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"You found her a fair and blusbing Aower, its beauty and its fragrance
bathed in the dew of heaven."

BROWNE'S BRITISH CICERO.

LONDON:
SHERWOOD AND CO., PATERNOSTER ROW.

BATH:
E. WILLIAMS, MILSOM STREET.

MDOOOXLI.

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Accept the dedication of these pages as a slight token of my admiration for your talents, and as a small acknow. ledgment of one of the most gratifying friendships which I have

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How shall I plead your patience ? how essay
To win your gentle favour for our play ?
Had I the lute of Orpheus, I might move
Your hearts' best wishes for the heart's First Love."
But I, who boast po superhuman power
To aid our author in this trying hour,
Still fondly hope from British hearts to gain
Those favours which were never sought in vain-

A generous judgment and a gentle ear
For every fault and failing witnessed here.

Ah ! now I see the noble spirit rise-
Albion's proud birth right flashes in the eyes
Of Albion's daughters !—the fire which sets free
Th' unconquered arm of England's Chivalry,
Glows from the Throne--here warmly pleads for me.

Ah, glorious island of the fair and brave !
Queen among nations—Empress of the wave!
While that pure fire does live within thy land
Thy sons shall never bow to foreign hand-
No foeman's flag shall desecrate thy soil,
No Gallic foe thy splendid cities spoil !
No! though his voice may roar across the main,
The Gallic thunder does not roar in vain !
Round thy white cliffs there rolls a glorious sea,
Which stamps thee-Queen of Ocean, ever free!

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Then, timorous bark! spread now thy trembling sail,
Fair is the tide—and fav’ring is the gale;
Yonder are they who bid thee tempt the wave-
England's proud hearts--the generous and the brave !

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AS PERFORMED AT BATE, MARCH TEIRTEENTE, 1941.

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FIRST LOVE.

ACT I.

SCENE I.—Coast of Lincolnshire that overlooks the Wash.

TIME, EVENING.

Enter LESTER BURTON and PERCY MANLEY.

PERCY.

LESTER, thou art so melancholy, I do believe thy heart is sick to death, and thou art musing remedies for its recovery. I never now behold thy once right merry face but what I fancy thou hast enlisted thyself with that chosen band of disappointed poets whose flowery writings never produce fruit !

LESTER.

Percy!
Thy heart is far too light for heavy grief
To lie upon it. Thou art like the threads
Which summer insects spin upon the air,
That look so soft, and shine so silvery bright
(When sunny skies have hushed the storms to sleep);
But no more fit to brave the hurricane
Than thou art formed to bear the grief I feel.

B

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