Imagens das páginas
PDF
ePub

But do not tell my father, he would grieve;

Sweet, good old man-perhaps he'd weep to hear it :
I never saw my father weep but once;

Ill tell you when it was-I did not weep;

'Twas when-but soft! my brother must not know it, 'Twas when his poor fond daughter was refused.

Guild. Who can bear this?

Or.

I will not live to bear it.

Em. (comes up to ORLANDO.) Take comfort, thou poor wretch!

I'll not appear

Against thee, nor shall Rivers; but blood must,
Blood will appear; there's no concealing blood.
What's that? my brother's ghost-it vanishes ;

(Catches hold of RIVERS.)

Stay! take me with thee; take me to the skies;
I have thee fast; thou shalt not go without me.
But hold-may we not take the murd'rer with us?
That look says-No. Why then I'll not go with thee.
Yet hold me fast-'tis dark-I'm lost-I'm gone.
Or. One crime makes many needful; this day's sin
Blots out a life of virtue. Good old man!
My bosom bleeds for thee; thy child is dead,
And I the cause. 'Tis but a poor atonement :
But I can make no other.

Riv.

(Dies.)

(Stabs himself.)

What hast thou done?

Or. Fill'd up the measure of my sins. Oh, mercy!

Eternal goodness, pardon this last guilt!

Rivers, thy hand!-farewell! forgive me, Heaven!
Yet is it not an act which bars forgiveness,

And shuts the door of grace for ever?-Oh!

(The curtain falls to soft music.)

(Dies.)

EPILOGUE.

WRITTEN BY R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ.

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES.

UNHAND me, gentlemen! by heaven, I say,

I'll make a ghost of him who bars my way. [Behind the scenes.
Forth let me come-A Poetaster true,

As lean as Envy, and as baneful too;

On the dull audience let me vent my rage,

Or drive these female scribblers from the stage.
For scene or history, we've none but these,
The law of liberty and wit they seize ;
In tragic-comic-pastoral-they dare to please.
Each puny bard must surely burst with spite,
To find that women with such fame can write;

But, oh, your partial favour is the cause,

Which feeds their follies with such full applause.
Yet still our tribe shall seek to blast their fame,
And ridicule each fair pretender's aim,

Where the dull duties of domestic life
Wage with the muse's toils eternal strife.

What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex,
While maids and metaphors conspire to vex !
In studious dishabille behold her sit,
A letter'd gossip, and a housewife wit;

At once invoking, though for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her milliner, and muse,
Round her strew'd room a frippery chaos lies,
A chequer'd wreck of notable and wise:
Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass,
Oppress the toilet, and obscure the glass;
Unfinish'd here an epigram is laid,

And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid:

Here new-born plays foretaste the town's applause,
There, dormant patterns pine for future gauze ;
A moral essay now is all her care,

A satire next, and then a bill of fare:

A scene she now projects, and now a dish-
Here's act the first, and here-remove with fish.
Now while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls,
That, soberly casts up a bill for coals;

Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks,
And tears, and thread, and balls, and thimbles mix.
Sappho, 'tis true, long versed in epic song,
For years esteem'd all household studies wrong;
When, dire mishap! though neither shame nor sin,
Sappho herself, and not her muse, lies in.
The virgin Nine in terror fly the bower,
And matron Juno claims despotic power;

Soon Gothic hags the classic pile o'erturn,
A caudle-cup supplants the sacred urn;
Nor books nor implements escape their rage,
They spike the inkstand, and they rend the page;
Poems and plays one barbarous fate partake,
Ovid and Plautus suffer at the stake,
And Aristotle's only saved-to wrap plum-cake.
Yet, shall a woman tempt the tragic scene?
And dare-but hold-I must repress my spleen;
I see your hearts are pledged to her applause,
While Shakspeare's spirit seems to aid her cause;
Well pleased to aid-since o'er his sacred bier
A female hand did ample trophies rear,

And gave the greenest laurel that is worshipp'd there.

POEMS.

SIR ELDRED OF THE BOWER:

A LEGENDARY TALE, IN TWO PARTS.

[FIRST PRINTED IN 1774.]

Of them, who, wrapt in earth so cold,
No more the smiling day shall view,
Should many a tender tale be told,

For many a tender thought is due.

PART I.

O nostra Vita, ch'e si bella in vista!

Com' perde agevolmente in un momento,

LANGHORNK.

Quel, ch'en molt' anni a grand pena s'acquista! PETRARCA.

THERE was a young and valiant knight,

Sir Eldred was his name,

And never did a worthier wight

The rank of knighthood claim.

Where gliding Tay, her streams sends forth
To feed the neighbouring wood,

The ancient glory of the north,

Sir Eldred's castle stood.

The knight was rich as knight might be
In patrimonial wealth;

And rich in nature's gifts was he,

In youth, and strength, and health.
He did not think, as some have thought,
Whom honour never crown'd,
The fame a father dearly bought,
Could make the son renown'd.
He better thought, a noble sire,
Who gallant deeds had done,
To deeds of hardihood should fire
A brave and gallant son.
The fairest ancestry on earth
Without desert is poor;
And every deed of former worth
Is but a claim for more.

Sir Eldred's heart was ever kind,
Alive to pity's call;

A crowd of virtues graced his mind,
He loved, and felt for all.

When merit raised the sufferer's name,

He shower'd his bounty then;

And those who could not prove that claim He succour'd still as men.

But sacred truth the muse compels,

His errors to impart ;

And yet the muse reluctant tells
The fault of Eldred's heart.

Though mild and soft as infant love
His fond affections melt;
Though all that kindest spirits prove
Sir Eldred keenly felt :

Yet if the passions storm'd his soul,
By jealousy led on;

The fierce resentment scorn'd control,
And bore his virtues down.

Not Thule's waves so wildly break,
To drown the northern shore:
Not Etna's entrails fiercer shake,
Or Scythia's tempests roar.
As when in summer's sweetest day,
To fan the fragrant morn,
The sighing breezes softly stray
O'er fields of ripen'd corn.

Sudden the lightning's blast descends,
Deforms the ravaged fields;

At once the various ruin blends,
And all resistless yields.

But when, to clear his stormy breast,
The sun of reason shone,
And ebbing passions sunk to rest,
And show'd what rage had done;
O then what anguish he betray'd!
His shame how deep, how true!
He view'd the waste his rage
had made,
And shudder'd at the view.

The meek-eyed dawn, in saffron robe,
Proclaim'd the opening day,
Up rose the sun to gild the globe,
And hail the new-born May;

The birds their vernal notes repeat,
And glad the thick'ning grove,
And feather'd partners fondly greet
With many a song of love :
When pious Eldred early rose
The Lord of all to hail :

Who life with all its gifts bestows,
Whose mercies never fail!

That done he left his woodland glade,
And journey'd far away;

He loved to court the distant shade,

And through the lone vale stray.
Within the bosom of a wood,
By circling hills embraced,
A little, modest mansion stood,
Built by the hand of taste:
While many a prouder castle fell,
This safely did endure;

The house where guardian virtues dwell
Is sacred and secure.

Of eglantine an humble fence

Around the mansion stood,

Which served at once to charm the sense,

And screen an infant wood.

The wood received an added grace,
As pleased it bent to look,

And view'd its ever verdant face
Reflected in a brook.

The smallness of the stream did well
The master's fortunes show;
But little streams may serve to tell
The source from which they flow.
This mansion own'd an aged knight,
And such a man was he

As heaven just shows to human sight,
To tell what man should be.

His youth in many a well fought field,
Was train'd betimes to war;
His bosom, like a well-worn shield,
Was graced with many a scar.

The vigour of a green old age

His reverend form did bear; And yet, alas! the warrior-sage Had drain'd the dregs of care. And sorrow more than age can break, And wound its hapless prey, 'Twas sorrow furrow'd his firm cheek, And turn'd his bright locks grey. One darling daughter soothed his cares and beauteous dame, Sole comfort of his failing years,

A

young

And Birtha was her name.

« AnteriorContinuar »