behaved upon the whole so like a man of honour, that it will give me pleasure, if you will visit at my house for the future; but (smiling) not clandestinely, Marian. Mar. Hush, father. Flint. I own I had prejudices against gentry. But I have met with so much candour and kindness among my betters this day-from this gentleman in particular-(turning to the Justice)—that I begin to think of leaving off business, and setting up for a gentleman myself. Just. You have the feelings of one. Flint. Marian will not object to it. Just. But (turning to Miss Flyn) what motive could induce this lady to take so much disgrace upon herself, when a word's explanation might have relieved her? Miss F. This gentleman (turning to Fendulous) can explain. Pen. The devil! Miss F. This gentleman, I repeat it, whose backwardness in concluding a long and honourable suit from a mistaken delicacy Pen. How! Miss F. Drove me upon the expedient of involving myself in the same disagreeable embarrassments with himself, in the hope that a more perfect sympathy might subsist between us for the future. Pen. I see it-I see it al!. Just. (To Pendulous.) You were then tried at York. Pen. I was CAST Just. Condemned Pen. EXECUTED. Just. How! Pen. CUT DOWN, and CAME TO LIFE AGAIN. False delicacy, adieu! The true sort, which this lady has manifested—by an expedient which at first sight might seem a little unpromising, has cured me of the other. We are now on even terms. Miss F. And may Pen. Marry,-I know it was your word, Miss F. And make a very quiet Pen. Exemplary— Miss F. Agreeing pair of Pen. ACQUITTED FELONS. Flint. And let the prejudiced against our profession acknowledge, that a money-lender may have the heart of a father; and that in the casket, whose loss grieved him so sorely, he valued nothing so dear as (turning to Marian) one poor domestic jewel. ON THE PORTRAIT OF WICKLIFFE. BY DELTA, "Had it not been the obstinate perverseness of our prelates, against the divine and admirable spirit of Wickliffe, to suppress him as a schismatic or innovator, perhaps neither the Bohemian Husse, and Jerome, no, nor the name of Luther or of Calvin, had ever been known." MILTON, For the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing. VI. The purple pride of the Papal See Than the still small voice within thee: 'Mid threatening throngs, that sought thy wrongs, And insolent power that vaunted. VII. To the death 'twas thine to persevere, And though thy bones from the grave were torn, The sound of thy words, to times unborn, VIII. A light was struck-a light which shew'd IX. Oh! that the glory, so fair to see, Should from men's eyes be shrouded; In vain have heroes and martyrs bled- X. Oh! that the lamp of Faith burns dim- Of the book which had been a sealed-up book, With eyes unbandaged, might thereon look, XI. I turn me from him-I cannot gaze On the calm, heroic features, When I think how we have disgraced our days Poor, miserable creatures! And when, how we have betray'd our trust The sons of our sons shall hearken, Can it be else than that o'er our dust The spittle of scorn should barken! THE FIRST GRAY HAIR, THE matron at her mirror, with her hand upon her brow, Time from her form hath ta'en away but little of its grace; The faded form is often mark'd by sorrow more than years; But She hath been a happy wife;-the lover of her youth She look'd upon her raven locks;-what thoughts did they recall? She seem'd to feel her mother's hand pass lightly through her hair, 'Tis not the tear of vanity for beauty on the wane- The Spring for ever gone-the Summer sun so nearly set. Ah, Lady! heed the monitor! Thy mirror tells thee truth, UPON SEEING MISS FANNY KEMBLE IN JULIET. ITALIAN passion, sudden, deep, intense, Such the sweet Juliet Shakspeare's genius drew- M. M. LOVE AND DEATH. By Mrs Hemans. By thy birth, so oft renew'd MIGHTY ones, Love and Death! Ye meet at the banquets, ye strive midst the flow'r- Thou art the victor, Love! Thou art the peerless, the crown'd, the free- The spirit from above. Thou hast look'd on death and smiled! Thou hast buoy'd up the fragile and reed-like form Thou hast stood on the scaffold alone: Thou hast watch'd by the wheel through the torturer's hour, And girt thy soul with a martyr's power, Till the conflict hath been won. No-thou art the victor, Death! Thou comest-and where is that which spoke Thou comest-and what is left Yet loves, yet answers the burning thought Silence is where thou art! Boast not thy victory, Death! It is but as the cloud's o'er the sunbeam's power- It is but as a tyrant's reign O'er the look and the voice, which he bids be still: They shall soar his might above! And so with the root whence affection springs, Thou art the victor, Love! VOL. XXVII. NO. CLXI. H |