dream! It fell, pierced by the sword of the Comte de Mirabeau. And yet I will say, that that man, at the time of his inflicting the death-wound of that Parliament, produced at once the shortest and the grandest funeral oration that ever was or could be made upon the departure of a great court of magistracy. Though he had himself smarted under its lash, as every one knows who knows his history, (and he was elevated to dreadful notoriety in history,) yet, when he pronounced the death sentence upon that Parliament, and inflicted the mortal wound, he declared that his motives for doing it were merely political, and that their hands were as pure as those of justice itself, which they administered. A great and glorious exit, my Lords, of a great and glorious body! And never was a eulogy pronounced upon a body more deserved. They were persons, in nobility of rank, in amplitude of fortune, in weight of authority, in depth of learning, inferior to few of those that hear me. My Lords, it was but the other day that they submitted their necks to the axe; but their T honor was unwounded. Their enemies, the persons who sentenced them to death, were lawyers full of subtlety, they were enemies full of malice; yet lawyers full of subtlety, and enemies full of malice, as they were, they did not dare to reproach them with having supported the wealthy, the great, and powerful, and of having oppressed the weak and feeble, in any of their judgments, or of having perverted justice, in any one instance whatever, through favor, through interest, or cabal.

My Lords, if you must fall, may you so fall! But if you stand, and stand I trust you will, together with the fortune of this ancient monarchy, together with the ancient laws and liberties of this great and illustrious kingdom,- may you stand as unimpeached in honor as in power! May you stand, not as a substitute for virtue, but as an ornament of virtue,

as a security for virtue!

May you stand long, and long

stand the terror of tyrants! May you stand the refuge of afflicted nations! May you stand a sacred temple, for the perpetual residence of an inviolable Justice!

PACK CLOUDS AWAY, AND WELCOME DAY.

From THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

Thomas Heywood.

PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloft,
To give my love good-morrow.
Wings from the wind.to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing;

To give my love good-morrow.

To give my love good-morrow,

Notes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin-red-breast,
Sing birds in every furrow;
And from each bill, let music shrill,
Give my fair love good-morrow.
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow;
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow.
To give my love good-morrow,
Sing birds in every furrow.

THE MANLY HEART.

George Wither.

SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads in May,
If she think not well of me,
What care I how fair she be?

Shall my silly heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well disposèd nature
Joinèd with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican:

If she be not so to me,

What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget mine own?

Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best:
If she be not such to me,

What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high
Shall I play the fool and die?

She that bears a noble mind

If not outward helps she find,

Thinks what with them he would do

That without them dares her woo:
And unless that mind I see,

What care I how great she be?

Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;

For if she be not for me,

What care I for whom she be?

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS.

Richard Lovelace.

TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind,

That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such,

As you, too, shall adore;

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not Honor more.

AN ODE.

Matthew Prior.

THE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow'd name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
But Cloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;

When Cloe noted her desire,

That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
But with my numbers mix my sighs:
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.

Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:

I sung and gaz'd: I play'd and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around

Remark'd, how ill we all dissembled.