POEMS

[HESTER.]

When maidens such as Hester die,

Their place ye may not well supply,

Though ye among a thousand try,

With vain endeavor.

A month or more hath she been dead,

Yet cannot I by force be led

To think upon the wormy bed,

And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,

A rising step, did indicate

Of pride and joy no common rate,

That flush'd her spirit.

I know not by what name beside

I shall it call:—if 'twas not pride,

It was a joy to that allied,

She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule,

Which doth the human feeling cool,

But she was train'd in Nature's school,

Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind,

A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,

A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,

Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbor! gone before

To that unknown and silent shore,

Shall we not meet, as heretofore,

Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray

Hath struck a bliss upon the day,

A bliss that would not go away,

A sweet fore-warning?

[TO CHARLES LLOYD.]

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.

Alone, obscure, without a friend,

A cheerless, solitary thing,

Why seeks, my Lloyd, the stranger out?

What offering can the stranger bring

Of social scenes, home-bred delights,

That him in aught compensate may

For Stowey's pleasant winter nights,

For loves and friendships far away?

In brief oblivion to forego

Friends, such as thine, so justly dear,

And be awhile with me content

To stay, a kindly loiterer, here:

For this a gleam of random joy

Hath flush'd my unaccustom'd cheek;

And, with an o'ercharged bursting heart,

I feel the thanks I cannot speak.

Oh! sweet are all the Muses' lays,

And sweet the charm of matin bird;

'Twas long since these estrangèd ears

The sweeter voice of friend had heard.

The voice hath spoke: the pleasant sounds

In memory's ear in after-time

Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear,

And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme.

For, when the transient charm is fled,

And when the little week is o'er,

To cheerless, friendless, solitude

When I return, as heretofore;

Long, long, within my aching heart

The grateful sense shall cherish'd be;

I'll think less meanly of myself,

That Lloyd will sometimes think on me.

[THE THREE FRIENDS.]

Three young maids in friendship met;

Mary, Martha, Margaret.

Margaret was tall and fair,

Martha shorter by a hair;

If the first excell'd in feature,

Th' other's grace and ease were greater;

Mary, though to rival loth,

In their best gifts equall'd both.

They a due proportion kept;

Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept;

Margaret joy'd when any good

She of Martha understood;

And in sympathy for either

Mary was outdone by neither.

Thus far, for a happy space,

All three ran an equal race,

A most constant friendship proving,

Equally beloved and loving;

All their wishes, joys, the same;

Sisters only not in name.

Fortune upon each one smiled,

As upon a fav'rite child;

Well to do and well to see

Were the parents of all three;

Till on Martha's father crosses

Brought a flood of worldly losses,

And his fortunes rich and great

Changed at once to low estate:

Under which o'erwhelming blow

Martha's mother was laid low;

She a hapless orphan left,

Of maternal care bereft,

Trouble following trouble fast,

Lay in a sick-bed at last.

In the depth of her affliction

Martha now receiv'd conviction,

That a true and faithful friend

Can the surest comfort lend.

Night and day, with friendship tried,

Ever constant by her side

Was her gentle Mary found,

With a love that knew no bound;

And the solace she imparted

Saved her dying broken-hearted.

In this scene of earthly things

Not one good unmixèd springs.

That which had to Martha proved

A sweet consolation, moved

Different feelings of regret

In the mind of Margaret.

She, whose love was not less dear,

Nor affection less sincere

To her friend, was, by occasion

Of more distant habitation,

Fewer visits forced to pay her;

When no other cause did stay her;

And her Mary living nearer,

Margaret began to fear her,

Lest her visits day by day

Martha's heart should steal away.

That whole heart she ill could spare her,

Where till now she'd been a sharer.

From this cause with grief she pined,

Till at length her health declined.

All her cheerful spirits flew,

Fast as Martha's gather'd new;

And her sickness waxèd sore,

Just when Martha felt no more.

Mary, who had quick suspicion

Of her alter'd friend's condition,

Seeing Martha's convalescence

Less demanded now her presence,

With a goodness, built on reason,

Changed her measures with the season;

Turn'd her steps from Martha's door,

Went where she was wanted more;

All her care and thoughts were set

Now to tend on Margaret.

Mary living 'twixt the two,

From her home could oft'ner go,

Either of her friends to see,

Than they could together be.

Truth explain'd is to suspicion

Evermore the best physician.

Soon her visits had the effect;

All that Margaret did suspect,

From her fancy vanish'd clean;

She was soon what she had been,

And the color she did lack

To her faded cheek came back.

Wounds which love had made her feel,

Love alone had power to heal.

Martha, who the frequent visit

Now had lost, and sore did miss it,

With impatience waxèd cross,

Counted Margaret's gain her loss:

All that Mary did confer

On her friend, thought due to her.

In her girlish bosom rise

Little foolish jealousies,

Which into such rancor wrought,

She one day for Margaret sought;

Finding her by chance alone,

She began, with reasons shown,

To insinuate a fear

Whether Mary was sincere;

Wish'd that Margaret would take heed

Whence her actions did proceed.

For herself, she'd long been minded

Not with outsides to be blinded;

All that pity and compassion,

She believed was affectation;

In her heart she doubted whether

Mary cared a pin for either.

She could keep whole weeks at distance,

And not know of their existence,

While all things remain'd the same;

But, when some misfortune came,

Then she made a great parade

Of her sympathy and aid,—

Not that she did really grieve,

It was only make-believe,

And she cared for nothing, so

She might her fine feelings show,

And get credit, on her part,

For a soft and tender heart.

With such speeches, smoothly made,

She found methods to persuade

Margaret (who being sore

From the doubts she'd felt before,

Was preparèd for mistrust)

To believe her reasons just;

Quite destroy'd that comfort glad,

Which in Mary late she had;

Made her, in experience' spite,

Think her friend a hypocrite,

And resolve, with cruel scoff,

To renounce and cast her off.

See how good turns are rewarded!

She of both is now discarded,

Who to both had been so late

Their support in low estate,

All their comfort, and their stay—

Now of both is cast away.

But the league her presence cherish'd,

Losing its best prop, soon perish'd;

She, that was a link to either,

To keep them and it together,

Being gone, the two (no wonder)

That were left, soon fell asunder;—

Some civilities were kept,

But the heart of friendship slept;

Love with hollow forms was fed,

But the life of love lay dead:—

A cold intercourse they held,

After Mary was expell'd.

Two long years did intervene

Since they'd either of them seen,

Or, by letter, any word

Of their old companion heard,—

When, upon a day once walking,

Of indifferent matters talking,

They a female figure met;

Martha said to Margaret,

"That young maid in face does carry

A resemblance strong of Mary."

Margaret, at nearer sight,

Own'd her observation right;

But they did not far proceed

Ere they knew 'twas she indeed.

She—but, ah I how changed they view her

From that person which they knew her!

Her fine face disease had scarr'd,

And its matchless beauty marr'd:—

But enough was left to trace

Mary's sweetness—Mary's grace.

When her eye did first behold them,

How they blush'd!—but, when she told them,

How on a sick-bed she lay

Months, while they had kept away,

And had no inquiries made

If she were alive or dead;—

How, for want of a true friend,

She was brought near to her end,

And was like so to have died,

With no friend at her bedside;—

How the constant irritation,

Caused by fruitless expectation

Of their coming, had extended

The illness, when she might have mended,—

Then, O then, how did reflection

Come on them with recollection!

All that she had done for them,

How it did their fault condemn!

But sweet Mary, still the same,

Kindly eased them of their shame;

Spoke to them with accents bland,

Took them friendly by the hand;

Bound them both with promise fast.

Not to speak of troubles past;

Made them on the spot declare

A new league of friendship there;

Which, without a word of strife,

Lasted thenceforth long as life.

Martha now and Margaret

Strove who most should pay the debt

Which they owed her, nor did vary

Ever after from their Mary.

[TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED.]

Smiling river, smiling river,

On thy bosom sunbeams play;

Though they're fleeting, and retreating,

Thou hast more deceit than they.

In thy channel, in thy channel,

Choked with ooze and grav'lly stones,

Deep immersed, and unhearsed,

Lies young Edward's corse: his bones

Ever whitening, ever whitening,

As thy waves against them dash;

What thy torrent, in the current,

Swallow'd, now it helps to wash.

As if senseless, as if senseless

Things had feeling in this case;

What so blindly, and unkindly,

It destroy'd, it now does grace.

[THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.]

I have had playmates, I have had companions,

In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days,

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;

Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;

Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;

Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghostlike I paced round the haunts of my childhood.

Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,

Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,

Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?

So might we talk of the old familiar faces,—

How some they have died, and some they have left me,

And some are taken from me; all are departed;

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

[HELEN.]

High-born Helen, round your dwelling

These twenty years I've paced in vain:

Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty

Hath been to glory in his pain.

High-born Helen, proudly telling

Stories of thy cold disdain;

I starve, I die, now you comply,

And I no longer can complain.

These twenty years I've lived on tears,

Dwelling forever on a frown;

On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread;

I perish now you kind are grown.

Can I, who loved my beloved

But for the scorn "was in her eye,"

Can I be moved for my beloved,

When she "returns me sigh for sigh?"

In stately pride, by my bedside,

High-born Helen's portrait's hung;

Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays

Are nightly to the portrait sung.

To that I weep, nor ever sleep,

Complaining all night long to her—

Helen, grown old, no longer cold,

Said, "You to all men I prefer."

[A VISION OF REPENTANCE.]

I saw a famous fountain, in my dream,

Where shady pathways to a valley led;

A weeping willow lay upon that stream,

And all around the fountain brink were spread

Wide-branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad,

Forming a doubtful twilight—desolate and sad.

The place was such, that whoso enter'd in,

Disrobèd was of every earthly thought,

And straight became as one that knew not sin,

Or to the world's first innocence was brought;

Enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground,

In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around.

A most strange calm stole o'er my soothèd sprite;

Long time I stood, and longer had I staid,

When lo! I saw, saw by the sweet moonlight,

Which came in silence o'er that silent shade,

Where, near the fountain, SOMETHING like DESPAIR

Made, of that weeping-willow, garlands for her hair.

And eke with painful fingers she inwove

Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn—

"The willow garland, that was for her love,

And these her bleeding temples would adorn."

With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell,

As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well.

To whom when I addrest myself to speak,

She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said;

The delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek,

And gath'ring up her loose attire, she fled

To the dark covert of that woody shade,

And in her goings seem'd a timid gentle maid.

Revolving in my mind what this should mean,

And why that lovely lady plainèd so;

Perplex'd in thought at that mysterious scene,

And doubting if 'twere best to stay or go,

I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around,

When from the shades came slow a small and plaintive sound.

"Psyche am I, who love to dwell

In these brown shades, this woody dell,

Where never busy mortal came,

Till now, to pry upon my shame.

"At thy feet what dost thou see

The waters of repentance be,

Which, night and day, I must augment

With tears, like a true penitent,

"If haply so my day of grace

Be not yet past; and this lone place,

O'ershadowy, dark, excludeth hence

All thoughts but grief and penitence."

"Why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid!

And wherefore in this barren shade

Thy hidden thoughts with sorrow feed?

Can thing so fair repentance need?"

"O! I have done a deed of shame,

And tainted is my virgin fame,

And stain'd the beauteous maiden white

In which my bridal robes were dight."

"And who the promised spouse? declare:

And what those bridal garments were."

"Severe and saintly righteousness

Composed the clear white bridal dress;

JESUS, the Son of Heaven's high King,

Bought with his blood the marriage ring.

"A wretched sinful creature, I

Deem'd lightly of that sacred tie,

Gave to a treacherous WORLD my heart,

And play'd the foolish wanton's part.

Soon to these murky shades I came,

To hide from the sun's light my shame.

And still I haunt this woody dell,

And bathe me in that healing well,

Whose waters clear have influence

From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse;

And, night and day, I them augment,

With tears, like a true penitent,

Until, due expiation made,

And fit atonement fully paid,

The Lord and Bridegroom me present,

Where in sweet strains of high consent,

God's throne before, the Seraphim

Shall chant the ecstatic marriage hymn."

"Now Christ restore thee soon"—I said,

And thenceforth all my dream was fled.

[DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD.]

CHILD

O Lady, lay your costly robes aside.

No longer may you glory in your pride.

MOTHER

Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear

Sad songs were made so long ago, my dear?

This day I am to be a bride, you know,

Why sing sad songs, were made so long ago?

CHILD

O mother, lay your costly robes aside,

For you may never be another's bride.

That line I learn'd not in the old sad song.

MOTHER

I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue,

Play with the bridemaids; and be glad, my boy,

For thou shalt be a second father's joy.

CHILD.

One father fondled me upon his knee.

One father is enough, alone, for me.

[QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM.]

On a bank with roses shaded,

Whose sweet scent the violets aided,

Violets whose breath alone

Yields but feeble smell or none,

(Sweeter bed Jove ne'er reposed on

When his eyes Olympus closed on,)

While o'erhead six slaves did hold

Canopy of cloth o' gold,

And two more did music keep,

Which might Juno lull to sleep,

Oriana, who was queen

To the mighty Tamerlane,

That was lord of all the land

Between Thrace and Samarchand,

While the noontide fervor beam'd,

Mused himself to sleep, and dream'd.

Thus far, in magnific strain,

A young poet soothed his vein,

But he had nor prose nor numbers,

To express a princess' slumbers.—

Youthful Richard had strange fancies,

Was deep versed in old romances,

And could talk whole hours upon

The Great Cham and Prester John,—

Tell the field in which the Sophi

From the Tartar won a trophy—

What he read with such delight of,

Thought he could as eas'ly write of—

But his over-young invention

Kept not pace with brave intention.

Twenty suns did rise and set,

And he could no further get;

But, unable to proceed,

Made a virtue out of need,

And, his labors wiselier deem'd of,

Did omit what the queen dream'd of.

[A BALLAD.]

NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF A RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR WORKHOUSE.

To the Tune of the "Old and Young Courtier."

In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold;

In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold:

There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire,

Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire.

In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine,

They have store of good venison, with old canary wine,

With singing and music to heighten the cheer;

Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare.

In a costly palace Youth is still carest

By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord's jest;

In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails:

Does Age begin to prattle?—no man heark'neth to his tales.

In a costly palace if the child with a pin

Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is called in;

In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish

For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish.

In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust;

In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust,

Thinks upon the former days, when he was well to do,

Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too.

In a costly palace Youth his temples hides

With a new-devised peruke that reaches to his sides;

In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare,

With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air.

In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride,

To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side,

That none to do them injury may have pretence;

Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence.

[HYPOCHONDRIACUS.]

By myself walking,

To myself talking,

When as I ruminate

On my untoward fate,

Scarcely seem I

Alone sufficiently,

Black thoughts continually

Crowding my privacy;

They come unbidden,

Like foes at a wedding,

Thrusting their faces

In better guests' places,

Peevish and malecontent,

Clownish, impertinent,

Dashing the merriment:

So in like fashions

Dim cogitations

Follow and haunt me,

Striving to daunt me,

In my heart festering,

In my ears whispering,

"Thy friends are treacherous,

Thy foes are dangerous,

Thy dreams ominous."

Fierce Anthropophagi,

Spectra, Diaboli,

What scared St. Anthony,

Hobgoblins, Lemures,

Dreams of Antipodes,

Night-riding Incubi,

Troubling the fantasy,

All dire illusions

Causing confusions;

Figments heretical,

Scruples fantastical,

Doubts diabolical;

Abaddon vexeth me,

Mahu perplexeth me,

Lucifer teareth me——

Jesu! Maria! liberate nos ab his diris tentationibus Inimici.

[A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.]

May the Babylonish curse

Straight confound my stammering verse,

If I can a passage see

In this word-perplexity,

Or a fit expression find,

Or a language to my mind,

(Still the phrase is wide or scant)

To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT!

Or in any terms relate

Half my love, or half my hate:

For I hate, yet love, thee so,

That, whichever thing I show,

The plain truth will seem to be

A constrain'd hyperbole,

And the passion to proceed

[TO T. L. H.]

A CHILD.

Model of thy parent dear,

Serious infant worth a fear:

In thy unfaltering visage well

Picturing forth the son of TELL,

When on his forehead, firm and good,

Motionless mark, the apple stood;

Guileless traitor, rebel mild,

Convict unconscious, culprit child!

Gates that close with iron roar

Have been to thee thy nursery door;

Chains that chink in cheerless cells

Have been thy rattles and thy bells;

Walls contrived for giant sin

Have hemm'd thy faultless weakness in;

Near thy sinless bed black Guilt

Her discordant house hath built,

And fill'd it with her monstrous brood—

Sights, by thee not understood—

Sights of fear, and of distress,

That pass a harmless infant's guess

But the clouds, that overcast

Thy young morning, may not last;

Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour

That yields thee up to Nature's power:

Nature, that so late doth greet thee,

Shall in o'erflowing measure meet thee.

She shall recompense with cost

For every lesson thou hast lost.

Then wandering up thy sire's loved hill,[1]

Thou shalt take thy airy fill

Of health and pastime. Birds shall sing

For thy delight each May morning.

'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play,

Hardly less a lamb than they.

Then thy prison's lengthen'd bound

Shall be the horizon skirting round:

And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers,

To make amends for wintry hours,

The breeze, the sunshine, and the place,

Shall from thy tender brow efface

Each vestige of untimely care,

That sour restraint had graven there;

And on thy every look impress

A more excelling childishness.

So shall be thy days beguiled,

THORNTON HUNT, my favorite child.

1: Hampstead.

BALLAD.

[FROM THE GERMAN.]

The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening,

And ever the forest maketh a moan:

Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart acting,

Thus by herself she singeth alone,

Weeping right plenteously.

"The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,

In this world plainly all seemeth amiss:

To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one,

I have had earnest of all earth's bliss,

Living right lovingly."

[DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM.]

David and his three captains bold

Kept ambush once within a hold.

It was in Adullam's cave,

Nigh which no water they could have,

Nor spring, nor running brook was near

To quench the thirst that parch'd them there.

Then David, king of Israël,

Straight bethought him of a well,

Which stood beside the city gate,

At Bethlem; where, before his state

Of kingly dignity, he had

Oft drunk his fill, a shepherd lad;

But now his fierce Philistine foe

Encamp'd before it he does know.

Yet ne'er the less, with heat opprest,

Those three bold captains he addrest;

And wish'd that one to him would bring

Some water from his native spring.

His valiant captains instantly

To execute his will did fly.

The mighty Three the ranks broke through

Of armed foes, and water drew

For David, their beloved king,

At his own sweet native spring.

Back through their arm'd foes they haste,

With the hard-earn'd treasure graced.

But when the good king David found

What they had done, he on the ground

The water pour'd ... "Because," said he,

"That it was at the jeopardy

Of your three lives this thing ye did,

That I should drink it, God forbid."

[SALOME.]

Once on a charger there was laid,

And brought before a royal maid,

As price of attitude and grace,

A guiltless head, a holy face.

It was on Herod's natal day,

Who o'er Judea's land held sway.

He married his own brother's wife,

Wicked Herodias. She the life

Of John the Baptist long had sought,

Because he openly had taught

That she a life unlawful led,

Having her husband's brother wed.

This was he, that saintly John,

Who in the wilderness alone

Abiding, did for clothing wear

A garment made of camel's hair;

Honey and locusts were his food,

And he was most severely good.

He preachèd penitence and tears,

And waking first the sinner's fears,

Prepared a path, made smooth a way,

For his diviner Master's day.

Herod kept in princely state

His birthday. On his throne he sate,

After the feast, beholding her

Who danced with grace peculiar;

Fair Salome, who did excel

All in that land for dancing well.

The feastful monarch's heart was fired,

And whatsoe'er thing she desired,

Though half his kingdom it should be,

He in his pleasure swore that he

Would give the graceful Salome.

The damsel was Herodias' daughter:

She to the queen hastes, and besought her

To teach her what great gift to name.

Instructed by Herodias, came

The damsel back: to Herod said,

"Give me John the Baptist's head;

And in a charger let it be

Hither straightway brought to me."

Herod her suit would fain deny,

But for his oath's sake must comply.

When painters would by art express

Beauty in unloveliness,

Thee, Herodias' daughter, thee,

They fittest subject take to be.

They give thy form and features grace;

But ever in thy beauteous face

They show a steadfast cruel gaze,

An eye unpitying; and amaze

In all beholders deep they mark,

That thou betrayest not one spark

Of feeling for the ruthless deed,

That did thy praiseful dance succeed.

For on the head they make you look,

As if a sullen joy you took,

A cruel triumph, wicked pride,

That for your sport a saint had died.

[LINES]

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES BY LIONARDO DA VINCI.

The lady Blanch, regardless of all her lover's fears,

To the Urs'line convent hastens, and long the Abbess hears,

"O Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life ye lead."

Blanch look'd on a rose-bud and little seem'd to heed.

She look'd on the rose-bud, she look'd round, and thought

On all her heart had whisper'd, and all the Nun had taught.

"I am worshipp'd by lovers, and brightly shines my fame,

All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's name.

Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from the tree,

My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone from me.

But when the sculptured marble is rais'd o'er my head,

And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the noble dead,

This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear,

It nothing will avail me that I were worshipp'd here."

LINES

[ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO MAKE PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT OF A LADY BY TITIAN.]

Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place

Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace?

Come, fair and pretty, tell to me,

Who, in thy lifetime, thou might'st be.

Thou pretty art and fair,

But with the lady Blanch thou never must compare.

No need for Blanch her history to tell;

Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well.

But when I look on thee, I only know

There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago.

[LINES]

ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO DA VINCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS.

While young John runs to greet

The greater Infant's feet,

The Mother standing by, with trembling passion

Of devout admiration,

Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoration;

Nor knows as yet the full event

Of those so low beginnings,

From whence we date our winnings,

But wonders at the intent

Of those new rites, and what that strange child-worship meant.

But at her side

An angel doth abide,

With such a perfect joy

As no dim doubts alloy,

An intuition,

A glory, an amenity,

Passing the dark condition

Of blind humanity,

As if he surely knew

All the blest wonder should ensue,

Or he had lately left the upper sphere,

And had read all the sovran schemes and divine riddles there.

[ON THE SAME.]

Maternal lady with the virgin grace,

Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure,

And thou a virgin pure.

Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face

Men look upon, they wish to be

A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee.

[SONNETS.]

[TO MISS KELLY.]

You are not, Kelly, of the common strain,

That stoop their pride and female honor down

To please that many-headed beast the town,

And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain;

By fortune thrown amid the actors' train,

You keep your native dignity of thought;

The plaudits that attend you come unsought,

As tributes due unto your natural vein.

Your tears have passion in them, and a grace

Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow;

Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace,

That vanish and return we know not how—

And please the better from a pensive face,

A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow.

II.

[ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN.]

Queen-bird that sittest on thy shining-nest,

And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest,

And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest

Lest the white mother wandering feet molest:

Shrined are your offspring in a crystal cradle,

Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst

Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first

Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like able

To tread the land or waters with security.

Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin,

In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in

Confessing weakness, error, and impurity.

Did heavenly creatures own succession's line,

The births of heaven like to yours would shine.

[III.]

Was it some sweet device of Faëry

That mock'd my steps with many a lonely glade,

And fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid?

Have these things been? or what rare witchery,

Impregning with delights the charmèd air,

Enlighted up the semblance of a smile

In those fine eyes? methought they spake the while

Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair

To drop the murdering knife, and let go by

His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade

Still court the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid?

Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh?

While I forlorn do wander reckless where,

And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.

[IV.]

Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclined

Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high

Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie,

Nor of the busier scenes we left behind

Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed maid!

Beloved! I were well content to play

With thy free tresses all a summer's day,

Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade.

Or we might sit and tell some tender tale

Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn,

A tale of true love, or of friend forgot;

And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail

In gentle sort, on those who practise not

Or love or pity, though of woman born.

[V.]

When last I roved these winding wood-walks green,

Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet,

Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene,

Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat.

No more I hear her footsteps in the shade:

Her image only in these pleasant ways

Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days

I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid.

I pass'd the little cottage which she loved,

The cottage which did once my all contain;

It spake of days which ne'er must come again,

Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved.

"Now fair befall thee, gentle maid!" said I,

And from the cottage turn'd me with a sigh.

[VI.]

THE FAMILY NAME.

What reason first imposed thee, gentle name,

Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire,

Without reproach? we trace our stream no higher;

And I, a childless man, may end the same.

Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains,

In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks,

Received thee first amid the merry mocks

And arch allusions of his fellow swains.

Perchance from Salem's holier fields return'd,

With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd

Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord

Took HIS meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd,

Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came,

No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name.

[VII.]

If from my lips some angry accents fell,

Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind,

'Twas but the error of a sickly mind

And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well,

And waters clear, of Reason; and for me

Let this my verse the poor atonement be—

My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined

Too highly, and with a partial eye to see

No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show

Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend

An ear to the desponding lovesick lay,

Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay

But ill the mighty debt of love I owe,

Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.

[VIII.]

A timid grace sits trembling in her eye,

As loath to meet the rudeness of men's sight,

Yet shedding a delicious lunar light,

That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy

The care-crazed mind, like some still melody:

Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess

Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness,

And innocent loves, and maiden purity:

A look whereof might heal the cruel smart

Of changèd friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind;

Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart

Of him who hates his brethren of mankind.

Turn'd are those lights from me, who fondly yet

Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.

[IX.]

TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE SOUTH-SEA-HOUSE.

John, you were figuring in the gay career

Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy,

When I was yet a little peevish boy—

Though time has made the difference disappear

Betwixt our ages, which then seem'd so great—

And still by rightful custom you retain

Much of the old authoritative strain,

And keep the elder brother up in state.

O! you do well in this. 'Tis man's worst deed

To let the "things that have been" run to waste,

And in the unmeaning present sink the past:

In whose dim glass even now I faintly read

Old buried forms, and faces long ago,

Which you, and I, and one more, only know.

[X.]

O! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind,

That, rushing on its way with careless sweep,

Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep

Like to a child. For now to my raised mind

On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Fantasy,

And her rude visions give severe delight.

O wingèd bark! how swift along the night

Pass'd thy proud keel! nor shall I let go by

Lightly of that drear hour the memory,

When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood,

Unbonneted, and gazed upon the flood,

Even till it seem'd a pleasant thing to die,—

To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave,

Or take my portion with the winds that rave.

[XI.]

We were two pretty babes, the youngest she,

The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween,

And INNOCENCE her name. The time has been,

We two did love each other's company:

Time was, we two had wept to have been apart.

But when by show of seeming good beguiled,

I left the garb and manners of a child,

And my first love for man's society,

Defiling with the world my virgin heart—

My loved companion dropp'd a tear, and fled,

And hid in deepest shades her awful head.

Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art—

In what delicious Eden to be found—

That I may seek thee the wide world around?

[BLANK VERSE]

[CHILDHOOD.]

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,

Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay 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 neighbor-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,

Well-earn'd, the bread of service:—hers was else

A mountain spirit, one that entertain'd

Scorn of base action, deed dishonorable,

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 honor'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

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—

For she had studied patience in the school

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

Of controversy, where no end appears,

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 forever.

[COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT.]

From broken visions of perturbèd rest

I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again.

How total a privation of all sounds,

Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast,

Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven.

'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 meanings 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'erstock'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

With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars

Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far removed

From damnèd spirits, and the torturing cries

Of men, his breth'ren, fashion'd of the earth,

As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread,

Belike his kindred or companions once—

Through everlasting ages now divorced,

In chains and savage torments to repent

Short years of folly on earth. Their groans unheard

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.

SIR WALTER WOODVIL.
JOHN, }
SIMON, }his sons.
LOVELL, }
GRAY, }Pretended friends of John.
SANDFORD. Sir Walter's old steward.
MARGARET. Orphan Ward of Sir Walter.
FOUR GENTLEMEN. John's riotous companions.
SERVANTS.

SCENE—for the most part at Sir Walter's mansion in DEVONSHIRE; at other times in the Forest of SHERWOOD.

TIME—soon after the RESTORATION.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE—A Servants' Apartment in Woodvill 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 serving-men. All of his race have come into the world without their conscience.

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 anything 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. And here's to thee. (Drinks.)

Mar. I shall be fuddled anon.

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.

Mar. Now I know I am going to be drunk.

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 everything be altered for the better since His Majesty's blessed restoration.

Peter. In Sir Walter's days there was no encouragement given to good housekeeping.

All. None.

Dan. For instance, no possibility of getting drunk before two in the afternoon.

Peter. Every man his allowance of ale at breakfast—his quart!

All. A quart!!

[In derision.

Dan. Nothing left to our own sweet discretions.

Peter. Whereby it may appear, we were treated more like beasts than what we were—discreet and reasonable serving-men.

All. Like beasts.

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 favored 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.

Fran. But can any tell me the place of his concealment?

Peter. That cannot I; but I have my conjectures.

Dan. Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the man that shall apprehend him.

Fran. Well, I have my suspicions.

Peter. And so have I.

Mar. And I can keep a secret.

Fran. (to PETER.) Warwickshire, you mean.

[Aside.

Peter. Perhaps not.

Fran. Nearer, perhaps.

Peter. I say nothing.

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.

Fran. I have often wondered how our master came to be excepted by name in the late Act of 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,

Maintain'd for state, not use;

You lazy feasters at another's cost,

That eat like maggots into an estate,

And do as little work.

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,

Where your best wages was the world's repute,

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

Have you forgot, too,

How often in old times

Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober 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.

Sand. And quickly too, ye had better, for I see

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 mistimed 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

That haunt this mansion, making me their 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.

All things seem changed, I think. I had a friend,

(I can't but weep to think him alter'd too,)

These things are best forgotten; but I knew

A man, a young man, young, and full of honor,

That would have pick'd a quarrel for a straw,

And fought it out to the extremity,

E'en with the dearest friend he had alive,

On but a bare surmise, a possibility,

That Margaret had suffer'd an affront.

Some are too tame, that were too splenetic once.

Sand. 'Twere best he should be told of these 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.

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 favorite 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,

His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that 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.

'Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our 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

A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs,

Which he was bound first to prevent;

But which his own neglects have sanctioned rather,

Both sancion'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.

You know not half the dangers that attend

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

And representments of fallacious liberty;—

You know not what it is to leave the roof that shelters you.

Marg. I have thought on every possible event,

The dangers and discouragements you speak of,

Even till my woman's heart hath ceased to fear them,

And cowardice grows enamor'd of rare accidents;

Nor am I so unfurnish'd, as you think,

Of practicable schemes.

Sand. Now God forbid; think twice of this, dear lady.

Marg. I pray you spare me, Mr. Sandford.

And once for all believe, nothing can shake my purpose.

Sand. But what course have you thought on?

Marg. To seek Sir Walter in the forest of Sherwood.

I have letters from young Simon,

Acquainting me with all the circumstances

Of their concealment, place, and manner of life,

And the merry hours they spend in the green haunts

Of Sherwood, nigh which place they have ta'en a house

In the town of Nottingham, and pass for foreigners,

Wearing the dress of Frenchmen.—

All which I have perused with so attent

And child-like longings, that to my doting ears

Two sounds now seem like one,

One meaning in two words, Sherwood and Liberty.

And, gentle Mr. Sandford,

'Tis you that must provide now

The means of my departure, which for safety

Must be in boy's apparel.

Sand. Since you will have it so

(My careful age trembles at all may happen),

I will engage to furnish you.

I have the keys of the wardrobe, and can fit you

With garments to your size.

I know a suit

Of lively Lincoln green, that shall much grace you

In the wear, being glossy fresh, and worn but seldom.

Young Stephen Woodvil wore them while he lived.

I have the keys of all this house and passages,

And ere daybreak will rise and let you forth.

What things soe'er you have need of I can furnish you;

And will provide a horse and trusty guide,

To bear you on your way to Nottingham.

Marg. That once this day and night were fairly past!

For then I'll bid this house and love farewell;

Farewell, sweet Devon; farewell, lukewarm John;

For with the morning's light will Margaret be gone.

Thanks, courteous Mr. Sandford.—

[Exeunt divers ways.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE.—An Apartment in Woodvil Hall.

JOHN WOODVIL—alone. (Reading parts of a letter).

"When Love grows cold, and indifference has usurped upon old Esteem, it is no marvel if the world begin to account that dependence, which hitherto has been esteemed honorable shelter. The course I have taken, (in leaving this house, not easily wrought thereunto,) seemed to me best for the once-for-all releasing of yourself (who in times past have deserved well of me) from the now daily, and not-to-be-endured tribute of forced love, and ill-dissembled reluctance of affection.

"MARGARET."

Gone! gone! my girl? so hasty, Margaret!

And never a kiss at parting? shallow loves,

And likings of a ten days' growth, use courtesies,

And show red eyes at parting. Who bids "Farewell!"

In the same tone he cries "God speed you, sir?"

Or tells of joyful victories at sea,

Where he hath ventures; does not rather muffle

His organs to emit a leaden sound,

To suit the melancholy dull "farewell,"

Which they in Heaven not use?—

So peevish, Margaret?

But 'tis the common error of your sex

When our idolatry slackens, or grows less,

(As who of woman born can keep his faculty

Of Admiration, being a decaying faculty,

Forever strain'd to the pitch? or can at pleasure

Make it renewable, as some appetites are,

As, namely, Hunger, Thirst!—) this being the case,

They tax us with neglect, and love grown cold,

Coin plainings of the perfidy of men,

Which into maxims pass, and apothegms

To be retail'd in ballads.—

I know them all.

They are jealous when our larger hearts receive

More guests than one. (Love in a woman's heart

Being all in one.) For me, I am sure I have room here

For more disturbers of my sleep than one.

Love shall have part, but love shall not have all.

Ambition, Pleasure, Vanity, all by turns,

Shall lie in my bed, and keep me fresh and waking;

Yet Love not be excluded. Foolish wench,

I could have loved her twenty years to come,

And still have kept my liking. But since 'tis so,

Why, fare thee well, old playfellow! I'll try

To squeeze a tear for old acquaintance' sake.

I shall not grudge so much——

To him enters LOVEL.

Lovel. Bless us, Woodvil! what is the matter? I protest, man, I thought you had been weeping.

Wood. Nothing is the matter; only the wench has forced some water into my eyes, which will quickly disband.

Lovel. I cannot conceive you.

Wood. Margaret is flown.

Lovel. Upon what pretence?

Wood. Neglect on my part: which it seems she has had the wit to discover, maugre all my pains to conceal it.

Lovel. Then, you confess the charge?

Wood. To say the truth, my love for her has of late stopped short on this side idolatry.

Lovel. As all good Christians' should, I think.

Wood. I am sure, I could have loved her still within the limits of warrantable love.

Lovel. A kind of brotherly affection, I take it.

Wood. We should have made excellent man and wife in time.

Lovel. A good old couple, when the snows fell, to crowd about a sea-coal fire, and talk over old matters.

Wood. While each should feel, what neither cared to acknowledge, that stories oft-repeated may, at last, come to lose some of their grace by the repetition.

Lovel. Which both of you may yet live long enough to discover. For, take my word for it, Margaret is a bird that will come back to you without a lure.

Wood. Never, never, Lovel. Spite of my levity, with tears I confess it, she was a lady of most confirmed honor, of an unmatchable spirit, and determinate in all virtuous resolutions; not hasty to anticipate an affront, nor slow to feel, where just provocation was given.

Lovel. What made you neglect her, then?

Wood. Mere levity and youthfulness of blood, a malady incident to young men; physicians call it caprice. Nothing else. He that slighted her knew her value: and 'tis odds, but, for thy sake, Margaret, John will yet go to his grave a bachelor.

[A noise heard, as of one drunk and singing.

Lovel. Here comes one, that will quickly dissipate these humors.

Enter one drunk.

Drunken Man. Good-morrow to you, gentlemen. Mr. Lovel, I am your humble servant. Honest Jack Woodvil, I will get drunk with you to-morrow.

Wood. And why to-morrow, honest Mr. Freeman?

Drunken Man. I scent a traitor in that question. A beastly question. Is it not his Majesty's birthday? the day of all days in the year, on which King Charles the Second was graciously pleased to be born. (Sings.) "Great pity 'tis such days as those should come but once a year."

Lovel. Drunk in a morning! foh! how he stinks!

Drunken Man. And why not drunk in a morning? canst tell, bully?

Wood. Because, being the sweet and tender infancy of the day, methinks, it should ill endure such early blightings.

Drunken Man. I grant you, 'tis in some sort the youth and tender nonage of the day. Youth is bashful, and I give it a cup to encourage it. (Sings.) "Ale that will make Grimalkin prate."—At noon I drink for thirst, at night for fellowship, but, above all, I love to usher in the bashful morning under the auspices of a freshening stoop of liquor. (Sings.) "Ale in a Saxon rumkin then, makes valor burgeon in tall men."—But, I crave pardon. I fear I keep that gentleman from serious thoughts. There be those that wait for me in the cellar.

Wood. Who are they?

Drunken Man. Gentlemen, my good friends, Cleveland, Delaval, and Truby. I know by this time they are all clamorous for me.

[Exit singing.

Wood. This keeping of open house acquaints a man with strange companions.

Enter, at another door, Three calling for HARRY FREEMAN.

Harry Freeman, Harry Freeman.

He is not here. Let us go look for him.

Where is Freeman?

Where is Harry?

[Exeunt the Three, calling for FREEMAN.

Wood. Did you ever see such gentry? (laughing.) These are they that fatten on ale and tobacco in a morning, drink burnt brandy at noon to promote digestion, and piously conclude with quart bumpers after supper to prove their loyalty.

Lovel. Come, shall we adjourn to the Tennis Court?

Wood. No, you shall go with me into the gallery, where I will show you the Vandyke I have purchased. "The late King taking leave of his children."

Lovel. I will but adjust my dress, and attend you.

[Exit LOVEL.

John Wood. (alone.) Now universal England getteth drunk

For joy, that Charles, her monarch, is restored:

And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask,

The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck,

And weareth now a suit of morris bells,

With which she jingling goes through all her towns and villages.

The baffled factions in their houses skulk;

The commonwealthsman, and state machinist.

The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man,

Who heareth of these visionaries now?

They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing,

Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits,

Who live by observation, note these changes

Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends.

Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver,

But as my own advancement hangs on one of them?

I to myself am chief.——I know,

Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit

With the gauds and show of state, the point of place,

And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods

Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit

In place of worship at the royal masques,

Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings,

For none of these,

Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one,

Do I affect the favors of the court.

I would be great, for greatness hath great power,

And that's the fruit I reach at.—

Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit,

With these prophetic swellings in my breast,

That prick and goad me on, and never cease,

To the fortunes something tells me I was born to?

Who, with such monitors within to stir him,

Would sit him down, with lazy arms across,

A unit, a thing without a name in the state,

A something to be govern'd, not to govern,

A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman?

[Exit.

SCENE.—Sherwood Forest.

SIR WALTER WOODVIL. SIMON WOODVIL. (Disguised as Frenchmen.)

Sir W. How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born,

My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me?

Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart:

I know it by thy alter'd cheer of late.

Thinkest thy brother plays thy father false?

It is a mad and thriftless prodigal,

Grown proud upon the favors of the court;

Court manners, and court fashions, he affects,

And in the heat and uncheck'd blood of youth,

Harbors a company of riotous men,

All hot, and young, court-seekers, like himself,

Most skilful to devour a patrimony;

And these have eat into my old estates,

And these have drain'd thy father's cellars dry;

But these so common faults of youth not named,

(Things which themselves outgrow, left to themselves,)

I know no quality that stains his honor.

My life upon his faith and noble mind,

Son John could never play thy father false.

Simon. I never thought but nobly of my brother,

Touching his honor and fidelity.

Still I could wish him charier of his person,

And of his time more frugal, than to spend

In riotous living, graceless society,

And mirth unpalatable, hours better employ'd

(With those persuasive graces nature lent him)

In fervent pleadings for a father's life.

Sir W. I would not owe my life to a jealous court,

Whose shallow policy I know it is,

On some reluctant acts of prudent mercy,

(Not voluntary, but extorted by the times,

In the first tremblings of new-fixed power,

And recollection smarting from old wounds,)

On these to build a spurious popularity.

Unknowing what free grace or mercy mean,

They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon.

For this cause have I oft forbid my son,

By letters, overtures, open solicitings,

Or closet tamperings, by gold or fee,

To beg or bargain with the court for my life.

Simon. And John has ta'en you, father, at your word,

True to the letter of his paternal charge.

Sir W. Well, my good cause, and my good conscience, boy,

Shall be for sons to me, if John prove false.

Men die but once, and the opportunity

Of a noble death is not an every-day fortune:

It is a gift which noble spirits pray for.

Simon. I would not wrong my brother by surmise;

I know him generous, full of gentle qualities,

Incapable of base compliances,

No prodigal in his nature, but affecting

This show of bravery for ambitious ends.

He drinks, for 'tis the humor of the court,

And drink may one day wrest the secret from him,

And pluck you from your hiding-place in the sequel.

Sir W. Fair death shall be my doom, and foul life his.

Till when, we'll live as free in this green forest,

As yonder deer, who roam unfearing treason:

Who seem the aborigines of this place,

Or Sherwood theirs by tenure.

Simon. 'Tis said, that Robert Earl of Huntingdon,

Men call'd him Robin Hood, an outlaw bold,

With a merry crew of hunters here did haunt,

Not sparing the king's venison. May one believe

The antique tale?

Sir W. There is much likelihood,

Such bandits did in England erst abound,

When polity was young. I have read of the pranks

Of that mad archer, and of the tax he levied

On travellers, whatever their degree,

Baron, or knight, whoever pass'd these woods,

Layman, or priest, not sparing the bishop's mitre

For spiritual regards; nay, once 'tis said,

He robb'd the king himself.

Simon

. A perilous man (

smiling

Sir W. How quietly we live here,

Unread in the world's business,

And take no note of all its slippery changes.

'Twere best we make a world among ourselves,

A little world,

Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater;

We two being all the inhabitants of ours,

And kings and subjects both in one.

Simon. Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits,

Which make the business of that greater world,

Must have no place in ours:

As, namely, riches, honors, birth, place, courtesy,

Good fame and bad, rumors and popular noises,

Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national,

Humors particular,

Soul-killing lies, and truths that work small good,

Feuds, factions, enmities, relationships,

Loves, hatreds, sympathies, antipathies,

And all the intricate stuff quarrels are made of.

MARGARET enters in boy's apparel.

Sir W. What pretty boy have we here?

Marg. Bon jour, messieurs. Ye have handsome English faces,

I should have ta'en ye else for other two,

I came to seek in the forest.

Sir W. Who are they?

Marg. A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curl'd monsieurs,

That men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy,

More than the manner of their countrymen.

Simon. We have here a wonder.

The face is Margaret's face.

Sir W. The face is Margaret's, but the dress the same

My Stephen sometime wore.

[To Margaret.

Suppose us them; whom do men say we are?

Or know you what you seek?

Marg. A worthy pair of exiles,

Two whom the politics of state revenge,

In final issue of long civil broils,

Have houseless driven from your native France,

To wander idle in these English woods,

Where now ye live; most part

Thinking on home and all the joys of France,

Where grows the purple vine.

Sir W. These woods, young stranger,

And grassy pastures, which the slim deer loves,

Are they less beauteous than the land of France,

Where grows the purple vine?

Marg. I cannot tell.

To an indifferent eye both show alike.

'Tis not the scene,

But all familiar objects in the scene,

Which now ye miss, that constitute a difference.

Ye had a country, exiles, ye have none now;

Friends had ye, and much wealth, ye now have nothing;

Our manners, laws, our customs, all are foreign to you,

I know ye loathe them, cannot learn them readily;

And there is reason, exiles, ye should love

Our English earth less than your land of France,

Where grows the purple vine; where all delights grow

Old custom has made pleasant.

Sir W.You, that are read

So deeply in our story, what are you?

Marg. A bare adventurer; in brief a woman,

That put strange garments on, and came thus far

To seek an ancient friend:

And having spent her stock of idle words,

And feeling some tears coming,

Hastes now to clasp Sir Walter Woodvil's knees,

And beg a boon for Margaret; his poor ward.

[Kneeling.

Sir W. Not at my feet, Margaret; not at my feet.

Marg. Yes, till her suit is answered.

Sir W. Name it.

Marg. A little boon, and yet so great a grace,

She fears to ask it.

Sir W.Some riddle, Margaret?

Marg. No riddle, but a plain request.

Sir W. Name it.

Marg. Free liberty of Sherwood,

And leave to take her lot with you in the forest.

Sir W. A scant petition, Margaret; but take it,

Seal'd with an old man's tears.—

Rise, daughter of Sir Rowland.

[Addressing them both.

O you most worthy,

You constant followers of a man proscribed,

Following poor misery in the throat of danger;

Fast servitors to crazed and penniless poverty,

Serving poor poverty without hope of gain;

Kind children of a sire unfortunate;

Green clinging tendrils round a trunk decay'd,

Which needs must bring on you timeless decay;

Fair living forms to a dead carcass joined;—

What shall I say?

Better the dead were gather'd to the dead,

Than death and life in disproportion meet.—

Go, seek your fortunes, children.—

Simon. Why, whither should we go?

Sir W. You to the court, where now your brother John

Commits a rape on Fortune.

Simon. Luck to John!

A light-heel'd strumpet when the sport is done.

Sir W. You to the sweet society of your equals,

Where the world's fashion smiles on youth and beauty.

Marg. Where young men's flatteries cozen young maids' beauty.

There pride oft gets the vantage hand of duty,

There sweet humility withers.

Simon. Mistress Margaret,

How fared my brother John, when you left Devon?

Marg

. John was well, sir.

Simon. 'Tis now nine months almost,

Since I saw home. What new friends has John made?

Or keeps he his first love?—I did suspect

Some foul disloyalty. Now do I know,

John has proved false to her, for Margaret weeps.

It is a scurvy brother.

Sir W. Fie upon it.

All men are false, I think. The date of love

Is out, expired; its stories all grown stale,

O'erpast, forgotten, like an antique tale

Of Hero and Leander.

Simon. I have known some men that are too general-contemplative for the narrow passion. I am in some sort a general lover.

Marg. In the name of the boy God, who plays at hoodman blind with the Muses, and cares not whom he catches: what is it you love?

Simon. Simply, all things that live,

From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form,

And God-resembling likeness. The poor fly,

That makes short holiday in the sunbeam,

And dies by some child's hand. The feeble bird

With little wings, yet greatly venturous

In the upper sky. The fish in th' other element,

That knows no touch of eloquence. What else?

Yon tall and elegant stag,

Who paints a dancing shadow of his horns

In the water, where he drinks.

Marg. I myself love all these things, yet so as with a difference:—for example, some animals better than others, some men rather than other men; the nightingale before the cuckoo, the swift and graceful palfrey before the slow and asinine mule. Your humor goes to confound all qualities. What sports do you use in the forest?—

Simon. Not many; some few, as thus:—

To see the sun to bed, and to arise,

Like some hot amorist with glowing eyes,

Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him,

With all his fires and travelling glories round him.

Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest,

Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast,

And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep

Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep.

Sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness,

Nought doing, saying little, thinking less,

To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air,

Go eddying round; and small birds, how they fare,

When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn,

Filch'd from the careless Amalthea's horn;

And how the woods berries and worms provide

Without their pains, when earth has nought beside

To answer their small wants.

To view the graceful deer come tripping by,

Then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why,

Like bashful younkers in society.

To mark the structure of a plant or tree,

And all fair things of earth, how fair they be.

Marg. (smiling.) And, afterwards, them paint in simile.

Sir W. Mistress Margaret will have need of some refreshment. Please you, we have some poor viands within.

Marg. Indeed I stand in need of them.

Sir W. Under the shade of a thick-spreading tree,

Upon the grass, no better carpeting,

We'll eat our noontide meal; and, dinner done,

One of us shall repair to Nottingham,

To seek some safe night-lodging in the town,

Where you may sleep, while here with us you dwell,

By day, in the forest, expecting better times,

And gentler habitations, noble Margaret.

Simon. Allons, young Frenchman——

Marg. Allons, Sir Englishman. The time has been

I've studied love-lays in the English tongue,

And been enamor'd of rare poesy:

Which now I must unlearn. Henceforth,

Sweet mother-tongue, old English speech, adieu;

For Margaret has got new name and language new.

[Exeunt.

THE THIRD.

SCENE.—An Apartment of State in Woodvil Hall.

Cavaliers drinking.

JOHN WOODVIL, LOVEL, GRAY, and four more.

John. More mirth, I beseech you, gentlemen—Mr. Gray, you are not merry.—

Gray. More wine, say I, and mirth shall ensue in course. What! we have not yet above three half-pints a man to answer for. Brevity is the soul of drinking, as of wit. Despatch, I say. More wine. (Fills.)

1st Gent. I entreat you, let there be some order, some method, in our drinkings. I love to lose my reason with my eyes open, to commit the deed of drunkenness with forethought and deliberation. I love to feel the fumes of the liquor gathering here, like clouds.

2nd Gent. And I am for plunging into madness at once. Damn order, and method, and steps, and degrees, that he speaks of. Let confusion have her legitimate work.

Lovel. I marvel why the poets, who, of all men, methinks, should possess the hottest livers, and most empyreal fancies, should affect to see such virtues in cold water.

Gray. Virtue in cold water! ha! ha! ha!

John. Because your poet-born hath an internal wine, richer than lippara or canaries, yet uncrushed from any grapes of earth, unpressed in mortal wine-presses.

3rd Gent. What may be the name of this wine?

John. It hath as many names as qualities. It is denominated indifferently, wit, conceit, invention, inspiration, but its most royal and comprehensive name is fancy.

3rd Gent. And where keeps he this sovereign liquor?

John. Its cellars are in the brain, whence your true poet deriveth intoxication at will; while his animal spirits, catching a pride from the quality and neighborhood of their noble relative, the brain, refuse to be sustained by wines and fermentations of earth.

3rd Gent. But is your poet-born always tipsy with this liquor?

John. He hath his stoopings and reposes; but his proper element is the sky, and in the suburbs of the empyrean.

3rd Gent. Is your wine-intellectual so exquisite? henceforth, I, a man of plain conceit, will, in all humility, content my mind with canaries.

4th Gent. I am for a song or a catch. When will the catches come on, the sweet wicked catches?

John. They cannot be introduced with propriety before midnight. Every man must commit his twenty bumpers first. We are not yet well roused. Frank Lovel, the glass stands with you.

Lovel. Gentlemen, the Duke. (Fills.)

All. The Duke. (They drink.)

Gray. Can any tell, why his Grace, being a Papist—

John. Pshaw! we will have no questions of state now. Is not this his Majesty's birthday?

Gray. What follows?

John. That every man should sing, and be joyful, and ask no questions.

2nd Gent. Damn politics, they spoil drinking.

3rd Gent. For certain, 'tis a blessed monarchy.

2nd Gent. The cursed fanatic days we have seen! The times have been when swearing was out of fashion.

3rd Gent. And drinking.

1st Gent. And wenching.

Gray. The cursed yeas and forsooths, which we have heard uttered, when a man could not rap out an innocent oath, but straight the air was thought to be infected.

Lovel. 'Twas a pleasant trick of the saint, which that trim puritan Swear-not-at-all Smooth-speech used, when his spouse chid him with an oath for committing with his servant-maid, to cause his house to be fumigated with burnt brandy, and ends of scripture, to disperse the devil's breath, as he termed it.

All. Ha! ha! ha!

Gray. But 'twas pleasanter, when the other saint Resist-the-devil-and-he-will-flee-from-thee Pureman was overtaken in the act, to plead an illusio visûs, and maintain his sanctity upon a supposed power in the adversary to counterfeit the shapes of things.

All. Ha! ha! ha!

John. Another round, and then let every man devise what trick he can in his fancy, for the better manifesting our loyalty this day.

Gray. Shall we hang a puritan?

John. No, that has been done already in Coleman Street.

2nd Gent. Or fire a conventicle?

John. That is stale too.

3rd Gent. Or burn the Assembly's catechism?

4th Gent. Or drink the king's health, every man standing upon his head naked?

John (to Lovel). We have here some pleasant madness.

3rd Gent. Who shall pledge me in a pint bumper, while we drink to the king upon our knees?

Lovel. Why on our knees, Cavalier?

John (smiling). For more devotion, to be sure. (To a servant.) Sirrah, fetch the gilt goblets.

[The goblets are brought. They drink the King's health, kneeling. A shout of general approbation following the first appearance of the goblets.

John. We have here the unchecked virtues of the grape. How the vapors curl upwards! It were a life of gods to dwell in such an element: to see, and hear, and talk brave things. Now fie upon these casual potations. That a man's most exalted reason should depend upon the ignoble fermenting of a fruit, which sparrows pluck at as well as we.

Gray (aside to Lovel). Observe how he is ravished.

Lovel. Vanity and gay thoughts of wine do meet in him and engender madness.

[While the rest are engaged in a wild kind of talk, JOHN advances to the front of the stage, and soliloquizes.

John. My spirits turn to fire, they mount so fast.

My joys are turbulent, my hopes show like fruition.

These high and gusty relishes of life, sure,

Have no allayings of mortality in them.

I am too hot now, and o'ercapable,

For the tedious processes, and creeping wisdom,

Of human acts, and enterprises of a man.

I want some seasonings of adversity,

Some strokes of the old mortifier Calamity,

To take these swellings down, divines call vanity.

1st Gent. Mr. Woodvil, Mr. Woodvil.

2nd Gent. Where is Woodvil?

Gray. Let him alone. I have seen him in these lunes before. His abstractions must not taint the good mirth.

John (continuing to soliloquize). O for some friend, now,

To conceal nothing from, to have no secrets.

How fine and noble a thing is confidence,

How reasonable, too, and almost godlike!

Fast cement of fast friends, band of society,

Old natural go-between in the world's business,

Where civil life and order, wanting this cement,

Would presently rush back

Into the pristine state of singularity,

And each man stand alone.

(A servant enters.)

Servant. Gentlemen, the fireworks are ready.

1st Gent. What be they?

Lovel. The work of London artists, which our host has provided in honor of this day.

2nd Gent. 'Sdeath, who would part with his wine for a rocket?

Lovel. Why truly, gentlemen, as our kind host has been at the pains to provide this spectacle, we can do no less than be present at it. It will not take up much time. Every man may return fresh and thirsting to his liquor.

3rd Gent. There's reason in what he says.

2d Gent. Charge on then, bottle in hand. There's husbandry in that.

[They go out, singing. Only LOVEL remains, who observes WOODVIL.

John (still talking to himself).

This Lovel here's of a tough honesty,

Would put the rack to the proof. He is not of that sort

Which haunt my house, snorting the liquors,

And when their wisdoms are afloat with wine,

Spend vows as fast as vapors, which go off

Even with the fumes, their fathers. He is one,

Whose sober morning actions

Shame not his o'ernight's promises;

Talks little, flatters less, and makes no promises;

Why this is he, whom the dark-wisdom'd fate

Might trust her counsels of predestination with,

And the world be no loser.

Why should I fear this man?

[Seeing LOVEL.

Where is the company gone?

Lovel. To see the fireworks, where you will be expected to follow. But I perceive you are better engaged.

John. I have been meditating this half hour,

On all the properties of a brave friendship,

The mysteries that are in it, the noble uses,

Its limits withal, and its nice boundaries.

Exempli gratiâ, how far a man

May lawfully forswear himself for his friend;

What quantity of lies, some of them brave ones,

He may lawfully incur in a friend's behalf!

What oaths, blood-crimes, hereditary quarrels,

Night brawls, fierce words, and duels in the morning,

He need not stick at, to maintain his friend's honor, or his cause.

Lovel. I think many men would die for their friends.

John. Death! why,'tis nothing. We go to it for sport,

To gain a name or purse, or please a sullen humor,

When one has worn his fortune's livery threadbare,

Or his spleen'd mistress frowns. Husbands will venture on it,

To cure the hot fits and cold shakings of jealousy.

A friend, sir, must do more.

Lovel. Can he do more than die?

John. To serve a friend this he may do. Pray, mark me.

Having a law within (great spirits feel one)

He cannot, ought not, to be bound by any

Positive laws or ord'nances extern,

But may reject all these: by the law of friendship

He may do so much, be they, indifferently,

Penn'd statutes, or the land's unwritten usages,

As public fame, civil compliances,

Misnamed honor, trust in matter of secrets,

All vows and promises, the feeble mind's religion,

(Binding our morning knowledge to approve

What last night's ignorance spake;)

The ties of blood withal, and prejudice of kin.

Sir, these weak terrors

Must never shake me. I know what belongs

To a worthy friendship. Come, you shall have my confidence.

Lovel. I hope you think me worthy.

John. You will smile to hear now—

Sir Walter never has been out of the island.

Lovel. You amaze me.

John. That same report of his escape to France

Was a fine tale, forged by myself—

Ha! ha!

I knew it would stagger him.

Lovel. Pray, give me leave.

Where has he dwelt, how lived, how lain conceal'd?

Sure I may ask so much.

John. From place to place, dwelling in no place long,

My brother Simon still hath borne him company,

('Tis a brave youth, I envy him all his virtues).

Disguised in foreign garb, they pass for Frenchmen,

Two Protestant exiles from the Limousin

Newly arrived. Their dwelling's now at Nottingham,

Where no soul knows them.

Lovel. Can you assign any reason why a gentleman of Sir Walter's known prudence should expose his person so lightly?

John. I believe, a certain fondness,

A childlike cleaving to the land that gave him birth,

Chains him like fate.

Lovel. I have known some exiles thus

To linger out the term of the law's indulgence,

To the hazard of being known.

John. You may suppose sometimes

They use the neighb'ring Sherwood for their sport,

Their exercise and freer recreation.—

I see you smile. Pray now, be careful.

Lovel. I am no babbler, sir; you need not fear me.

John. But some men have been known to talk in their sleep,

And tell fine tales that way.

Lovel. I have heard so much. But, to say truth, I mostly sleep alone.

John. Or drink, sir? do you never drink too freely?

Some men will drink, and tell you all their secrets.

Lovel. Why do you question me, who know my habits?

John. I think you are no sot

No tavern-troubler, worshipper of the grape;

But all men drink sometimes,

And veriest saints at festivals relax,

The marriage of a friend, or a wife's birthday.

Lovel. How much, sir, may a man with safety drink?

[Smiling.

John. Sir, three half-pints a day is reasonable;

I care not if you never exceed that quantity.

Lovel. I shall observe it;

On holidays two quarts.

John. Or, stay; you keep no wench?

Lovel. Ha!

John. No painted mistress for your private hours?

You keep no whore, sir?

Lovel. What does he mean?

John. Who for a close embrace, a toy of sin,

And amorous praising of your worship's breath,

In rosy junction of four melting lips,

Can kiss out secrets from you?

Lovel. How strange this passionate behavior shows in you

Sure, you think me some weak one.

John. Pray pardon me some fears.

You have now the pledge of a dear father's life.

I am a son—would fain be thought a loving one;

You may allow me some fears: do not despise me,

If, in a posture foreign to my spirit,

And by our well-knit friendship, I conjure you,

Touch not Sir Walter's life.

[Kneels.

You see these tears. My father's an old man.

Pray let him live.

Lovel. I must be bold to tell you, these new freedoms

Show most unhandsome in you.

John (rising). Ha! do you say so?

Sure, you are not grown proud upon my secret!

Ah! now I see it plain. He would be babbling.

No doubt a garrulous and hard-faced traitor—

But I'll not give you leave.

[Draws.

Lovel. What does this madman mean?

John. Come, sir; here is no subterfuge;

You must kill me, or I kill you.

Lovel (drawing). Then self-defence plead my excuse.

Have at you, sir.

[They fight.

John. Stay, sir.

I hope you have made your will.

If not,'tis no great matter.

A broken cavalier has seldom much

He can bequeath; an old worn peruke,

A snuffbox with a picture of Prince Rupert,

A rusty sword he'll swear was used at Naseby,

Though it ne'er came within ten miles of the place;

And if he's very rich,

A cheap edition of the Icon Basilike,

Is mostly all the wealth he dies possest of.

You say few prayers, I fancy;—

So to it again.

[They fight again. LOVEL is disarmed.

Lovel. You had best now take my life. I guess you mean it.

John (musing). No:—Men will say I fear'd him, if I kill'd him.

Live still, and be a traitor in thy wish,

But never act thy thought, being a coward.

That vengeance, which thy soul shall nightly thirst for,

And this disgrace I've done you cry aloud for,

Still have the will without the power to execute.

So now I leave you,

Feeling a sweet security. No doubt

My secret shall remain a virgin for you!

[Goes out, smiling in scorn.

Lovel (rising). For once you are mistaken in your man.

The deed you wot of shall forthwith be done,

A bird let loose, a secret out of hand,

Returns not back. Why, then 'tis baby policy

To menace him who hath it in his keeping.

I will go look for Gray;

Then, northward ho! such tricks as we shall play

Have not been seen, I think, in merry Sherwood,

Since the days of Robin Hood, that archer good.

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE.—An Apartment in Woodvil Hall.

JOHN WOODVIL. (Alone.)

A weight of wine lies heavy on my head,

The unconcocted follies of last night.

Now all those jovial fancies, and bright hopes,

Children of wine, go off like dreams.

This sick vertigo here

Preacheth of temperance, no sermon better.

These black thoughts, and dull melancholy,

That stick like burrs to the brain, will they ne'er leave me?

Some men are full of choler, when they are drunk;

Some brawl of matter foreign to themselves;

And some, the most resolved fools of all,

Have told their dearest secrets in their cups.

SCENE.—The Forest.

SIR WALTER. SIMON. LOVEL. GRAY.

Lovel. Sir, we are sorry we cannot return your French salutation.

Gray. Nor otherwise consider this garb you trust to than as a poor disguise.

Lovel. Nor use much ceremony with a traitor.

Gray. Therefore, without much induction of superfluous words, I attach you, Sir Walter Woodvil, of High Treason, in the King's name.

Lovel. And of taking part in the great Rebellion against our late lawful Sovereign, Charles the First.

Simon. John has betrayed us, father.

Lovel. Come, sir, you had best surrender fairly. We know you, sir.

Simon. Hang ye, villains, ye are two better known than trusted. I have seen those faces before. Are ye not two beggarly retainers, trencher-parasites, to John? I think ye rank above his footmen. A sort of bed and board worms—locusts that infest our house; a leprosy that long has hung upon its walls and princely apartments, reaching to fill all the corners of my brother's once noble heart.

Gray. We are his friends.

Simon. Fie, sir, do not weep. How these rogues will triumph! Shall I whip off their heads, father?

[Draws.

Lovel. Come, sir, though this show handsome in you, being his son, yet the law must have its course.

Simon. And if I tell ye the law shall not have its course, cannot ye be content? Courage, father; shall such things as these apprehend a man? Which of ye will venture upon me?—Will you, Mr. Constable self-elect? or you, sir, with a pimple on your nose, got at Oxford by hard drinking, your only badge of loyalty?

Gray. 'Tis a brave youth—I cannot strike at him.

Simon. Father, why do you cover your face with your hands? Why do you fetch your breath so hard? See, villains, his heart is burst! O villains, he cannot speak. One of you run for some water; quickly, ye knaves; will ye have your throats cut?

[They both slink off.

How is it with you, Sir Walter? Look up, sir, the villains are gone. He hears me not, and this deep disgrace of treachery in his son hath touched him even to the death. O most distuned and distempered world, where sons talk their aged fathers into their graves! Garrulous and diseased world, and still empty, rotten and hollow talking world, where good men decay, states turn round in an endless mutability, and still for the worse; nothing is at a stay, nothing abides but vanity, chaotic vanity.—Brother, adieu!

There lies the parent stock which gave us life,

Which I will see consign'd with tears to earth.

Leave thou the solemn funeral rites to me,

Grief and a true remorse abide with thee.

[Bears in the body.

SCENE.—Another Part of the Forest.

Marg. (alone.) It was an error merely, and no crime,

An unsuspecting openness in youth,

That from his lips the fatal secret drew,

Which should have slept like one of nature's mysteries,

Unveil'd by any man.

Well, he is dead!

And what should Margaret do in the forest?

O ill-starr'd John!

O Woodvil, man enfeoff'd to despair!

Take thy farewell of peace.

O never look again to see good days,

Or close thy lids in comfortable nights,

Or ever think a happy thought again,

If what I have heard be true.—

Forsaken of the world must Woodvil live,

If he did tell these men.

No tongue must speak to him, no tongue of man

Salute him, when he wakes up in a morning;

Or bid "good-night" to John. Who seeks to live

In amity with thee, must for thy sake

Abide the world's reproach. What then?

Shall Margaret join the clamors of the world

Against her friend? O undiscerning world,

That cannot from misfortune separate guilt,

No, not in thought! O never, never, John.

Prepared to share the fortunes of her friend

For better or for worse, thy Margaret comes,

To pour into thy wounds a healing love,

And wake the memory of an ancient friendship.

And pardon me, thou spirit of Sir Walter,

Who, in compassion to the wretched living,

Have but few tears to waste upon the dead.

SCENE.—Woodvil Hall.

SANDFORD. MARGARET. (As from a Journey.)

Sand. The violence of the sudden mischance hath so wrought in him, who by nature is allied to nothing less than a self-debasing humor of dejection, that I have never seen anything more changed and spirit-broken. He hath, with a peremptory resolution, dismissed the partners of his riots and late hours, denied his house and person to their most earnest solicitings, and will be seen by none. He keeps ever alone, and his grief (which is solitary) does not so much seem to possess and govern in him, as it is by Him, with a wilfulness of most manifest affection, entertained and cherished.

Marg. How bears he up against the common rumor?

Sand. With a strange indifference, which, whosoever dives not into the niceness of his sorrow might mistake for obdurate and insensate. Yet are the wings of his pride forever clipt; and yet a virtuous predominance of filial grief is so ever uppermost, that you may discover his thoughts less troubled with conjecturing what living opinions will say, and judge of his deeds, than absorbed and buried with the dead, whom his indiscretion made so.

Marg. I knew a greatness ever to be resident in him, to which the admiring eyes of men should look up even in the declining and bankrupt state of his pride. Fain would I see him, fain talk with him; but that a sense of respect, which is violated, when without deliberation we press into the society of the unhappy, checks and holds me back. How, think you, he would bear my presence?

Sand. As of an assured friend, whom in the forgetfulness of his fortunes he past by. See him you must; but not to-night. The newness of the sight shall move the bitterest compunction and the truest remorse; but afterwards, trust me, dear lady, the happiest effects of a returning peace, and a gracious comfort, to him, 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 widespread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness upon me, as of sleep. How goes the night?—

Sand. An hour past sunset. 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 so feelingly

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,

As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks.

[Pauses, and observes the pictures.

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,

Razed out the memory of an ancient family,

And quite reversed the honors 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 honor'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,

(As who does not, being splenetic, refuse

Sometimes old playfellows,) the spleen being 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 night 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 honors of my maiden pride?

I was your favorite then.

John. O Margaret, Margaret!

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,

You only visit me, love, and forgive me.

Marg. Dost yet remember the green arbor. 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-honor'd John!

Upon her knees (regard her poor request)

Your favorite, once beloved Margaret, kneels.

John. What would'st thou, lady, ever honor'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,

(Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,)

O not for one offence mistrust Heaven's mercy,

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,

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

And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds?

Marg. That I will, John.

[Exeunt.

SCENE.—An inner Apartment.

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 humors from you.

John. They are gone.—

Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak!

I can smile too, and I almost begin

To understand what kind of creature Hope is.

Marg. Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John.

John. Yet tell me, if I overact my mirth,

(Being but a novice, I may fall into that error.)

That were a sad indecency, you know.

Marg. Nay, never fear.

I will be mistress of your humors,

And you shall frown or smile by the book.

And herein I shall be most peremptory,

Cry, "This shows well, but that inclines to levity;

This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it,

But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite."

John. How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself!

Marg. To give you in your stead a better self!

Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld

You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery,

Sir Rowland my father's gift,

And all my maidens gave my heart for lost.

I was a young thing then, being newly come

Home from my convent education, where

Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France:

Returning home true protestant, you call'd me

Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful

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.

John. Those are the church-bells of St. Mary 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 shouldst offend the eyes of Christian people

With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer?

Thou wouldst but discompose their pious thoughts,

And do thyself no good: for how couldst thou pray,

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

And then I at my own presumption smiled;

And then I wept that I should smile at all,

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 passed 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 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'ertasked in thought, he heeded not

The importunate suit of one who stood by the 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 serv'd the devil, being since burnt for witchcraft.

She look'd at him as one that meant to blast him,

And with a frightful noise,

('Twas partly like a woman's voice,

And partly like the hissing of a snake,)

She nothing said but this

(Sir Francis told the words):—

A mischief, mischief, mischief,

And a nine-times killing curse,

By day and by night, to the caitiff wight,

Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door,

And shuts up the womb of his purse.

And still she cried—

A mischief,

And a ninefold withering curse:

For that shall come to thee that will undo thee,

Both all that thou fearest and worse.

So saying, she departed,

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,

And none could tell what ail'd him; for he lay,

And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off,

And he, that was full-flesh'd, became as thin

As a two-months' 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

His hand upon his heart to show the place,

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.

[ALBUM VERSES,]

WITH A FEW OTHERS.

DEDICATION.

TO THE PUBLISHER.

DEAR MOXON,

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, intrusted 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 in Periodicals; which you have chosen in this manner to embody. I feel little interest in their publication. They are simply—Advertisement Verses.

It is not for me, nor you, to allude in public to the kindness of our honored Friend, under whose auspices you are become a Publisher. 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,

CHARLES LAMB.

ENFIELD, 1st June, 1839.

POEMS

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.

NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF A RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR WORKHOUSE.

A CHILD.

BALLAD.

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES BY LIONARDO DA VINCI.

LINES

ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO DA VINCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS.

A TRAGEDY.

CHARACTERS.

SCENE—for the most part at Sir Walter's mansion in DEVONSHIRE; at other times in the Forest of SHERWOOD.

TIME—soon after the RESTORATION.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE—A Servants' Apartment in Woodvill Hall. Servants drinking—

TIME, the Morning.

A Song, by DANIEL.

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

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE.—An Apartment in Woodvil Hall.

JOHN WOODVIL—alone. (Reading parts of a letter).

To him enters LOVEL.

Enter one drunk.

Enter, at another door, Three calling for HARRY FREEMAN.

SCENE.—Sherwood Forest.

SIR WALTER WOODVIL. SIMON WOODVIL. (Disguised as Frenchmen.)

MARGARET enters in boy's apparel.

THE THIRD.

SCENE.—An Apartment of State in Woodvil Hall.

Cavaliers drinking.

JOHN WOODVIL, LOVEL, GRAY, and four more.

(A servant enters.)

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE.—An Apartment in Woodvil Hall.

JOHN WOODVIL. (Alone.)

SCENE.—The Forest.

SIR WALTER. SIMON. LOVEL. GRAY.

SCENE.—Another Part of the Forest.

SCENE.—Woodvil Hall.

SANDFORD. MARGARET. (As from a Journey.)

ACT THE FIFTH.

JOHN WOODVIL. (dressing).

MARGARET enters.

SCENE.—An inner Apartment.

JOHN is discovered kneeling.—MARGARET standing over him.

(A noise of bells heard.)

A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

CHARACTERS.

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

WITH A FEW OTHERS.

DEDICATION.

TO THE PUBLISHER.