VERSES WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WINDSOR CASTLE. FROM beauteous Windsor's high and storied halls, AN AMERICAN LOVE ODE. FROM THE SECOND VOLUME OF MONTAIGNE'S ESSAYS. STAY, Stay, thou lovely, fearful snake, Then ages hence, when thou no more THOMAS SOUTHERNE [Born, 1659. Died, 1746.] FROM THE TRAGEDY OF "THE FATAL MARRIAGE." ACT IV. SCENE II. Isabella meeting with Biron after her marriage with Villeroy. Enter Nurse. Nurse. MADAM, the gentleman's below. This ring was the first present of my love By his last breath, to some known faithful friend, To bring me back again. [BIRON introduced-Nurse retires. That's all I have to trust to My fears were woman's-I have view'd him all : And let me, let me say it to myself, [* In all debates where critics bear a part, Not one but nods and talks of Jonson's art, Of Shakspeare's nature and of Cowley's wit: How Beaumont's judgment check'd what Fletcher writ; How Shadwell hasty, Wycherley was slow; But for the passions, Southerne sure and Rowe.-Porɛ. Southerne and Rowe possessed these parts with Lee and Otway; they touched the passions and expressed them.] I live again, and rise but from his tomb. Bir. Then farewell my disguise, and my misMy Isabella! [fortunes. [He goes to her; she shrieks, and falls in a swoon. Isa. Ha! Bir. Oh come again! Thy Biron summons thee to life and love; Thy once-loved, ever-loving husband calls- Isa. My husband! Biron! Bir. Excess of love and joy, for my return, Has overpower'd her. I was to blame To take thy sex's softness unprepared: But sinking thus, thus dying in my arms, This ecstacy has made my welcome more Than words could say: words may be counterfeit, False-coin'd, and current only from the tongue, Without the mind; but passion 's in the soul, And always speaks the heart. [from me? Isa. Where have I been? Why do you keep him I know his voice: my life upon the wing, Here's the soft lure that brings me back again; 'Tis he himself, my Biron, the dear man! My true-loved husband! Do I hold you fast, Never to part again? Can I believe it? Nothing but you could work so great a change: There's more than life itself in dying here; If I must fall, death's welcome in these arms. Bir. Live ever in these arms! Isa. But pardon me Excuse the wild disorder of my soul : The joy, the strange surprising joy, of seeing you, Bir. Thou everlasting goodness! What hand of Providence has brought you back Bir. My best life! at leisure, all. Isa. We thought you dead; kill'd at the siege of I often writ to my hard father, but never had Isa. What a world of woe Had been prevented, but in hearing from you! Bir. Alas! thou couldst not help me! Isa. You do not know how much I could have done; At least, I'm sure I could have suffer'd all : Isa. My life, but to have heard You were alive-which now too late I find. [Aside. Isa. Well both, both well; And may he prove a father to your hopes, Bir. Come, no more tears. [Aside. Isa. Seven long years of sorrow for your loss, Have mourn'd with me Bir. And all my days behind Shall be employ'd in a kind recompense [you. Isa. He's gone to bed, I'll have him brought to Bir. To-morrow I shall see him: I want rest Myself, after this weary pilgrimage. Isa. Alas! what shall I get for you? Bir. Nothing but rest, my love! To-night I would not Be known, if possible, to your family: I see my nurse is with you; her welcome Isa. I'll dispose of her, and order everything As you would have it. [Exit. Bir. Grant me but life, good Heaven, and give the means To make this wondrous goodness some amends, Prayers have their blessings to reward our hopes, I promised him to follow-him! Is he without a name? Biron, my husband, [Weeping. What's to be done?-for something must be done. Two husbands! yet not one! By both enjoy'd, Therefore no morrow: Ha! a lucky thought BIRON meets her. Bir. Despair and rest for ever! Isabella! These words are far from thy condition, And be they ever so! I heard thy voice, And could not bear thy absence: come, my love! You have staid long; there's nothing, nothing sure Now to despair of in succeeding fate. Isa. I am contented to be miserable, But not this way: I have been too long abused, And can believe no more. Let me sleep on to be deceived no more. Bir. Look up, my love! I never did deceive thee, Nor never can; believe thyself, thy eyes, That first inflamed, and lit me to my love; Those stars, that still must guide me to my joysIsa. And me to my undoing; I look round, And find no path, but leading to the grave. Bir. I cannot understand thee. Isa. My good friends above, I thank them, have at last found out a way [tunes? Isa. You are the only cause. Bir. Am I the cause the cause of thy misforIsa. The fatal innocent cause of all my woes. Bir. Is this my welcome home! this the reward Of all my miseries, long labours, pains, And pining wants of wretched slavery, Which I have outlived, only in hopes of thee! Am I thus paid at last for deathless love, And call'd the cause of thy misfortunes now? Isa. Inquire no more; 'twill be explain'd too [She is going off. soon. "Twas madness all-Compose thyself, my love! Isa. To bed! You have raised the storm To be the happy partner of your love; And now must never, never share it more. As sometimes you have thought me, on my knees Isa. The rugged hand of fate has got between Our meeting hearts, and thrusts them from their joys. Since we must part Bir. Nothing shall ever part us. Isa. Parting's the least that is set down for me: Heaven has decreed, and we must suffer all. Bir. I know thee innocent: I know myself so: Indeed we both have been unfortunate; But sure misfortunes ne'er were faults in love. How wilt thou curse thy fond believing heart, [Exit[me : Bir. I know enough: the important question Poor Isabella ! now I know the cause, Of all ill stars combined, of heaven and fate- Into despair; they have not urged my doom; I was alive. Too well they knew how dear SCENE IL-Draws, shows BIRON asleep on a couch. Isa. Asleep so soon! Oh, happy, happy thou, Who thus can sleep! I never shall sleep more— If then to sleep be to be happy, he Who sleeps the longest is the happiest : If thou didst ever love thy Isabella, [Throws herself upon the floor; after a short pause better with me; work Conflicting passions have at last unhinged The great machine! the soul itself seems changed! The reasoning faculties are all deposed, What do I see! Bir. Isabella, arm'd! Isa. Against my husband's life! Who, but the wretch, most reprobate to grace, Isa. Madness has brought me to the gates of hell, And there has left me. Oh, the frightful change Of my distractions! Or is this interval Of reason but to aggravate my woes, To drive the horror back with greater force Bir. Why dost thou fly me so? Isa. I cannot bear his sight; Distraction, come, Possess me all, and take me to thyself! Shake off thy chains, and hasten to my aid; Thou art my only cure- -Like other friends, He will not come to my necessities; Then I must go to find the tyrant outWhich is the nearest way? [Running out. Bir. Poor Isabella! she's not in a condition To give me any comfort, if she could: Lost to herself as quickly I shall be To all the world-Horrors come fast around me; My mind is overcast-the gathering clouds Enter Nurse. Nurse. Sir, there is somebody at the door must needs speak with you; he will not tell his name. Bir. I come to him. [Exit Nurse. 'Tis Belford, I suppose; he little knows Of what has happen'd here; I wanted him, Must employ his friendship, and then―― [Exit. SONG. IN SIR ANTHONY LOVE, OR THE RAMBLING LADY. PURSUING beauty, men descry The distant shore, and long to prove Still richer in variety The treasures of the land of love. We women, like weak Indians, stand But she who trades with them is lost. They quickly play another part. In ignorance, our shining store; Discover nature's richest mine, And yet the tyrants will have more. Be wise, be wise, and do not try How he can court, or you be won; For love is but discovery: When that is made, the pleasure's done. ROBERT BLAIR. [Born, 1609. Died, 1746] ROBERT BLAIR was minister of the parish of Athelstaneford, in East Lothian. His son, who died not many years ago, was a very high legal character in Scotland. The eighteenth century has produced few specimens of blank verse of so powerful and simple a character as that of The Grave. It is a popular poem, not merely because it is religious, but because its language and imagery are free, natural, and picturesque. The latest editor of the poets has, with singularly bad taste, noted some of this author's most nervous and expressive phrases as vulgarisms, among which he reckons that of friendship "the solder of society." Blair may be a homely and even a gloomy poet in the eye of fastidious criticism; but there is a masculine and pronounced character even in his gloom and homeliness that keeps it most distinctly apart from either dullness or vulgarity. His style pleases us like the powerful expression of a countenance without regular beauty*. [* Blair was a great favourite with Burns, who quotes from The Grave," very frequently in his letters. "Blair's Grave," says Southey, "is the only poem I can call to mind which has been composed in imitation of the Night Thoughts." Life of Cowper, vol. ii. p. 143.] |