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A few sad relics of a nation's war;
Alas, how few! Then, soft as Elim's well,
The precious tears of new-born freedom fell;
And he whose harden'd heart alike had borne
The hours of bondage and th’ oppressor's scorn,
The stubborn slave, by hope's new beams subdued,
In faltering accents sobbed his gratitude;
Till, kindling into warmer zeal around,
The virgin timbrel wak'd its silver sound;
And in fierce joy, no more by doubt supprest,
The struggling spirit throbb’d in Miriam's breast :
She, with bare arms, and fixing on the sky
The dark transparence of her lucid eye,
Pour'd on the winds of heaven her wild sweet harmony,
“Where now," she sang, "the tall Egyptian spear?
On's sunlike shield, and Zoan's chariot, where?
Above their ranks the whelming waters spread;
Shout, Israel! for the Lord has triumphed!”
And every pause between, as Miriam sang,
From tribe to tribe the martial thunder rang;
And loud and far the stormy chorus spread-
“Shout, Israel! for the Lord hath triumphed!”


Shakspeare. How many

thousands of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! O! gentle Sleep, Nature's soft nurse-how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why, rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody? O thou vile god! why liest thou with the vile, In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch A watch-case to a common ’larum bell ? Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast, Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains, In cradle of the rude, imperious surge ; And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deafʼning clamours in the slipp’ry shrouds, That with the hurly, Death itself awakes :

Canst thou, O partial Sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And in the calmest and the stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then, happy lowly clown!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.



Duke. You are welcome home.

Jul. Home! you are merry; this retired spot would be a palace for an owl!

Duke. 'Tis ours,
Jul. Ay, for the time we stay in it.

-By Heaven, this is the noble mansion that I spoke of. Jul. This! You are not in earnest, tho' you bear it with such a sober brow.-Come, come, you jest.

Duke. Indeed I jest not; were it ours in jest, we should have none, wife.
Jul. Are you serious, Sir?
Duke. I swear, as I'm your husband and no Duke.
Jul. No Duke!
Duke. But of my own creation, lady.
Jul. Am I betray’d! Nay, do not play the fool! It is too keen a joke.
Duke. You'll find it true.
Jul. You are no Duke, then?
Duke. None.

Jul. Have I been cozen'd? And have you no estate, Sir? No palaces, nor houses? Duke.

-None but this: a small snug dwelling, and in good repair. Jul. Nor money, nor effects ? Duke. None that I know of. Jul. And the attendants who have waited on us

Duke. They were my friends, who, having done my business, are gone about their own.

Jul. Why then 'tis clear. That I was ever born! What are you, Sir?

Duke. I am an honest man—that may content you: young, nor illfavoured. Should not that content you? I am your husband, and that must content you,

Jul. I will go home! (Going.)
Duke. You are at home already. (Staying her.)

Jul. I'll not endure it! But remember this-Duke or no Duke, I'll be a Duchess, Sir!

Duke. A Duchess! you shall be a Queen-to all who, of their courtesy, will call you so.

Jul. And I will have attendance!

Duke. So you shall, when you have learnt to wait upon yourself.

Jul. To wait upon myself! Must I bear this? I could tear out my eyes that bade you woo me, and bite my tongue in two for saying--yes!

Duke. And if you should, 'twould grow again. I think, to be an honest yeoman's wife (for such, my would-be Duchess, you will find me) you were cut out by nature. Jul.

-You will find, then, that education, Sir, has spoilt me for it. Why! Do you think I'll work ?

Duke. I think 'twill happen, wife.

-What! rub and scrub your noble palace clean?
Duke. - Those taper fingers will do it daintily.

Jul. And dress your victuals, (if there be any?) Oh! I could go mad!

Duke. And mend my hose, and darn my nightcaps neatly; wait, like an echo, till you're spoken to.

Jul. Or, like a clock, talk only once an hour ?

Duke. Or like a dial : for that quietly performs its work, and never speaks at all.

Jul. To feed your poultry and your hogs ! oh monstrous ! And when I stir abroad, on great occasions, carry a squeaking tithe-pig to the vicar; or jolt with higglers' wives the market trot, to sell your eggs and butter!

Duke. Excellent! How well you sum the duties of a wife! Why, what a blessing I shall have in you!

Jul. A blessing!

Duke. When they talk of you and me, Darby and Joan shall be no more remembered

;- we shall be happy ! Jul. Shall we? Duke. Wond'rous happy! Oh, you will make an admirable wife ! Jul. I'll make a devil. Duke. What ! Jul. A


devil. Duke. Oh, no! we'll have no devils. Jul. I'll not bear it! I'll to my father's ! Duke. Gently: you forget you are a perfect stranger to the road. Jul. My wrongs will find a way, or make one.

Duke. Softly! You stir not hence, except to take the air; and then I'll breathe it with you.

Jul. What! confine me!
Duke. 'Twould be unsafe to trust you yet abroad.
Jul. Am I a truant school-boy?
Duke. Nay, not so ; but you must keep your bounds,
Jul. And if I break them perhaps you'll beat me.

Duke. No; I'll talk to you! The man that lays his hand upon a woman, save in the way of kindness, is a wretch whom 'twere gross flattery to name a coward.

Jul. Well, if I may not travel to my father, I may write to him, surely ! --and I will—if I can meet within your spacious dukedom three such unhop'd-for miracles at once, as pens, ink,


paper. Duke. You will find them in the next room. A word, before you go. You are my wife, by ev'ry tie that's sacred; the partner of my fortune, and

orry, and

Jul. Your fortune!

Duke. Peace !—no fooling, idle woman! Beneath th' attesting eye of Heav'n I've sworn to love, to honour, cherish, and protect you. No human power can part us. What remains, then ? to fret, and torment each other, and give a keener edge to our hard fate by sharp upbraiding, and perpetual jars? Or, like a loving, and a patient pair, (wak'd from a dream of grandeur to depend upon their daily labour for support), to soothe the taste of fortune's lowliness with sweet consent and mutual fond endearment? Now to your chamber—write what'er you please ; but pause before you stain the spotless paper with words that may inflame, but cannot heal !

Jul. Why, what a patient worm you take me for.

Duke. I took you for a wife ; and, ere I've done, I'll know you for a good one.

Jul. You shall know me for a right woman, full of her own sex : who, when she suffers wrong, will speak her wrongs: who feels her own prerogative, and scorns by the proud reason of superior man to be taught patience, when her swelling heart cries out revenge! [Exit.]

Duke. [Solus.] Why, let the flood rage on, there is no tide in woman's wildest passion but hath an ebb. I've broke the ice, however. Write to her father! She may write a folio. But if she send it! 'Twill divert her spleen. The flow of ink may save her blood-letting. Perchance she may have fits ! They're seldom mortal, save when the doctor's sent for. Tho' I have heard some husbands say, and wisely, a woman's honour is her safest guard, yet there's some virtue in a lock and key. [Locks the door.] So, thus begins our honey-moon. 'Tis well! For the first fortnight, ruder than march winds, she'll blow a hurricane. The next, perhaps, like April, she may wear a changeful face of storm and sunshine: and, when that is past, she will break glorious as unclouded May ; and where the thorns grew bare, the spreading blossoms meet with no lagging frost to kill their sweetness. Whilst others, for a month's delirious joy, buy a dull age of penance, we, more wisely, taste first the wholesome bitter of the cup, that after, to the very lees, shall relish ; and to the close of this frail life prolong the pure delights of a well-govern'd marriage.



“MACGREGOR, Macgregor, remember our foemen;
The moon rises broad on the brow of Ben-Lomond;
The clans are impatient, and chide thy delay :
Arise ! let us bound to Glen-Lyon away."

Stern scowl'd the Macgregor, then silent and sullen,
He turn’d his red eye to the braes of Strathfillan :

Go, Malcolm, to sleep, let the clans be dismissed;
The Campbells this night for Macgregor must rest.

"Macgregor, Macgregor, our scouts have been flying,
Three days, round the hills of M'Nab and Glen-Lyon;
Of riding and running such tidings they bear,
We must meet them at home, else they'll quickly be here."

“The Campbell may come, as his promises bind him,
And haughty M'Nab with his giants behind him;
This night, I am bound to relinquish the fray,
And do what it freezes my vitals to say.
Forgive me, dear brother, this horror of mind;
Thou know'st in the strife I was never behind,
Nor ever receded a foot from the van,
Or blench'd at the ire or prowess of man.
But I've sworn by the cross, by my God, and by all !
An oath which I cannot, and dare not recall
Ere the shadows of midnight fall east from the pile,
To meet with a spirit this night in Glen-Gyle.

“Last night, in my chamber, all thoughtful and lone,
I call’d to remembrance some deeds I had done,
When enter'd a lady, with visage so wan,
And looks, such as never were fastend on man.
I knew her, O brother! I knew her full well !
Of that once fair dame such a tale I could tell
As would thrill thy bold heart; but how long she remain’d,
So räck'd was my spirit, my bosom so pain’d,
I knew not-but ages seemed short to the while.
Despairing and mad, to futurity blind,
The present to shún, and some respite to find,
I swore, ere the shadow fell east from the pile,
To meet her alone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.

“She told me, and turn'd my chill'd heart to a stone, The glory and name of Macgregor was gone : That the pine, which for ages had shed a bright halo, Afar on the mountains of Highland Glen-Falo, Should wither and fall ere the turn of yon moon, Smit through by the canker of hated Colquhoun : That a feast on Macgregors each day should be common, For years, to the eagles of Lennox and Lomond.

A parting embrace, in one moment, she gave : Her breath was a furnace, her bosom the grave! Then Áittive elusive, she said, with a frown, • The mighty Macgregor shall yet be my own!""

“Macgregor, thy fancies are wild as the wind; The dreams of the night have disorder'd thy mind. Come, buckle thy panoply--march to the fieldSee, brother, how hacked are thy helmet and shield ! Ay, that was M’Nab, in the height of his pride, When the lions of Dochart stood firm by his side.

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