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SAWY.---Dare any swear I ever tempted maiden,
With golden hooks flung at her chastity,
To come and lose her honor? And being lost,
To pay not a denier for it? Some slaves have done 't.
Men-witches can without the fangs of law,
Drawing once one drop, put counterfeit pieces
Away for true gold.

These scenes certainly justify the very highest encomiums; but they are not in our mind so entirely natural and lovely as the two following between young Thorney and Susan, bis second wife. The gloom and restlessness---the uneasiness which a troubled conscience produces, are displayed in his character, in a manner that is extremely beautiful, but without any apparent effort. And what can equal the ardent devotedness of affection which is displayed by the confiding girl? We know nothing in our language that can be at all compared to it. Susan remarks--

Why change you your face, sweetheart?
Y. THOR.--- Who? 1? For nothing.

SUS.---Dear, say not so: a spirit of your constancy cannot endure this change for nothing. I have observed strange variations in you.

Y. THOR.--- In me?

Sus.---In you, sir. Awake, you seem to dream: and in your sleep you seem to utter sudden and distracted accents, like one at enmity with peace. Dear, loving husband, if I may dare to challenge any interest in you, give me the reason fully: you may trust my heart as safely as your own.

Y. THOR.---With what? You half amaze me, prithee.

Sus.---Come, you shall not, indeed you shall not, shut me from partaking the least dislike that grieves you. I am all yours.

Y. THOR.--- And I all thine.

SUS.---You are not, if you keep the least grief from me : but I find the cause ; it grew from me.

Y. Thor.--- From you?

SUS.---Prom some distaste in me, or my behaviour : you are not kind in the concealment. 'Las, sir, I am young, silly, and plain, more strange to those contents a wife should offer. Say but in what I fail, I'll study satisfaction.

Y. THOR.---Come, in nothing.

SUS.---I know I do. Knew I as well in what, you should not long be sullen. Prithee, love, if I have been immodest or too bold, speak 't in a frown : if peevishly too nice, shew 't in a smile. Thy liking is the glass by which I'll habit my behaviour.

Y. THOR.---Wherefore dost weep now?

Sus.---You, sweet, have the power to make me passionate as an April day: now smile, then weep; now pale, then crimson red. You are the powerful moon of my blood's sea, to make it ebb or flow into my face, as your looks change.

Y. THOR.---Change thy conceit; I prithee
Thou art all perfection : Diana herself
Swells in thy thoughts, and moderates thy beauty.
Within thy left eye, amorous Cupid sits,
Feathering Love-shafts, whose golden heads he dipp'd
- In thy chaste breast. In the other lies
Blushing Adonis, scarft in modesties ;
And still as wanton Cupid blows Love-fires,
Adonis quenches out unchaste desires.
And from these two I briefly do imply
A perfect emblem of thy modesty.
Then prithee, dear, maintain no more dispute,
For where thou speak'st, its fit all tongues be mute.

The next extract is where he is about to leave her for a short time. Y. THOR.

We have no other
Business now but part.

SUS.---And will not that, sweetheart, ask a long time?
Methinks it is the hardest piece of work
That e'er I took in hand.

Fie, fie! why look ?
I'll make it plain and easy to you. Farewell.

[Kisses her.
SUS.--- Alas! I am not half perfect in yet.
I must have it read over an hundred times.
Pray you take some pains ; I confess my dulness.

Y. THOR.---What a thorn this rose grows on! parting were sweet,
But what a trouble 'twill be to obtain it!
Come, again and again, farewell. Yet wilt return?
All questions of my journey, my story, imployment,
And revisitation, fully I have answer'd all.
There's nothing now bebinde but---nothing.

SUS.---And that nothing is more hard than any thing,
Than all the every things. This request -

Y. THOR.--- What is it?
That I may bring you through one pasture more,
Up to yon knot of trees; amongst those shadows
I'll vanish from you, they sball teach me how.

Y. THOR.---Why 'tis granted : come, walk then.

SUS.---Nay, not too fast.
They say slow things have best perfection :
The gentle showre wets to fertility;
The churlish storm may mischief with his bounty ;
The baser beasts take strength, even from the womb :
But the Lord-lion's whelp is feeble long.

Y. THOR.---Your request is out : will you leave me?

SUS.---What! so churlishly? You'll make me stay for ever,
Rather than part with such a sound from you.

Nor is the play wanting in lessons of morality---good, true sentiments boldly expressed; not that maudlin and pharasaical sentimentality which passes current in the present day.' We have only room for three extracts.


Thou art never so distant
From an evil spirit, but that oathes,
Curses, and blasphemies, pull him to thine elbow ;
Thou never tell'st a lie, but that a devil
Is within hearing it: thy evil purposes
Are ever haunted ; but when they come to act,
As thy tongue slaundering, bearing false witness,
Thy hand stabbing, stealing, cozening, cheating,
He's then within thee; thou play’st, he bets upon thy part;
Although thou lose, yet he will gaine by thee.


He is not lost
Who bears his peace within bim : had I spun
My web of life out at full length, and dream'd
Away my many years in lusts and surfeits,
Murthers of reputations, gallant sins
Commended or approv'd; then though I had
Died early, as great and rich men do,
Upon my own bed not compellid by justice,
You might have mourn'd for me indeed.


For when a man has been a hundred years
Hard travelling o'er the tott'ring bridge of age,
He's not the thousandth part upon his way:
All life is but a wandering to find home ;
When we are gone, we are there. Happy were man,
Could here his voyage end ; he should not then
Answer how well or ill he steer'd his soul ;
By Heaven or by Hell's compass : how he put in
(Losing blest Goodness' shore) at such a sin:
Nor how life's dear provision he has spent ;
Nor how far he in 's navigation went

Beyond Commission.

Now let it be asked, when was any new play, containing scenes, writing, or sentiments like these, submitted to the public in our days? Until such an one is brought before them, it is useless to talk of bad taste : the public will go to the theatre ; and if the managers cannot, or will not, bring well written dramas before them, there is no other alternative than to accept such as are presented to notice. The truth is,“ public taste" is formed by the managers; and the conduct of the managers is much less influenced by it than is usually imagined. The man who pampers his appetite with delicacies, at last loses all enjoyment of wholesome food ; and if the public have lost their relish for good plays (which we do not believe), it is the consequence of the vicious treatment in which the managers have indulged them.

There was a time when Hope was young,

And Cupid was a blythesome boy ;
When fairies, nymphs, and muses sung

The strains which breathe of Love and Joy.
But, ah! that time has long been past,

And Hope and Love are seen no more ;
The vision was too sweet to last,

For all my fancied joys are o'er.
Breathe but one strain I erst had known,---

Ah! let one note but reach my ear:---
How sweetly sad, when left alone,

The songs of former days to hear!
Breathe but one note, howe'er so sad,

(Dear harp, the winds awake thy sighs)
When all around thee seems most glad,

More mournful do thy tones arise.
But if a hand should strike thy strings,

Discordant then would be thy sounds ;
So the soft heart which anguish wrings,

Touch'd by ungentle hand, rebounds. ISABELLA.


No. I.

Myra! but listen to thy poet yet,
Thou wilt not question then who, this sunset,
Talked the heart's language to the ear and eye,
Or who the youth who strung these pearls of poësy.

The Persian poets, in their ultra-figurative style, denominate poetical composition the “ stringing of pearls.” The allusion is apt and expressive; but frequently the pearls are far apart, and the space between is occupied with imitation paste, or vacantly extended in the loose stringing. I have thought that a valuable volume might be made of these pearls, which would be thus composed of the genuine poësy, and nothing else. In time, perhaps, I may be induced to transform the ideal into the real, and supply the desideratum. Meantime, the pages of “ The NationAL MAGAZINE” may be found convenient media for the trial of the experiinent; and if they please there, the plan at some future opportunity may be extended.

We commence our selection with some extracts from the voluminous poetry of Dr. Southey, not because he is Poet Laureate, but that he was among the first who endeavoured to restore poetic taste to the simplicity and energy of nature. The poetry of this author is original in design, in structure, style, and sentiment: it is as inimit. able as original. He has completely occupied whatever ground he has ventured upon.

If another master in the sister art were to arise, and determine to personify poetry in some immortal work, and were to take his idea of poetry from the productions of Southey; wherein would it differ from Raphael's sublimely conceived and beautifully executed painting of“ Poetry personified ?" Crowned with the eternal laurel, her shoulders winged, her bosom modestly invested with white raiment, and thence to her feet overspread with a sky-colored mantle, emblematic of her chastity, her sublimity, and heavenly origin; in one hand holding the harmonious lyre, and with the other expanding on her knee a volume of heroic song. Inspired with divine fury, and elevated with sacred emotion, she arrests herself in this position, and deigns not to descend from her majesty as of a prophetess, and from her station as of a divinity. So chaste---s0 sublime---thus divinely derived ; so harmonious---so heroic---thus inspired, and thus arrested, is the genius of poetry, as illustrated in the poems of Southey. Had he written but one of his great works, his astonishing merits would have remained unquestioned. But the world unwillingly permits a man to multiply demands on its admiration, and substantiate repeated claims to its applause and gratitude.

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“ Below a circling fence, its leaves are seen

Wrinkled and keen ;
No grazing cattle through their prickly round

Can reach to wound;
But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.
So, though abroad perchance I might appear

Harsh and austere,
To those who on my leisure would intrude

Reserved and rude,
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.
And should my youth, as youth is apt I know,

Some harshness show,
All vain asperities I day by day

Would wear away,
Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree!
And as when all the summer trees are seen

So bright and green,
The Holly leaves their fadeless hues display

Less bright than they ;
But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree?
So serious should my youth appear among

The thoughtless throng,
So would I seem amid the young


More grave than they;
That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the Holly Tree!"


“Oh! he is worn with toil! the big drops run
Down his dark cheek; bold---hold thy merciless hand,
Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard command
O'erwearied nature sinks. The scorching sun,
As pitiless as proud Prosperity,
Darts on him his full beams; gasping he lies,
Arraigning with his looks the patient skies,
While that inhuman trader lifts on high
The mantling scourge. O ye who at your ease
Sip the blood-sweetened beverage! thoughts like these
Haply ye scorn : I thank thee, gracious God,
That I do feel upon my cheek the glow
of indignation, when beneath the rod
A sable brother writhes in silent woe!"

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