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trust me, dear lady, the happiest effects of a As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks. returning peace, and a gracious comfort, to him, [Pauses, and observes the pictures. to you, and all of us.

Marg. I think he would not deny me. He hath ere this received farewell letters from his brother, who hath taken a resolution to estrange himself, for a time, from country, friends, and kindred, and to seek occupation for his sad thoughts in travelling in foreign places, where sights remote and extern to himself may draw from him kindly and not painful ruminations.

Sand. I was present at the receipt of the letter. The contents seemed to affect him, for a moment, with a more lively passion of grief than he has at any time outwardly shown. He wept with many tears (which I had not before noted in him), and appeared to be touched with the sense as of some unkindness; but the cause of their sad separation and divorce quickly recurring, he presently returned to his former inwardness of suffering.

Marg. The reproach of his brother's presence at this hour would have been a weight more than could be sustained by his already oppressed and sinking spirit.—Meditating upon these intricate and wide-spread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness upon me, as of sleep. How goes the night?

Sand. An hour past sun-set. You shall first refresh your limbs (tired with travel) with meats and some cordial wine, and then betake your no less wearied mind to repose.

Marg. A good rest to us all.
Sand. Thanks, lady.

ACT THE FIFTH.

JOHN WOODVIL (dressing).

John. How beautiful (handling his mourning) And comely do these mourning garments show! Sure Grief hath set his sacred impress here, To claim the world's respect! they note feelingly

These pictures must be taken down :
The portraitures of our most ancient family
For nigh three hundred years! How have I
listen'd,

To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride,
Holding me in his arms, a prating boy,
And pointing to the pictures where they hung,
Repeat by course their worthy histories,
(As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name,
And Anne the handsome, Stephen, and famous
John:

Telling me, I must be his famous John.)
But that was in old times.
Now, no more

Must I grow proud upon our house's pride.
I rather, I, by most unheard-of crimes,
Have backward tainted all their noble blood,
Rased out the memory of an ancient family,
And quite reversed the honours of our house.
Who now shall sit and tell us anecdotes ?
The secret history of his own times,
And fashions of the world when he was young:
How England slept out three-and-twenty years,
While Carr and Villiers ruled the baby king :
The costly fancies of the pedant's reign,
Balls, feastings, huntings, shows in allegory,
And Beauties of the court of James the First.

MARGARET enters.

John. Comes Margaret here to witness my disgrace?

O, lady, I have suffer'd loss,

And diminution of my honour's brightness.
You bring some images of old times, Margaret,
That should be now forgotten.

Marg. Old times should never be forgotten,
John.

I came to talk about them with my friend.

John. I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride. Marg. If John rejected Margaret in his pride, so (As who does not, being splenetic, refuse Sometimes old playfellows,) the spleen being

By outward types the serious man within.-
Alas! what part or portion can I claim
In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow,
Which other mourners use? as namely,
This black attire, abstraction from society,
Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom
smiles,

A cleaving sadness native to the brow,
All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends,
(That steal away the sense of loss almost)
Men's pity, and good offices

Which enemies themselves do for us then,
Putting their hostile disposition off,

gone,

The offence no longer lives.

O Woodvil, those were happy days,

When we two first began to love. When first,
Under pretence of visiting my father,
(Being then a stripling nigh upon my age,)
You came a wooing to his daughter, John.
Do you remember,

With what a coy reserve and seldom speech,
(Young maidens must be chary of their speech,)
I kept the honours of my maiden pride?

I was your favourite then.

John. O Margaret, Margaret!

Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come-
John yet has many happy days to live;
To live and make atonement.
John.

Excellent lady,

Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my

eyes,

These your submissions to my low estate,
And cleavings to the fates of sunken Woodvil,
Write bitter things 'gainst my unworthiness.
Thou perfect pattern of thy slander'd sex,
Whom miseries of mine could never alienate,
Nor change of fortune shake; whom injuries,
And slights (the worst of injuries) which moved
Thy nature to return scorn with like scorn,
Then when you left in virtuous pride this house,
Could not so separate, but now in this
My day of shame, when all the world forsake me, And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds?
You only visit me, love, and forgive me.

Marg. Dost yet remember the green arbour,
John,

In the south gardens of my father's house,
Where we have seen the summer sun go down,
Exchanging true love's vows without restraint?
And that old wood, you call'd your wilderness,
And vow'd in sport to build a chapel in it,
There dwell

"Like hermit poor

In pensive place obscure,"

And tell your Ave Maries by the curls
(Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret's hair;
And make confession seven times a day

Of every thought that stray'd from love and
Margaret;

And I your saint the penance should appoint-
Believe me, sir, I will not now be laid
Aside, like an old fashion.

John. O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts;
My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds,
I have no part in any good man's love,
In all earth's pleasures portion have I none,
I fade and wither in my own esteem,
This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am.
I was not always thus.
[Weeps.
Marg.

Thou noble nature,
Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures,
Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality,
My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honour'd
John !

Upon her knees (regard her poor request)
Your favourite, once beloved Margaret, kneels.

John. What would'st thou, lady, ever honour'd
Margaret?

Marg. That John would think more nobly of
himself,

More worthily of high Heaven;

And not for one misfortune, child of chance,
No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish
The less offence with image of the greater,
Thereby to work the soul's humility,

Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends,
Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret?
Marg. (rising.) Go whither, John
John.
Go in with me,

Marg. That I will, John.

SCENE. An inner Apartment.

[Exeunt.

JOHN is discovered kneeling.-MARGARET standing over him.
John (rises.) I cannot bear

To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty,
("Tis now the golden time of the day with you,)
In tending such a broken wretch as I am.

Marg. John will break Margaret's heart, if he
speak so.

O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy,
And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold
Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient,
(You know you gave me leave to call you so,)
And I must chide these pestilent humours from

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(Which end hath happily not been frustrate Home from my convent education, where quite,)

O not for one offence mistrust Heaven's mercy,

Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France:
Returning home true protestant, you call'd me

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Did John salute his love, being newly seen! Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty,

And praised it in a youth.

John. Now Margaret weeps herself.

(A noise of bells heard).

Marg. Hark the bells, John.

Thou would'st but discompose their pious | thoughts,

And do thyself no good: for how could'st thou

pray,

With unwash'd hands, and lips unused to the offices?"

And then I at my own presumption smiled;

John. Those are the church bells of St. Mary And then I wept that I should smile at all,

Ottery.

Marg. I know it.

John. St. Mary Ottery, my native village In the sweet shire of Devon. Those are the bells.

Marg.

Wilt go to church, John? John. I have been there already. Marg. How canst say thou hast been there already? The bells are only now ringing for morning service, and hast thou been at church already?

John. I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep, And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is) From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise;

And the first object I discern'd

Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery.
Marg. Well, John.

John. Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath-day. Immediately a wish arose in my mind,

To go to church and pray with Christian people. And then I check'd myself, and said to myself, Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past,

(Not having been at church in all that time,) And is it fit, that now for the first time Thou should'st offend the eyes of Christian people With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer?

Having such cause of grief! I wept outright;
Tears like a river flooded all my face,

And I began to pray, and found I could pray; And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church.

“Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it.” So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection,

Or was about to act unlawful business
At that dead time of dawn,

I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open.

(Whether by negligence I knew not,

Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsafed,
For all things felt like mystery).

Marg. Yes.

John. So entering in, not without fear,
I past into the family pew,
And covering up my eyes for shame,
And deep perception of unworthiness,
Upon the little hassock knelt me down,
Where I so oft had kneel'd,

A docile infant by Sir Walter's side;
And, thinking so, I wept a second flood
More poignant than the first;

But afterwards was greatly comforted.

It seem'd, the guilt of blood was passing from me
Even in the act and agony of tears,
And all my sins forgiven.

THE WITCH.

A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

CHARACTERS.

OLD SERVANT in the Family of SIR FRANCIS FAIRFORD. STRANGER.

Servant. ONE summer night Sir Francis, as it | So saying, she departed,

chanced,

Was pacing to and fro in the avenue

That westward fronts our house,

Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted

Three hundred years ago,

By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name.

Being o'ertask'd in thought, he heeded not

Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath
Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling;
So he described it.

Stranger. A terrible curse! What follow'd? Servant. Nothing immediate, but some two months after,

Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick,

The importunate suit of one who stood by the And none could tell what ail'd him; for he lay, gate,

And begg'd an alms.

Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate
With angry chiding; but I can never think
(Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it)
That he could use a woman, an old woman,
With such discourtesy ; but he refused her-
And better had he met a lion in his path
Than that old woman that night;

For she was one who practised the black arts, And served the devil, being since burnt for witchcraft.

And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off,
And he, that was full-flesh'd, became as thin

As a two-month's babe that has been starved in the nursing.

And sure I think

He bore his death-wound like a little child;
With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy
He strove to clothe his agony in smiles,
Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks,
Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling

there;

And, when they ask'd him his complaint, he laid She look'd at him as one that meant to blast him, His hand upon his heart to show the place,

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Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said,
And prick'd him with a pin.-

And thereupon Sir Francis call'd to mind
The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway
And begg'd an alms.
Stranger.

But did the witch confess? Servant. All this and more at her death.

Stranger. I do not love to credit tales of magic. Heaven's music, which is Order, seems unstrung, And this brave world

(The mystery of God) unbeautified,

Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted.

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I do not know to whom a Dedication of these Trifles is more properly due than to yourself. You suggested the printing of them. You were desirous of exhibiting a specimen of the manner in which Publications, entrusted to your future care, would appear. With more propriety, perhaps, the "Christmas," or some other of your own simple, unpretending Compositions, might have served this purpose. But I forget -you have bid a long adieu to the Muses. I had on my hands sundry Copies of Verses written for Albums

Those books kept by modern young Ladies for show,

Of which their plain Grandmothers nothing did know—

or otherwise floating about interest in their publication. It is not for me, nor you, you are become a Publisher.

in Periodicals; which you have chosen in this manner to embody. I feel little They are simply-Advertisement Verses.

to allude in public to the kindness of our honoured Friend, under whose auspices May that fine-minded Veteran in Verse enjoy life long enough to see his patronage justified? I venture to predict that your habits of industry, and your cheerful spirit, will carry you through the world. I am, Dear Moxon, your Friend and sincere Well-Wisher,

ENFIELD, 1st June, 1839.

CHARLES LAMB.

IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF
MRS. SERGEANT W-.

HAD I a power, Lady, to my will,
You should not want Hand Writings. I would fill
Your leaves with Autographs-resplendent names
Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames,
Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these
should stand

The hands of famous Lawyers-a grave band-
Who in their Courts of Law or Equity
Have best upheld Freedom and Property.
These should moot cases in your book, and vie
To show their reading and their Sergeantry.
But I have none of these; nor can I send
The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penn'd
In her authentic hand; nor in soft hours
Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's bowers.
The lack of curious Signatures I moan,
And want the courage to subscribe my own.

TO DORA W

ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IN HER

ALBUM.

AN Album is a Banquet: from the store,
In his intelligential Orchard growing,
Your Sire might heap your board to overflowing:
One shaking of the Tree-'twould ask no more
To set a Salad forth, more rich than that
Which Evelyn * in his princely cookery fancied :
Or that more rare, by Eve's neat hands enhanced,
Where, a pleased guest, the Angelic Virtue sat.
But like the all-grasping Founder of the Feast,
Whom Nathan to the sinning king did tax,
From his less wealthy neighbours he exacts;
Spares his own flocks, and takes the poor man's

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