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we can promise you an inexhaustible supply of every sort of poetry ;-for all our writers agree that they do not know what is come to the booksellers. Since “The Martyr of Antioch” appeared, they blow their fingers by instinct, when a poem is named, as if some one of the fraternity had thrust his digitals into the kitchen fire.
Hoping the honour of your orders, which we shall be proud to execute with all punctuality and dispatch,
PAPERSTAIN and Co. Leadenhall-street, April 21, 1823.
Ripperda's Palace, in Mequinez. RIPPERDA and JOSEPHA,
sitting on a couch.
Ripperda. My poor Josepha-leave me to my fate-
Josepha. No: I will follow thee-to death, Ripperda-
Ripperda. Wretched enthusiast! thou art very young,
thee when I fall ?-Perchance some Moor
Joseph a. And let him woo, and learn to be despised.
Delight in Moorish notes, the mellow flute
There are no chords
for love. Josepha, (following Ripperda.) 0, now you're growing
wild-prithee be gentle. Ripperda. Am I come here to herd with these barbarians ; Have I foresworn all memory of glory, Real, substantial glory, when high minds Bow'd to my bidding-stoop I now to sway These poor machines, most ignorant and abas’d, And all to copy their voluptuous joy ? I am sunk low enough—but great revenge Let me behold thee nigh, then, if thou lead To infamy, and death, and bell, march on.
Josepha. Soft, soft—this frenzy shakes you.
Ripperda. Let me once grapple with thy power in arms, Perfidious Philip, weak, drivelling tyrant,I make no vows—but if this Moorish blade Carve not thy name from Afric's bloody shores, Wither this arm, perish this hateful trunkImpale me here, or hang me up to rot, Mad Muley, for a most perfidious renegade.
Josepha. Come to your rest; to-morrow is a day
Ripperda. What are forms, Josepha ?
How now, why stay'd you ? Have you procur’d the gold ? what say they of me? Heard
the mountaineers whisper regrets For the great duke ? or know they where I am And curse the apostate ?—say on-say on.
Jeron. My lord, I have the gold. None, that I learn,
Know you are here: some speak of you with tears,
Ripperda. Their pity and their curses move alike
Most gracious lord,
Ripperda. No more, Jeronymo,
Jeron. In Africa.
Here in Mequinez.
Here, in thy outer court. Ripperda. Thou liest, damn'd slave, thou liest-he dare
Villain, repeat this lie,
Sir, I do entreat you
To see your son, your most afflicted son,
I charge thee,
Jeron. I do protest that I have spoken truth-
Ripperda. Josepha, can'st thou look upon my son,
Josepha. I thought Ripperda's soul was like the oak
Jeron. Sir, will you see him?
Never, never more!
THE BURIAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST.
“ And now, good Master Mason, you may to your work. Hereabout I think be the spot;-and by the time that you have removed the earth I will again attend you.”
The personage from whom these orders proceeded was Mr. Thomas Herbert. There was an air of calm melancholy in his demeanour; but, like
other men under circumstances of affliction, the exercise of a little self-importance imparted an alacrity to his movements which would have befitted a less solemn occasion. It was his duty to prepare, for the remains of the unhappy Charles, a secure and honourable resting place. The suspicions of the Parliamentary Commissioners allowed little time for previous arrangement;-and therefore the plain hearse which bore the mangled corpse, attended by a few faithful followers, had passed into the Castle of Windsor, before the grave was chosen, in the Chapel of St. George, where it was to rest for ever from persecution.
Young man,” said Herbert to the page who attended him, “We must lay our dear master in a royal tomb. Though the dogs have hunted him to the death, we will give him a resting place in no common earth. This is the sepulchre of Edward the Fourth. It was wont to be hung with pearls, and rubies, and other seemly ornaments ;-but the disinterested reformers have left nothing but the plain monument of steel. It is of curious workmanship, boy.”
“ I marvel,” quoth one of the labourers, “what all this fuss is about where they shall lay him! As the Parliament have cut off his head, it can argufy little where they bestow his trunk. This ground is plaguy hard, and he who last put a spade in it has been boxed up himself, with all his great grand-children long enew I warrant ye.”
Varlet,” replied the master, “cease your profane talking. There are those will bury the king who can pay for the digging. Have you come to the crown of the vault?"
“ Rot it, no-neither crown nor side. I think we may finish the job to-morrow, if they will put him here. How long may King Edward have been dead, master?”
The more patient tradesman exhorted his labourers to persevere ;—but their efforts were still unsuccessful. Herbert grew cold and weary, and after many vain directions took another stroll round the solitary chapel. At the entrance he encountered the worthy Bishop Juxon, and they together walked into the choir.
“ Ten years ago, ere the troubles began,” said the good Bishop, in a voice that implied something between a reverie and an address to Herbert,
“ ten years ago,
I saw our poor dead master sit in that stall, in all the glory and power of a king. His nobles were around him, and the banners of royal and princely houses waved above them, and the loud organ sounded a jubilate, and the people looked on in awe and re
And now we are seeking to consign him to a hasty grave- and the place of splendour is desolate and plundered of its ornaments—and the nobles are proscribed or they are traitors and their banners are torn down and their escutcheons defaced --and the night bird comes in at the broken lattice to ake her nest in their abandoned seats-and the glory of the church and of the land has passed away.” “ I have some old notions about the church,” replied Herbert, “but they might have corrected her errors without stripping her of her decent reverence