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CHILDHOOD.

BLANK VERSE.

In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse
Upon the days gone by; to act in thought
Past seasons o'er, and be again a child;
To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope,

That reverend form bent down with age and
pain,

And rankling malady. Yet not for this
Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew
Her trust in him, her faith, an humble hope-
So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross-

Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay For she had studied patience in the school
flowers,

Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand
(Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled),
Would throw away, and straight take up again,
Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn
Bound with so playful and so light a foot,
That the press'd daisy scarce declined her head.

THE GRANDAME.

ON the green hill top,
Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof,
And not distinguish'd from its neighbour-barn,
Save by a slender-tapering length of spire,
The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells
The name and date to the chance passenger.
For lowly born was she, and long had eat,

Of Christ; much comfort she had thence derived,
And was a follower of the NAZARENE.

THE SABBATH BELLS.

THE cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard,
Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice
Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims
Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when
Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear
Of the contemplant, solitary man,

Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced
to lure

Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft,
And oft again, hard matter, which eludes
And baffles his pursuit-thought-sick and tired

Well-earn'd, the bread of service:-hers was else Of controversy, where no end appears,

A mountain spirit, one that entertain'd
Scorn of base action, deed dishonourable,
Or aught unseemly. I remember well
Her reverend image; I remember, too,

With what a zeal she served her master's house;
And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age
Delighted to recount the oft-told tale
Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was,
And wondrous skill'd in genealogies,
And could in apt and voluble terms discourse
Of births, of titles, and alliances;
Of marriages, and intermarriages;
Relationship remote, or near of kin;
Of friends offended, family disgraced-
Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying
Parental strict injunction, and regardless
Of unmix'd blood, and ancestry remote,
Stooping to wed with one of low degree.
But these are not thy praises; and I wrong
Thy honour'd memory, recording chiefly
Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell,
How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love,
She served her heavenly Master. I have seen

No clue to his research, the lonely man
Half wishes for society again.

Him, thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute
Sudden his heart awakes, his ears drink in
The cheering music; his relenting soul
Yearns after all the joys of social life,
And softens with the love of human kind.

FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS.
THE truant Fancy was a wanderer ever,
A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk
In the bright visions of empyreal light,
By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads,
Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow;
By crystal streams, and by the living waters,
Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree
Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath
Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found
From pain and want, and all the ills that wait
On mortal life, from sin and death for ever.

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"Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry
Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise
Of revel reeling home from midnight cups.
Those are the moanings of the dying man,
Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans,
And interrupted only by a cough
Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs.
So in the bitterness of death he lies,
And waits in anguish for the morning's light.
What can that do for him, or what restore?
Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices,
And little images of pleasures past,

Of health, and active life-health not yet slain,
Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold
For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed
He writhes, and turns him from the accusing
light,

And finds no comfort in the sun, but says
"When night comes I shall get a little rest."
Some few groans more, death comes, and there

an end.

'Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond; Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope, And Fancy, most licentious on such themes Where decent reverence well had kept her mute,

Hath o'er-stock'd hell with devils, and brought

down

By her enormous fablings and mad lies,
Discredit on the gospel's serious truths
And salutary fears. The man of parts,
Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch
Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates
A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he,
Their heads encompassed with crowns, their

heels

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In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care,
For those thus sentenced-pity might disturb
The delicate sense and most divine repose
Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God,
The measure of his judgments is not fix'd
By man's erroneous standard. He discerns
No such inordinate difference and vast
Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom
Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him,
No man on earth is holy call'd: they best
Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet
Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield
To him of his own works the praise, his due.

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ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE-A Servants' Apartment in Woodvil Hall. Servants drinking-TIME, the Morning.

A Song, by DANIEL.

"When the King enjoys his own again."

Peter. A delicate song. Where didst learn it, fellow?

Dan. Even there, where thou learnest thy oaths and thy politics-at our master's table.Where else should a serving-man pick up his poor accomplishments?

Mar. Well spoken, Daniel. O rare Daniel ! his oaths and his politics! excellent!

Fran. And where didst pick up thy knavery, Daniel ?

Peter. That came to him by inheritance. His family have supplied the shire of Devon, time out of mind, with good thieves and bad servingAll of his race have come into the world without their conscience.

men.

Mar. Good thieves, and bad serving-men! Better and better. I marvel what Daniel hath got to say in reply.

Dan. I marvel more when thou wilt say any thing to the purpose, thou shallow serving-man, whose swiftest conceit carries thee no higher

than to apprehend with difficulty the stale jests of us thy compeers. When was't ever known to club thy own particular jest among us?

Mar. Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting things of me!

Fran. See if he hath not brought tears into the poor fellow's eyes with the saltness of his rebuke.

Dan. No offence, brother Martin-I meant none. 'Tis true, Heaven gives gifts, and withholds them. It has been pleased to bestow upon me a nimble invention to the manufacture of a jest; and upon thee, Martin, an indifferent bad capacity to understand my meaning.

Mar. Is that all? I am content. Here's my hand.

Fran. Well, I like a little innocent mirth myself, but never could endure bawdry. Dan. Quot homines tot sententiæ. Mar. And what is that !

Dan. 'Tis Greek, and argues difference of opinion.

Mar. I hope there is none between us. Dan. Here's to thee, brother Martin. (Drinks.) Mar. And to thee, Daniel. (Drinks.) Fran. And to thee, Peter. (Drinks.) Peter. Thank you, Francis. thee. (Drinks.)

Mar. I shall be fuddled anon.

And here's to

Dan. And drunkenness I hold to be a very despicable vice.

All. O a shocking vice. (They drink round.) Peter. In as much as it taketh away the understanding.

Dan. And makes the eyes red.

Peter. And the tongue to stammer.
Dan. And to blab out secrets.

[During this conversation they continue drinking. Peter. Some men do not know an enemy from a friend when they are drunk.

Dan. Certainly sobriety is the health of the

soul.

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Dan. I hope there is none in this company would be mean enough to betray him. All. O Lord surely not.

[They drink to SIR WALTER's safety. I Fran. I have often wondered how our master

Mar. Now I know I am going to be drunk. came to be excepted by name in the late Act of

Dan. How canst tell, dry-bones?

Mar. Because I begin to be melancholy. That's always a sign.

Fran. Take care of Martin, he'll topple off his seat else. [MARTIN drops asleep. Peter. Times are greatly altered, since young master took upon himself the government of this household.

All. Greatly altered.

Fran. I think every thing be altered for the better since His Majesty's blessed restoration.

Peter. In Sir Walter's days there was no encouragement given to good house-keeping. All. None.

Oblivion.

Dan. Shall I tell the reason?

All. Ay, do.

Dan. 'Tis thought he is no great friend to the present happy establishment.

All. O monstrous !

Peter. Fellow servants, a thought strikes me. │ -Do we, or do we not, come under the penalties of the treason-act, by reason of our being privy to this man's concealment ?

All. Truly a sad consideration.

To them enters SANDFORD suddenly.

Sand. You well-fed and unprofitable grooms,

Dan. For instance, no possibility of getting Maintain❜d for state, not use; drunk before two in the afternoon.

You lazy feasters at another's cost,

Peter. Every man his allowance of ale at break- That eat like maggots into an estate,
And do as little work,

fast-his quart!

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Mar. (Opening his eyes.) Like beasts.
Dan. To sleep, wagtail!

Fran. I marvel all this while where the old gentleman has found means to secrete himself. It seems no man has heard of him since the day of the King's return. Can any tell why our young master, being favoured by the court, should not have interest to procure his father's pardon?

Dan. Marry, I think 'tis the obstinacy of the old Knight, that will not be beholden to the court for his safety.

Mar. Now that is wilful.

Being indeed but foul excrescences,
And no just parts in a well-order'd family;
You base and rascal imitators,
Who act up to the height your master's vices,
But cannot read his virtues in your bond:
Which of you, as I enter'd, spake of betraying?
Was it you, or you, or thin-face, was it you?
Mar. Whom does he call thin-face?

Sand. No prating, loon, but tell me who he
was,

That I may brain the villain with my staff,
That seeks Sir Walter's life!
You miserable men,

With minds more slavish than your slave's estate,
Have you that noble bounty so forgot,

Which took you from the looms, and from the
ploughs,

Which better had ye follow'd, fed ye, clothed ye,
And entertain'd ye in a worthy service,

Fran. But can any tell me the place of his Where your best wages was the world's repute, concealment?

That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live.

Peter. That cannot I; but I have my con- Have you forgot too, jectures.

How often in old times

Dan. Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober man that shall apprehend him.

ears,

Carousing full cups to Sir Walter's health ?—
Whom now ye would betray, but that he lies
Out of the reach of your poor treacheries.
This learn from me,

Our master's secret sleeps with trustier tongues,
Than will unlock themselves to carls like you.
Go, get you gone, you knaves. Who stirs? this
staff

Shall teach you better manners else.

All. Well, we are going.

Enquire the times and seasons when to put
My peevish prayer up at young Woodvil's feet,
And sue to him for slow redress, who was
Himself a suitor late to Margaret.

I am somewhat proud: and Woodvil taught me
pride.

I was his favourite once, his playfellow in infancy,
And joyful mistress of his youth.

None once so pleasant in his eyes as Margaret.
His conscience, his religion, Margaret was,

Sand. And quickly too, ye had better, for I see His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that Young mistress Margaret coming this way.

[Exeunt all but SANDFORD.

Enter MARGARET, as in a fright, pursued by a Gentleman, who, seeing SANDFORD, retires muttering a curse.

Sand. Good morrow to my fair mistress. 'Twas a chance

I saw you, lady, so intent was I

On chiding hence these graceless serving-men,
Who cannot break their fast at morning meals
Without debauch and mis-timed riotings.
This house hath been a scene of nothing else
But atheist riot and profane excess,

Since my old master quitted all his rights here.
Marg. Each day I endure fresh insult from the

scorn

Of Woodvil's friends, the uncivil jests

And free discourses of the dissolute men

heart,

And all dear things summ'd up in her alone.
As Margaret smil'd or frown'd John liv'd or
died;

His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships,
all

Being fashion'd to her liking.

His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem,
His flatteries and caresses, while he loved.
The world esteem'd her happy, who had won
His heart, who won all hearts;

And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil.

Sand. He doth affect the courtier's life too much,

Whose art is to forget,

And that has wrought this seeming change in him,

That was by nature noble.

That haunt this mansion, making me their 'Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our

mirth.

Sand. Does my young master know of these

affronts?

Marg. I cannot tell. Perhaps he has not been

told.

Perhaps he might have seen them if he would.

I have known him more quick-sighted. Let that

pass.

house,

Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy
With images of state, preferment, place,
Tainting his generous spirits with ambition.

Marg. I know not how it is;

A cold protector is John grown to me.
The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil
Can never stoop so low to supplicate

All things seem changed, I think. I had a A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs,
friend,

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Which he was bound first to prevent;

But which his own neglects have sanction'd

rather,

Both sanction'd and provok'd: a mark'd neglect,
And strangeness fastening bitter on his love,

His love, which long has been upon the wane.
For me, I am determined what to do:

To leave this house this night, and lukewarm
John,

And trust for food to the earth and Providence.
Sand. O lady, have a care

Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves.

Sand. "Twere best he should be told of these You know not half the dangers that attend affronts.

Marg. I am the daughter of his father's friend,
Sir Walter's orphan ward.

I am not his servant maid, that I should wait
The opportunity of a gracious hearing,

Upon a life of wand'ring, which your thoughts

now,

Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger,

To your abused fancy, as 'tis likely,

Portray without its terrors, painting lies

R R

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