trust me, dear lady, the happiest effects of a As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks. returning peace, and a gracious comfort, to him, [Pauses, and observes the pictures. 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 wide-spread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness upon me, as of sleep. How goes the night? Sand. An hour past sun-set. 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. 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 feelingly These pictures must be taken down : To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride, Telling me, I must be his famous John.) Must I grow proud upon our house's pride. MARGARET enters. John. Comes Margaret here to witness my disgrace? O, lady, I have suffer'd loss, And diminution of my honour's brightness. Marg. Old times should never be forgotten, 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, so (As who does not, being splenetic, refuse Sometimes old playfellows,) the spleen being By outward types the serious man within.- A cleaving sadness native to the brow, Which enemies themselves do for us then, gone, The offence no longer lives. O Woodvil, those were happy days, When we two first began to love. When first, With what a coy reserve and seldom speech, I was your favourite then. John. O Margaret, Margaret! Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come- Excellent lady, Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes, These your submissions to my low estate, Marg. Dost yet remember the green arbour, In the south gardens of my father's house, "Like hermit poor In pensive place obscure," And tell your Ave Maries by the curls Of every thought that stray'd from love and And I your saint the penance should appoint- John. O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts; Thou noble nature, Upon her knees (regard her poor request) John. What would'st thou, lady, ever honour'd Marg. That John would think more nobly of More worthily of high Heaven; And not for one misfortune, child of chance, Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends, Marg. That I will, John. SCENE. An inner Apartment. [Exeunt. JOHN is discovered kneeling.-MARGARET standing over him. To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty, Marg. John will break Margaret's heart, if he O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy, (Which end hath happily not been frustrate Home from my convent education, where quite,) O not for one offence mistrust Heaven's mercy, Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France: 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. Thou would'st but discompose their pious | thoughts, And do thyself no good: for how could'st thou pray, With unwash'd hands, and lips unused to the offices?" And then I at my own presumption smiled; John. Those are the church bells of St. Mary And then I wept that I should smile at all, 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. 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 should'st offend the eyes of Christian people With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer? Having such cause of grief! I wept outright; 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 I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open. (Whether by negligence I knew not, Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsafed, Marg. Yes. John. So entering in, not without fear, A docile infant by Sir Walter's side; But afterwards was greatly comforted. It seem'd, the guilt of blood was passing from me 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 | So saying, she departed, 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'ertask'd in thought, he heeded not Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath Stranger. A terrible curse! What follow'd? Servant. Nothing immediate, but some two months after, Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick, The importunate suit of one who stood by the And none could tell what ail'd him; for he lay, gate, And begg'd an alms. Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate For she was one who practised the black arts, And served the devil, being since burnt for witchcraft. And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off, As a two-month's babe that has been starved in the nursing. And sure I think He bore his death-wound like a little child; there; And, when they ask'd him his complaint, he laid She look'd at him as one that meant to blast him, His hand upon his heart to show the place, Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said, And thereupon Sir Francis call'd to mind 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. 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, entrusted 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 interest in their publication. It is not for me, nor you, you are become a Publisher. in Periodicals; which you have chosen in this manner to embody. I feel little They are simply-Advertisement Verses. to allude in public to the kindness of our honoured Friend, under whose auspices 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, ENFIELD, 1st June, 1839. CHARLES LAMB. IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF HAD I a power, Lady, to my will, The hands of famous Lawyers-a grave band- TO DORA W ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IN HER ALBUM. AN Album is a Banquet: from the store, |