We have the force of monarchies; are free,
As the most proud republicans can be;
And have those prudent counsels that arise
In grave and cautious aristocracies;

And live there those, in such all-glorious state,
Traitors protected in the land they hate?
Rebels, still warring with the laws that give
To them subsistence ?-Yes, such wretches live.
"Ours is a Church reform'd, and now no more
Is aught for man to mend or to restore;
'Tis pure in doctrines, 'tis correct in creeds,
Has nought redundant, and it nothing needs;
No evil is therein-no wrinkle, spot,

Stain, blame, or blemish :-I affirm there's not.
"All this you know-now mark what once befell,
With grief I bore it, and with shame I tell :

I was entrapp'd-yes, so it came to pass,
'Mid heathen rebeis, a tumultuous class;
Each to his country bore a hellish mind,
Each like his neighbour was of cursed kind;

The land that nursed them, they blasphemed; the laws,
Their sovereign's glory, and their country's cause:
And who their mouth, their master-fiend, and who
Rebellion's oracle ?-
-You, catiff, you!"

He spoke, and standing stretch'd his mighty arm,
And fix'd the Man of Words, as by a charm.
"How raved that railer! Sure some hellish power
Restrain'd my tongue in that delirious hour,
Or I had hurl'd the shame and vengeance due
On him, the guide of that infuriate crew;
But to mine eyes, such dreadful looks appear'd,
Such mingled yell of lying words I heard,
That I conceived around were demons all,
And till I fled the house, I fear'd its fall.

"Oh! could our country from our coasts expei
Such foes! to nourish those who wish her well:
This her mild laws forbid, but we may still
From us eject them by our sovereign will;
This let us do."-He said, and then began
A gentler feeling for the silent man;
E'en in our hero's mighty soul arose
A touch of pity for experienced woes;
But this was transient, and with angry eye
He sternly look'd, and paused for a reply.

"Twas then the Man of many Words would speakBut, in his trial, had them all to seek :

To find a friend he look'd the circle round,

But joy or scorn in every feature found;

He sipp'd his wine, but in those times of dread
Wine only adds confusion to the head;

In doubt he reason'd with himself-" And how

Harangue at night, if I be silent now ?"

From pride and praise received, he sought to draw
Courage to speak, but still remain'd the awe;

One moment rose he with a forced disdain,
And then, abash'd, sunk sadly down again;
While in our hero's glance he seem'd to read,
"Slave and insurgent! what hast thou to plead?"
By desperation urged, he now began:
"I seek no favour-I-the rights of man!
Claim; and I--nay!--but give me leave-and I
Insist-a man-that is-and in reply,

I speak."-Alas! each new attempt was vain :
Confused he stood, he sate, he rose again;

At length he growl'd defiance, sought the door,
Cursed the whole synod, and was seen no more.
"Laud we," said Justice Bolt, "the Powers above:
Thus could our speech the sturdiest foe remove."
Exulting now, he gain'd new strength of fame,
And lost all feelings of defeat and shame.

"He dared not strive, you witness'd-dared not li
His voice, nor drive at his accursed drift:
So all shall tremble, wretches who oppose
Our Church or State-thus be it to our foes."
Ho spoke, and, seated with his former air,
Look'd his full self, and fill'd his ample chair;
Took one fuil bumper to each favourite cause,
And dwelt all night on politics and laws,

With high applauding voice, that gain'd him high applausa

TALE II.

THE PARTING HOUR.

I did not take my leave of him, but had
Most pretty things to say: ere I could tell him
How I would think of him, at certain hours
Such thoughts and such;-or ere I could
Give him that parting kiss, which I had set
Betwixt two charming words-comes in my father.
Cymbeline.

Grief hath changed me since you saw me last,
And careful hours with Time's deformed hand
Have written strange defeatures o'er my face.

Comedy of Errora,

Oh! if thou be the same Egean, speak,
And speak unto the same Emilia.-Comedy of Errors.
I ran it through, ev'n from my boyish days
To the very moment that she bade me tell it,
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery.

An old man, broken with the storms of fate,
Is come to lay his weary bones among you :
Give him a little earth for charity.

Othello.

Henry VIII.

MINUTELY trace man's life; year after year,
Through all his days let all his deeds appear,
And then though some may in that life be strange,
Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change:
The links that bind those various deeds are seen,
And no mysterious void is left between.

But let these binding links be all destroyed,
All that through years he suffer'd or enjoy'd,
Let that vast gap be made, and then behold-
This was the youth, and he is thus when old;
Then we at once the work of time survey,
And in an instant see a life's decay;
Pain mix'd with pity in our bosoms rise,
And sorrow takes new sadness from surprise.
Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair-
A sleeping man; a woman in her chair,
Watching his looks with kind and pensive air;
Nor wife, nor sister she, nor is the name
Nor kindred of this friendly pair the same;
Yet so allied are they, that few can feel
Her constant, warm, unwearied, anxious zeal;

Their years and woes, although they long have loved,
Keep their good name and conduct unreproved:
Thus life's small comforts they together share,
And while life lingers for the grave prepare.
No other subjects on their spirits press,
Nor gain such int'rest as the past distress:
Grievous events, that from the mem'ry drive
Life's common cares, and those alone survive,
Mix with each thought, in every action share,
Darken each dream, and blend with every prayer.
To David Booth, his fourth and last-born boy,
Allen his name, was more than common joy;
And as the child grew up, there seem'd in him
A more than common life in every limb;
A strong and handsome stripling he became,
And the gay spirit answer'd to the frame;
A lighter, happier lad was never seen,
For ever easy, cheerful, or serene;
His early love he fix'd upon a fair

And gentle maid-they were a handsome pair.
They at an infant-school together play'd,
Where the foundation of their love was laid:
The boyish champion would his choice attend
In every sport, in every fray defend.
As prospects open'd, and as life advanced,
They walk'd together, they together danced;
On all occasions, from their early years,

They mix'd their joys and sorrows, hopes and fears;
Each heart was anxious, till it could impart
Its daily feelings to its kindred heart;
As years increased, unnumber'd petty wars
Broke out between them; jealousies and jars;
Causeless indeed, and follow'd by a peace,
That gave to love-growth, vigour, and increase.
Whilst yet a boy, when other minds are void,
Domestic thoughts young Allen's hours employ'd.
Judith in gaining hearts had no concern,
Rather intent the matron's part to learn;
Thus early prudent and sedate they grew,

While lovers, thoughtful-and though children, true.
To either parents not a day appear'd,

When with this love they might have interfered.
Childish at first, they cared not to restrain;
And strong at last, they saw restriction vain ;
Nor knew they when that passion to reprove,
Now idle fondness, now resistless love.

So while the waters rise, the children tread
On the broad estuary's sandy bed;
But soon the channel fills, from side to side
Comes danger rolling with the deep'ning tide;
Yet none who saw the rapid current flow
Could the first instant of that danger know.
The lovers waited till the time should come
When they together could possess a home:

In either house were men and maids unwed,
Hopes to be soothed, and tempers to be led.
Then Allen's mother of his favourite maid
Spoke from the feelings of a mind afraid:
"Dress and amusements were her sole employ,"
She said " entangling her deluded boy;"
And yet, in truth, a mother's jealous love
Had much imagined and could little prove;
Judith had beauty-and if vain, was kind,
Discreet and mild, and had a serious mind.

Dull was their prospect.-When the lovers met,
They said, "We must not-dare not venture yet."
"Oh! could I labour for thee," Allen cried,
"Why should our friends be thus dissatisfied;
On my own arm I could depend, but they'
Still urge obedience-must I yet obey ?"

Poor Judith felt the grief, but grieving begg'd delay.
At length a prospect came that seem'd to smile,
And faintly woo them, from a Western Isle ;
A kinsman there a widow's hand had gain'd,
"Was old, was rich, and childless yet remain'd;
Would some young Booth to his affairs attend,
And wait awhile, he might expect a friend."
The elder brothers, who were not in love,
Fear'd the false seas, unwilling to remove;
But the young Allen, an enamour'd boy,
Eager an independence to enjoy,

Would through all perils seek it,-by the sea,---
Through labour, danger, pain, or slavery.

The faithful Judith his design approved,

For both were sanguine, they were young, and loveď.

The mother's slow consent was then obtain'd;

The time arrived, to part alone remain❜d:
All things prepared, on the expected day
Was seen the vessel anchor'd in the bay.
From her would seamen in the evening come,
To take th' adventurous Allen from his home;
With his own friends the final day he pass'd,
And every painful hour, except the last.
The grieving father urged the cheerful glass,
To make the moments with less sorrow pass;
Intent the mother look'd upon her son,

And wish'd th' assent withdrawn, the deed undone;
The younger sister, as he took his way,

Hung on his coat, and begg'd for more delay:

But his own Judith call'd him to the shore,

Whom he must meet, for they might meet no more;-
And there he found her-faithful, mournful, true,
Weeping, and waiting for a last adieu!

The ebbing tide had left the sand, and there
Moved with slow steps the melancholy pair:
Sweet were the painful moments-but, how sweet,
And without pain, when they again should meet!
Now either spoke as hope and fear impress'd