But still the heart doth need a language, — still 37. THE GRIEF OF BEREAVEMENT. — Wallenstein's Reflections on hearing of the death of young Piccolomini. Translated from Schiller by Coleridge. He is gone, - is dust! He, the more fortunate! yea, he hath finished! His life is bright, bright without spot it was, And cannot cease to be. No ominous hour Far off is he, above desire and fear; No more submitted to the change and chance Of the unsteady planets. O! 't is well With him! but who knows what the coming hour, This anguish will be wearied down, I know; What pang is permanent with man? From the highest, He learns to wean himself; for the strong hours 38. PRIULI AND JAFFIER. — Thomas Otway. Thomas Otway, from whose tragedy of "Venice Preserved" the following extract is taken, was born in Sussex, England, in 1651, and died, in a state of almost incredible destitution and wretchedness, in 1685. He was the author of several plays, of which his "Venice Preserved" is the most deservedly celebrated. Priuli. No more! I'll hear no more! Begone, and leave me! My Lord, my Lord! I'm not that abject wretch You think me. Patience! where's the distance throws In right, though proud oppression will not hear me? Pri. Have you not wronged me? Have brooked injustice, or the doing wrongs, Wronged you? Pri. Yes, wronged me! In the nicest point, The honor of my house, you've done me wrong. may remember (for I now will speak, You And urge its baseness), when you first came home Pleased with your growing virtue, I received you; My very self, was yours; Jaf. 'Tis to me you owe her: Childless you had been else, and in the grave Your name extinct, no more Priuli heard of. Pri. You stole her from me! - like a thief you stole her, May all your joys in her prove false, like mine! Attend you both! continual discord make Jaf. Half of your curse you have bestowed in vain ; Pri. Rather live To bait thee for his bread, and din your ears With hungry cries; whilst his unhappy mother Jaf. Would I were in my grave! Pri. And she, too, with thee! For, living here, you're but my cursed remembrancers I was once happy! Jaf. You use me thus, because you know my soul My life feeds on her, therefore thus you treat me. As you upbraid me with, what hinders me But I might send her back to you with contumely, Jaf. Indeed, my Lord, I dare not. My heart, that awes me, is too much my master. Three years are past, since first our vows were plighted, During which time, the world must bear me witness, I've treated Belvidera as your daughter, - The daughter of a Senator of Venice; Because (though hopeless e'er to win your nature) Pri. No more! Jaf. Yes, all, and then adieu forever. There's not a wretch that lives on common charity And never waked but to a joyful morning; Yet now must fall, like a full ear of corn, Whose blossom 'scaped, yet 's withered in the ripening! Those pageants of thy folly; Reduce the glittering trappings of thy wife To humble weeds, fit for thy little state; Then to some suburb cottage both retire; Drudge to feed loathsome life! Hence, hence, and starve! Leech. But you don't laugh, Coldstream! Come, man, be amused, for once in your life! you don't laugh. Sir Charles. O, yes, I do. You mistake; I laughed twice, distinctly, only, the fact is, I am bored to death! Leech. Bored? What! after such a feast as that you have given us? Look at me, I'm inspired! I'm a King at this moment, and all the world is at my feet! You are a young Sir C. My dear Leech, you began life late. fellow, forty-five, and have the world yet before you. I started at thirteen, lived quick, and exhausted the whole round of pleasure before I was thirty. I've tried everything, heard everything, done everything, know everything; and here I am, a man of thirty-three, literally used up-completely blasé ! not to Leech. Nonsense, man!- used up, indeed! with your wealth, with your twenty estates in the sunniest spots in England, mention that Utopia, within four walls, in the Rue de Provence, in Paris. Sir C. I'm dead with ennui ! Sir C. Croesus!-no, I'm no Croesus! My father, you 've seen his portrait, good old fellow ! he certainly did leave me a little mat ter of twelve thousand pounds a year; but, after all Leech. O, come! Sir C. O, I don't complain of it. Leech. I should think not. Sir C. O, no; there are some people who can manage to do on less, on credit. Leech. I know several. My dear Coldstream, you should try change of scene. Sir C. I have tried it; what's the use? Sir C. I have; there's nothing in it. - Leech. Nothing in all Europe? Sir C. Nothing! - O, dear, yes! I remember, at one time, I did, somehow, go about a good deal. Leech. You should go to Switzerland. - Sir C. I have been. Nothing there, people say so much about everything. There certainly were a few glaciers, some monks, and large dogs, and thick ankles, and bad wine, and Mont Blanc; yes, and there was ice on the top, too; but I prefer the ice at Gunter's, trouble, and more in it. Leech. Then, if Switzerland would n't do, I'd try Italy. less Sir C. My dear Leech, I've tried it over and over again, — and what then? Leech. Did not Rome inspire you? Sir C. O, believe me, Tom, a most horrible hole! People talk so much about these things. There's the Coloseum, now; — round, very round, - -a goodish ruin enough; but I was disappointed with it. Capitol,- tolerable high; and St. Peter's, marble, and mosaics, and fountains, dome certainly not badly scooped; but there was nothing in it. Leech. Come, Coldstream, you must admit we have nothing like St. Peter's in London. Sir C. No, because we don't want it; but, if we wanted such a thing, of course we should have it. A dozen gentlemen meet, pass resolutions, institute, and in twelve months it would be run up; nay, if that were all, we'd buy St. Peter's itself, and have it sent over. Leech. Ha, ha! well said, - you 're quite right. What say you to beautiful Naples? Sir C. Not bad, excellent water-melons, and goodish opera; they took me up Vesuvius, a horrid bore! It smoked a good deal, certainly, but altogether a wretched mountain; looked down, but there was nothing in it. Leech. But the bay? Sir C. Inferior to Dublin ! Leech. The Campagna? Sir C. A swamp! Leech. Greece? saw the crater that would make my Sir C. Humbugs!-nothing in any of them! You bore me. Is it possible that you cannot invent something blood boil in my veins, my hair stand on end, pulse rise; - that would produce an excitement sation a palpitation-but, no! Leech. I've an idea! Sir C. You? What is it? my heart beat, my an emotion a sen |