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 Pendulous) 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 all.
Just. (To Pendulous.) You were then tried at York.
Pen. I was
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,
“ 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.
The matron at her mirror, with her hand upon her brow,
Sits gazing on her lovely face-aye lovely even now:
Why doth she lean upon her hand with such a look of care ?
Why steals that tear across her cheek ?-She sees her first gray hair.
Time from her form hath ta'en away but little of its grace;
His touch of thought hath dignified the beauty of her face;
Yet she might mingle in the dance where maidens gaily trip,
So bright is still her hazel eye, so beautiful her lip.
The faded form is often mark'd by sorrow more than years;
The wrinkle on the cheek may be the course of secret tears;
The mournful lip may murmur of a love it ne'er confest,
And the dimness of the eye betray a heart that cannot rest.
But She hath been a happy wife;—the lover of her youth
May proudly claim the smile that pays the trial of his truth;
A sense of slight-of loneliness—hath never banish'd sleep;
Her life hath been a cloudless one ;-then, wherefore doth she weep?
She look'd upon her raven locks ;—what thoughts did they recall ?
Oh! not of nights when they were deck'd for banquet or for ball;-
They brought back thoughts of early youth, e'er she had learnt to check,
With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported o'er her neck.
She seem'd to feel her mother's hand pass lightly through her hair,
And draw it from her brow, to leave a kiss of kindness there;
She seem'd to view her father's smile, and feel the playful touch
That sometimes feign’d to steal away the curls she prized so much.
And now she sees her first gray hair! oh, deem it not a crime
For her to weep—when she beholds the first foot-mark of Time !
She knows that, one by one, those mute mementos will increase,
And steal youth, beauty, strength away, till life itself shall cease.
'Tis not the tear of vanity for beauty on the wane-
Yet though the blossom may not sigh to bud, and bloom again,
It cannot but remember with a feeling of regret,
The Spring for ever gone—the Summer sun so nearly set.
Ah, Lady! heed the monitor! Thy mirror tells thee truth,
Assume the matron’s folded veil, resign the wreath of youth ;
Go !--bind it on thy daughter's brow, in her thou'lt still look fair ;
'Twere well would all learn wisdom who behold the first gray hair!
T. HAYNES BAYLY.
UPON SEEING MISS FANNY KEMBLE IN JULIET.
ITALIAN passion, sudden, deep, intense,
With maidhood's simply fearless innocence,
With the chaste dignity that marriage gives,
Blended in poesy's ethereal hue;-
Such the sweet Juliet Shakspeare's genius drew-
The genius such that now in Fanny lives.
By thy birth, so oft renew'd
From the embers long subdued;
By the life-gift in thy chain,
Broken links to weave again;
By thine Infinite of woe,
All we know not, all we know;
If there be what dieth not,
Thine, Affection! is its lot!
Mighty ones, Love and Death!
Ye are the strong in this world of ours,
Ye meet at the banquets, ye strive midst the flow'r
-Which hath the Conqueror's wreath ?
Thou art the victor, Love!
Thou art the peerless, the crown'd, the free
The strength of the battle is given to thee,
The spirit from above.
Thou hast look'd on death and smiled! Thou hast buoy'd up the fragile and reed-like form Through the tide of the fight, through the rush of the storm,
On field, and flood, and wild.
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 From the depths of the eye, when the bright soul woke ?'
-Gone with the Aitting breath!
Thou comest—and what is left
Of all that loved us, to say if aught
Yet loves, yet answers the burning thought
Of the spirit lorn and reft?
Silence is where thou art!
Silently thou must kindred meet;
No glance to cheer, and no voice to greet;
No bounding of heart to heart!
Boast not thy victory, Death!
It is but as the cloud's o'er the sunbeam's power-
It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and flower,
That slumber, the snow beneath.
It is but as a tyrant's reign
O'er the look and the voice, which he bids be still :
-But the sleepless thought and the fiery will
Are not for him to chain.
They shall soar his might above !
And so with the root whence affection springe,
Though buried, it is not of mortal things-
Thou art the victor, Love!
VOL, XXVII, NO, CLXI,
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