« ForrigeFortsæt »
The general paused, the soldiers shouted loud;
From Count Basil, a Tragedy.
A LOVER'S WISH.
O! were I conscious that within her breast
Though placed by fate where some obstructing bound,
And I might yet, from some high towering cliff,
Or mark its blue smoke rising eve and morn;
From Count Basil, a Tragedy.
DESCRIPTION OF A LADY.
Page. Madam, there is a Lady in your hall, Who begs to be admitted to your presence.
Lady. Is it not one of our invited friends?
Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so noble,
Is she young or old?
Page. Neither, if right I guess, but she is fair;
The foolish stripling!
She hath bewitch'd thee. Is she large in stature?
Page. I cannot well describe the fashion of it,
Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy; It is an apparition thou hast seen.
From De Montfort, a Tragedy.
SCENE FROM CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS.
Enter RODRIGO, with ELLA hanging fondly upon him, and continuing their way as if intending to pass, when a trumpet sounds without, and they stop short.
Rodrig. It is the sound that summons us to meet;
Ella. Must it be so? I will bid Heaven bless thee, And all good saints watch o'er thy precious life;
And they will bless and guard thee in the hour
Rodrig. Fear not, sweet Ella! whizzing balls there be
Ella. It is a blessed one: I would believe it.
Rodrig. Yes, we'll believe it. Whilst our battle roars,
Thou lov'st a brave man be thou valiant then,
Ella. O no! I've fondly fix'd myself upon thee,
Rodrig. Heaven bless thee, little flower! I prize thee
Than all the pride of female stateliness.
Ella. Dost thou? then I am happy: I am proud:
I will not wish me other than I am.
Rodrig. Ah, if we part not instantly, my Ella,
I feel, in faith, rude as my nature is,
I soon shall be like thee!-My friends approach:
Ella. O no, I go: they shall not see thee weep, Though I do bless thee for it.
THE AFRICAN PRINCE.
Enter the Keeper of the Prison.
Keeper (to Ohio). Thou canker-worm! thou black envenom'd toad!
Art thou a playing thy malicious tricks?
Not worth thine anger.
Keeper. That man, may't please you, sir, was born a prince.
Hardibrand. I do not catch thy jest.
Keeper. I do not jest, I speak in sober earnest; He is an Afric prince of royal line.
Hardibrand. What say'st thou! that poor wretch who sneaketh yonder
Upon those two black shanks?
Yes, even he:
When but a youth, stolen from his noble parents,
Hardibrand. And now to be the base thing that he is! Well, well, proceed.
Keeper. At last a surly master brought him here, Who, thinking him unfit for further service,
As then a fest'ring wound wore hard upon him,
Left him with me. He ne'ertheless recover'd;
And has been long establish'd in these walls
Hardibrand. Out on't! thou'st told a tale that wrings
Of royal line; born to command, and dignified
From Rayner, a Tragedy.
FROM THE KITTEN.
The nimblest tumbler, stage-bedight, To thee is but a clumsy wight, Who every limb and sinew strains To do what costs thee little pains, For which, I trow, the gaping crowd Requites him oft with plaudits loud. But, stopp'd the while thy wanton play, Applauses, too, thy feats repay: For then, beneath some urchin's hand, With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand, While many a stroke of fondness glides Along thy back and tabby sides: Dilated swells thy glossy fur, And loudly sings thy busy purr,As, timing well the equal sound, Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, And all their harmless claws disclose, Like prickles of an early rose; While softly from thy whisker'd cheek Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. But not alone, by cottage fire, Do rustics rude thy tricks admire; The learned sage, whose thoughts explore The widest range of human lore, Or, with unfetter'd fancy, fly Through airy heights of poesy, Pausing, smiles, with alter'd air, To see thee climb his elbow chair; Or, struggling on the mat below, Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe. The widow'd dame, or lonely maid, Who in the still, but cheerless shade Of home unsocial, spends her age, And rarely turns a letter'd page; Upon her hearth for thee lets fall The rounded cork, or paper ball; Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch The ends of ravell'd skein to catch,But lets thee have thy wayward will, Perplexing oft her sober skill. Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, In lonely tower or prison pent, Reviews the wit of former days, And loathes the world and all its ways;