TO CONSTANTIA,

SINGING.

THUS to be lost and thus to sink and die,

Perchance were death indeed !-Constantia, turn! In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie,

Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn Between thy lips, are laid to sleep ;

Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odour it is yet, And from thy touch like fire doth leap.

Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet,
Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget!

A breathless awe, like the swift change

Unseen, but felt in youthful slumbers,
Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange,
Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers.
The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven
By the inchantment of thy strain,
And on my shoulders wings are woven,
To follow its sublime career,

Beyond the mighty moons that wane

Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere,

'Till the world's shadowy walls are past and disappear.

Her voice is hovering o'er my soul-it lingers
O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings,
The blood of life within those snowy fingers
Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings.

My brain is wild, my breath comes quick-
The blood is listening in my frame,
And thronging shadows, fast and thick,
Fall on my overflowing eyes;
My heart is quivering like a flame;

As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies,
I am dissolved in these consuming extacies.

I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee,
Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy song
Flows on and fills all things with melody.-
Now is thy voice a tempest swift and strong,
On which, like one in trance upborne,
Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep,

Rejoicing like a cloud of morn.

Now 'tis the breath of summer night, Which when the starry waters sleep,

Round western isles, with incense-blossoms bright,. Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight.

CHARLES THE FIRST.

A FRAGMENT.

ACT I. SCENE I

The Pageant to [celebrate] the arrival of the Queen.

A PURSUIVANT.

PLACE, for the Marshal of the Masque!

FIRST SPEAKER.

What thinkest thou of this quaint masque, which turns, Like morning from the shadow of the night,

The night to day, and London to a place

Of peace and joy?

SECOND SPEAKER.

And Hell to Heaven,

Eight years are gone,

And they seem hours, since in this populous street
I trod on grass made green by summer's rain,
For the red plague kept state within that palace
Where now reigns vanity-in nine years more
The roots will be refreshed with civil blood;
And thank the mercy of insulted Heaven
That sin and wrongs wound as an orphan's cry,
The patience of the great avenger's ear.

THIRD SPEAKER (a youth).

Yet, father, tis a happy sight to see,

Beautiful, innocent, and unforbidden

By God or man ;-'tis like the bright procession
Of skiey visions in a solemn dream

From which men wake as from a paradise,

And draw new strength to tread the thorns of life.
If God be good, wherefore should this be evil 2.
And if this be not evil, dost thou not draw
Unseasonable poisons from the flowers

Which bloom so rarely in this barren world?

O, kill these bitter thoughts which make the present Dark as the future !

*

When avarice and tyranny, vigilant fear,
And open-eyed conspiracy lie sleeping

As on Hell's threshold; and all gentle thoughts
Waken to worship him who giveth joys

With his own gift.

SECOND SPEAKER.

How young art thou in this old age of time!

How green in this grey world! Canst thou not think

Of change in that low scene, in which thou art

The day that dawns in fire will die in storms,

Even though the noon be calm. My travel's done;

Before the whirlwind wakes I shall have found

My inn of lasting rest, but thou must still

Be journeying on in this inclement air.

*

*

2 F

That

Is the Archbishop.

FIRST SPEAKER.

SECOND SPEAKER.

Rather say the Pope.

London will be soon his Rome: he walks

As if he trod upon the heads of men.

He looks elate, drunken with blood and gold ;-
Beside him moves the Babylonian woman
Invisibly, and with her as with his shadow,
Mitred adulterer! he is joined in sin,

Which turns Heaven's milk of mercy to revenge.

ANOTHER CITIZEN (lifting up his eyes).

Good Lord! rain it down upon him. [

Amid her ladies walks the papist queen,

As if her nice feet scorned our English earth.

There's old Sir Henry Vane, the Earl of Pembroke,

Lord Essex, and Lord Keeper Coventry,

And others who make base their English breed
By vile participation of their honours

With papists, atheists, tyrants, and apostates.
When lawyers mask 'tis time for honest men
To strip the vizor from their purposes.

*

FOURTH SPEAKER (a pursuivant)

Give place, give place!—

You torch-bearers advance to the great gate,

And then attend the Marshal of the Masque
Into the Royal presence.