CHAP. XLII.

Let those go see who will-I like it not—
For, say he was a slave to rank and pomp,
And all the nothings he is now divorced from
By the hard doom of stern necessity;
Yet is it sad to mark his alter'd brow,
Where Vanity adjusts her flimsy veil
O'er the deep wrinkles of repentant Anguisli.

Old Play

CHAP. XLIII.

Fortune, you say, flies from us-She but circles, Like the fleet sea-bird round the fowler's skiff,— Lost in the mist one moment, and the next Brushing the white sail with her whiter wing, As if to court the aim.-Experience watches; And has her on the wheel.

Old Play.

CHAP. XLIV.

Nay, if she love me not, I care not for her:
Shall I look pale because the maiden blooms?
Or sigh because she smiles-and smiles on others?
Not I, by Heaven!—I hold my peace too dear,
To let it, like the plume upon her сар,

Shake at each nod that her caprice shall dictate.
Old Play.

FROM ROB ROY.

(1.) TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE.

O FOR the voice of that wild horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,
The dying hero's call,

That told imperial Charlemagne,
How Paynim sons of swarthy Spain,
Had wrought his champion's fall.

Sad over earth and ocean sounding,
And England's distant cliffs astounding,
Such are the notes should say

How Britain's hope, and France's fear,
Victor of Cressy and Poitier,

In Bourdeaux dying lay.

"Raise my faint head, my squires," he said,

"And let the casement be display'd,

That I may see once more

The splendour of the setting sun

Gleam on thy mirror'd wave, Garonne,
And Blaye's empurpled shore."

"Like me, he sinks to Glory's sleep,
His fall the dews of evening steep,
As if in sorrow shed.

So soft shall fall the trickling tear,
When England's maids and matrons hear
Of their Black Edward dead.

"And though my sun of glory set, Nor France nor England shall forget The terror of my name;

And oft shall Britain's heroes rise,

New planets in these southern skies,

Through clouds of blood and flame.'

Chap. ii.

(2.) TRANSLATION FROM ARIOSTO.

LADIES, and knights, and arms, and love's fair

flame,

Deeds of emprize and courtesy, I sing; What time the Moors from sultry Africk came, Led on by Agramant, their youthful king—

He whom revenge and hasty ire did bring

O'er the broad wave, in France to waste and

war;

Such ills from old Trojano's death did spring,

Which to avenge he came from realms afar, And menaced Christian Charles, the Roman Em.

peror.

Of dauntless Roland, too, my strain shall sound, In import never known in prose and rhyme, How He, the chief of judgment deem'd profound, For luckless love was crazed upon a time

Chap. xvi.

(3.) MOTTOES.

CHAP. X.

In the wide pile, by others heeded not,
Hers was one sacred solitary spot,

Whose gloomy aisles and bending shelves contain,
For moral hunger food, and cures for moral pain.
Anonymous.

CHAP. XIII.

Dire was his thought, who first in poison steep d
The weapon form'd for slaughter-direr his,
And worthier of damnation, who instill'd
The mortal venom in the social cup,

To fill the veins with death instead of life.

CHAP. XXII.

Anonymous.

Look round thee, young Astolpho: Here's the

place

Which men (for being poor) are sent to starve

in

Rude remedy, I trow, for sore disease.

Within these walls, stifled by damp and stench,

Doth Hope's fair torch expire; and at the snuff, Ere yet 'tis quite extinct, rude, wild, and wayward,

The desperate revelries of wild despair,

Kindling their hell-born cressets, light to deeds That the poor captive would have died ere prac tised,

Till bondage sunk his soul to his condition.

The Prison, Scene iii. Act i.

CHAP. XXXI.

"Woe to the vanquish'd!" was stern Brenno's

word,

When sunk proud Rome beneath the Gallic

sword

"Woe to the vanquish'd!" when his massive blade

Bore down the scale against her ransom weigh'd, And on the field of foughten battle still,

War knows no limits save the victor's will.

The Gaulliad.

CHAP. XXXII.

And be he safe restored ere evening set,
Or, if there's vengeance in an injured heart,
And
power to wreak it in an armed hand,
Your land shall ache for't.

Old Play