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The general paused, the soldiers shouted loud;
From Count Basil, a Tragedy.
A LOVER'S WISH.
O! were I conscious that within her breast
From Count Basil, a Tragedy.
DESCRIPTION OF A LADY.
Page. Madam, there is a Lady in your hall, Who begs to be admitted to your presence.
Lady. Is it not one of our invited friends ?
Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so noble,
Lady. Is she young or old ?
Page. Neither, if right I guess, but she is fair;
Lady. The foolish stripling!
Page. So stately and so graceful is her form,
Lady. What is her garb?
Page. I cannot well describe the fashion of it,
Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy;
From De Montfort, a Tragedy.
SCENE FROM CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS.
Enter RODRIGO, with ELLA hanging fondly upon him, and continuing their way
as if intending to pass, when a trumpet sounds without, and they stop short.
Rodrig. It is the sound that summons us to meet; There is no farther grace: therefore, sweet Ella, My pretty Ella, my good loving Ella, My gentle little one that hang'st upon me With such fond hold, in good sooth we must part. Here bid Heaven bless me, and no farther go.
Ella. Must it be so? I will bid Heaven bless thee, And all good saints watch o'er thy precious life;
And they will bless and guard thee in the hour
Rodrig. Fear not, sweet Ella! whizzing balls there be
This is a creed,
Ella. It is a blessed one: I would believe it.
Ella. O no! I've fondly fix'd myself upon thee,
Rodrig. Heaven bless thee, little flower! I prize thee
Than all the pride of female stateliness.
Ella. Dost thou? then I am happy: I am proud:
Rodrig. Ah, if we part not instantly, my Ella,
Ella. O no, I go: they shall not see thee weep,
THE AFRICAN PRINCE.
Enter the Keeper of the Prison.
Keeper (to Ohio). Thou canker-worm! thou black
enyenom'd toad! Art thou a playing thy malicious tricks? Get from my sight, thou pitchy viper, go! [Exit Ohio. Hardibrand. What black thing is it? it appears,
methinks, Not worth thine anger. Keeper. That man, may't please you, sir, was born a
prince. Hardibrand. I do not catch thy jest. Keeper. I do not jest, I speak in sober earnest ; He is an Afric prince of royal line. Hardibrand. What say'st thou! that poor wretch who
Yes, even he:
Hardibrand. And now to be the base thing that he is ! Well, well, proceed.
Keeper. At last a surly master brought him here, Who, thinking him unfit for further service, As then a fest’ring wound wore hard upon him, With but a scanty sum to bury him Left him with me. He ne'ertheless recover'd; And though full proud and sullen at the first, Tamed by the love of wine which strongly tempts him, He by degrees forgot his princely pride, And has been long establish'd in these walls To carry liquor for the prisoners : But such a cursed, spite-envenom'd toad !
Hardibrand. Out on't! thou'st told a tale that wrings
Of royal line; born to command, and dignified
From Rayner, a Travedy.
FROM THE KITTEN.
The nimblest tumbler, stage-bedight, To thee is but a clumsy wight, Who every limb and sinew strains To do what costs thee little pains, For which, I trow, the gaping crowd Requites him oft with plaudits loud. But, stopp'd the while thy wanton play, Applauses, too, thy feats repay: For then, beneath some urchin's hand, With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand, While many a stroke of fondness glides Along thy back and tabby sides : Dilated swells thy glossy fur, And loudly sings thy busy purr, — As, timing well the equal sound, Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, And all their harmless claws disclose, Like prickles of an early rose; While softly from thy whisker'd cheek Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.
But not alone, by cottage fire, Do rustics rude thy tricks admire; The learned sage, whose thoughts explore The widest range of human lore, Or, with unfetter'd fancy, fly Through airy heights of poesy, Pausing, smiles, with alter'd air, To see thee climb his elbow chair; Or, struggling on the mat below, Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe. The widow'd dame, or lonely maid, Who in the still, but cheerless shade Of home unsocial, spends her age, And rarely turns a letter'd page; Upon her hearth for thee lets fall The rounded cork, or paper ball; Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch The ends of ravell’d skein to catch, But lets thee have thy wayward will, Perplexing oft her sober skill. Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, In lonely tower or prison pent, Reviews the wit of former days, And loathes the world and all its ways;