible to you.

I have no doubt.

SHAKSPEARE.

VOLTAIRE.

I have always regretted my attention was so distracted by various pursuits, the public life I led, and the persecutions I endured, that I could never give myself up entirely, as I so much desired, to mathematical enquiries.

SHAKSPEARE.

I have heard it very generally lamented. But since I have been honored so far by your conversation, I must make bold to complain of some wrongs at your hands, which I have long desired to mention to you.

VOLTAIRE.

How! wrongs! Explain them. I am totally unconscious of any.

SHAKSPEARE.

In the first place, you have called my productions" monstrous farces which they term tragedies."

VOLTAIRE.

I own such a passage is in my works, but believe me when I assure you it is a-a-an error of the press; and for these it is not fair to hold me accountable.

SHAKSPEARE.

Certainly. I beg pardon

VOLTAIRE.

I admit I have charged you with playing the very devil with the unities, and often offending against biensance; as for instance,