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Ant. Yes !
And strange as 'tis, what seems to us affliction
Is oft a hand that helps us to our wish.

it fali with thee—if Heaven approves !


The land of beauty, and of grandeur, lady,
Where looks the cottage out on a domain
The palace cannot boast of. Seas of lakes,
And hills of forests ! crystal waves that rise
Midst mountains all of snow, and mock the sun,
Returning him his flaming beams more thick
And radiant than he sent them.—Torrents there
Are bounding floods !' and there the tempest roams
At large, in all the terrors of its glory!
And then our valleys ! ah, they are the homes
For hearts ! our cottages, our vineyards, orchards, –
Our pastures studded with the herd and fold !
Our native strains that melt us as we sing them !
A free-a gentle-simple—honest people !

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Love's not a flower that grows on the dull earth; Springs by the calendar; must wait for sunFor rain ; matures by parts, -must take its time To stem, to leaf, to bud, to blow. A richer soil, and boasts a quicker seed : You look for it, and see it not; and lo!

It owns

E'en while you look, the peerless flower is up,
Consummate in the birth.

Passionate Love, contrasted with Discreet Love.

Juliu. What would you weigh 'gainst love That's true ? Tell me with what you'd turn the scale ? Yea, make the index waver ? Wealth ? A feather! Rank? Tinsel against bullion in the balance ! The love of kindred ? That to set ’gainst love! Friendship comes nearest to't; but put it in, And friendship kicks the beam!-weigh nothing 'gainst it; Weigh love against the world! Yet are they happy that have naught to say to it.

Walter. And such a one art thou. Who wisely wed, Wed happily. The love thou speak’st of, A flower is only, that its season has, Which they must look to see the withering of, Who pleasure in its budding and its bloom; But wisdom is the constant evergreen Which lives the whole year through. Be that your flower!

Sacredness of Promises.
A promise made, admits not of release,
Save by consent or forfeiture of those
Who hold it—so it should be pondered well
Before we let it Ere man should say
I broke the word I had the power to keep,
I'd lose the life I had the power to part with!


Rev. Henry Hart Milman.


Description of Bartolo, the Miser.

Fazio, Bianca (his Wife).
Fazio. Dost thou know, Bianca,
Our neighbour, old Bartolo?

Bianca. Oh, yes, yes ! -
That yellow wretch, that looks as he were stained
With watching his own gold; every one knows him,
Enough to loathe him. Not a friend hath he,
Nor kindred nor familiar; not a slave,
Not a lean serving-wench: nothing e'er entered
But his spare self within his jealous doors,
Except a wandering rat; and that, they say,
Was famine-struck, and died there.— What of him ?

Faz. Yet he, Bianca, he is of our rich ones :
There's not a galiot on the sea, but bears
A venture of Bartolo's; not an acre,
Nay, not a villa of our proudest princes,
But he hath cramped it with a mortgage; he,
He only stocks our prisons with his debtors.
I saw him creeping home last night: he shuddere:1
As he unlocked his door, and looked around
As if he thought that every breath of wind
Were some keen thief: and when he locked him in
I heard the grating key turn twenty times,

try if all were safe. I looked again
From our high window by mere chance, and saw
The motion of his scanty, moping lantern;
And, where his wind-rent lattice was ill stuffed

With tattered remnants of a money-bag,
Through cobwebs and thick dust I spied his fac:,
Like some dry, wither-boned anatomy,
Through a huge chest-lid, jealously and scantily
Uplifted, peering upon coin and jewels,
Ingots and wedges, and broad bars of gold,
Upon whose lustre the wan light shone muddily,
As though the New World had outrun the Spaniard,
And emptied all its mines in that coarse hovel.
His ferret eyes gloated as wanton o'er them,
As a gross Satyr on a sleeping Nymph !
And then, as he heard something like a sound,
He clapped the lid to, and blew out the lantern.
And I, Bianca, hurried to thy arms,
And thanked my God that I had braver riches.
Bartolo, attacked and wounded by Robbers, flies to the House of ra !o

for assistance, where he dies. Fazio, under the temptation of Goli, goes to the Miser's Dwelling, secures the whole of his Wealth, 67.d

buries the Body of Bartolo in his Garden. The Street near Fazio's Door.Fazio, with Bartolo's

Gold and Jewels.
Fazio. My steps were ever to this door, as though
They trod on beds of perfume and of down.
The winged birds were not by half so light,
When through the lazy twilight air they wheel
Home to their brooding mates. But now, methinks,
The heavy earth doth cling around my

I move as every separate limb were gyved
With its particular weight of manac!:
The moonlight, that was wont to seem so soft,
So balmy to the slow-respired breath,
Icily, shiveringly cold falls on me.

The marble pillars, that soared stately up,
As though to prop the azure vault of heaven,
Hang o'er me with a dull and dizzy weight.
The stones whereon I tread do grimly speak,
Forbidding echoes, ay, with human voices :
Unbodied arms pluck at me as I pass,
And socketless, pale eyes look glaring on me.
But I have passed them: and methinks this weight
Might strain more sturdy sinews than mine own.
Howbeit, thank God, 'tis safe! Thank God !—for what?
That a poor honest man's grown a rich villain. [Exit.

Poetry perverted to unworthy Uses.
Oh, my lord, 'tis the curse and brand of poesy,
That it must trim its fetterless, free plumes
To the


fancies of the humorsome age;
That it must stoop from its bold heights to court
Liquorish opinion, whose aye wavering breath
Is to it as the precious air of life.
Oh! in a capering, chambering, wanton land,
The lozel's


alone gains audience-
Fine loving ditties, sweet to sickliness ;
The languishing and luscious touch alone
Of all the full harp's ecstasies, can detain
The palled and pampered ear of Italy.
But, my lord, we have deeper mysteries
For the initiate.-Hark!—it bursts—it flows !
Fazio, condemned to Death for the supposed Murder of Bartolo, is
visited by his Friend Philario on the morning of his Exciution.

Fazio and PHILARIO.
Faz. I thank thee: 'twas a melancholy hymn,
But soft and soothing as the gale of eve-

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