FERD.

Pray, set it down, and rest you: when this burns,
"T will weep for having wearied you: my father
Is hard at study; pray now, rest yourself;
He's safe for these three hours.

O most dear mistress,
The sun will set, before I shall discharge
What I must strive to do.

MIRAN.

If you'll sit down,
I'll bear your logs the while: Pray give me that;
I'll carry it to the pile.

FERD.

No, precious creature :

MIRAN.

FERD.

MIRAN.

FERD.

MIRAN.

I'd rather crack my sinews, break my back,
Than you should such dishonour undergo,
While I sit lazy by.

It would become me
As well as it does you: and I should do it
With much more ease, for my good will'is to it,
And yours it is against.-You look wearily.

No, noble mistress; 'tis fresh morning with me,
When you are by at night. I do beseech you,
(Chiefly that I may set it in my prayers,)
What is your name?

Miranda :-O my father,

Admired Miranda!

I have broke your hest to say so.

Full many a lady

Indeed, the top of admiration; worth
What's dearest to the world!
I have eyed with best regard; and many a time
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues
Have I liked several women; never any

With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed,
And put it to the foil: But you, O you,

So perfect, and so peerless, are created
Of every creature's best.

I do not know

One of my sex; no woman's face remember,

FERD.

MIRAN.

Save from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen
More that I may call men, than you, good friend,
And my dear father: how features are abroad,
I am skilless of; but, by my modesty,
(The jewel in my dower,) I would not wish

Any companion in the world but you;

Nor can imagination form a shape,

Besides yourself, to like of.—

FERD. O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound,

MIRAN.

FERD.

MIRAN.

FERD.

MIRAN.
FERD.

And crown what I profess with kind event,

If I speak true; if hollowly, invert

What best is boded me to mischief! I,

Beyond all limit of what else i' the world,
Do love, prize, honour you.

I am a fool

To weep at what I am glad of.

Wherefore weep you?

At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer

What I desire to give; and much less take,

What I shall die to want: But this is trifling;

And all the more it seeks to hide itself,

The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!

I am your wife, if you will marry me;

If not, I'll die your maid: to be your fellow,
You may deny me; but I'll be your servant,
Whether you will or no.

My mistress, dearest,

And I thus humble ever.

My husband then?

Ay, with a heart as willing

As bondage e'er of freedom.

People may indeed quarrel with the magic of Prospero, but surely no one that has a soul will question either the magic or the divinity of these lines. Yet some appear to think that Shakspeare, irreligious himself, could not delineate or conceive truly religious characters; probably because his persons do not take sides on the "quinquaticular controversy;" their faith always showing itself in works, not in words, and their piety consisting in doing right, not in "getting religion.' That Miranda, though the soul of filial affection, should be so innocently and insensibly drawn into something of disobedience to her father's command, as Coleridge remarks, finely illustrates the workings of an innate tendency corresponding to the Scripture precept; she shall forsake father and mother, and cleave unto her husband.

Of the characters of Ferdinand and Miranda, perhaps the less there is said the better. We have comparatively little, indeed, from Ferdinand, but in that little how much! He has nearly all the conceivable excellencies of manly youth, but in the promise rather than in the performance, the bud rather than the blossom; we almost see his rich generous nature developing itself before us. Full of truth, tenderness, and honour, "gentle, and not fearful," he seems waiting but for just such an inspiration as Miranda to unfold whatever is noble and divine in human nature we do not wonder at her saying as she eyes his "brave form" and "goodly person,"

"I might call him

A thing divine; for nothing natural

I ever saw so noble ;"

and we are as little surprised that his big, manly heart,

being melted into tenderness by his sorrows and sufferings, should put forth all its treasures as he stands gazing at the heavenly apparition before him. The fact that the sight of her converts him into a hero, and that his heroism bursts forth in spontaneous homage to her loveliness, is alone sufficient to prove him worthy of her.

The impression which Miranda makes upon us is very much like that of every other noble woman, except that it contains whatever is most divine, and nothing but what is most divine in all other women. She is not, like Perdita, at once the queen of flowers, and the flower of queens, but simply the queen and the flower of women; is made up of the very bloom and perfume of womanhood. To say she is true, gentle, innocent, and modest, seems injustice to her; she is truth, gentleness, innocence, and modesty themselves. The mere child of Prospero and nature, she has never known a single individual of her own sex, and but one and a half of the other sex. "In the dark backward and abysm of time," she can remember no instructions but her father's; and under his instructions all the simple and original elements of her being, love, light, grace, honour, and innocence, all pure feelings and tender sympathies, whatever is sweet, gentle and holy in womanhood, seem to have sprung up in her nature as from celestial seed. An air of inexpressible purity overspreads her whole being she seems utterly incapable of a single thought or emotion that can be associated with an ugly or ungentle idea: meek and bold, her heart freely suffers with those that she sees suffer; and, in the sweet religious tremblings of her virgin soul, is as confiding as she is

worthy of confidence. Her father's mighty magic seems to have charmed away all unwholesome and unholy influences, or Caliban to have sponged them up as more congenial to his nature: the contagion of the world's slow stain has not visited her; the chills and cankers of social advantages and artificial wisdom have not touched nor come near her: while all the sweetest and sacredest influences of creation seem to have flocked around her, to have been charmed into her presence, as if to do her homage and renew their efficacy. Even her father's former condition and sufferings have been carefully hidden from her; she knows but that he is her father, and "master of a full poor cell;" more to know did never meddle with her thoughts." To their enchanted Isle heaven has suffered nothing to come but tidings of truth, and love, and joy; these she has drunk in from earth and sky; from her infancy she has breathed them in the atmosphere and heard them in the aerial melodies. of the place; "old Ocean, that mighty harmonist,” has sung them to her:

66

"The floating clouds their state have lent
To her; for her the willow bent;

Nor hath she failedto see,

Even in the motions of the storm

Grace that did mould the maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

The stars of midnight have been dear

To her; and she hath leaned her ear
In many a secret place,

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,

And beauty born of murmuring sound

Hath passed into the face."