Pho. Thou?

Ion. Couldst thou believe

That one, whose nature had been armed to stop
The life-blood's current in a fellow's veins,
Would hesitate when gentler duty turned
His steel to nearer use! To-morrow's dawn
Shall see me wield the scepter of my fathers:
Come, watch beside my throne, and, if I fail
In sternest duty which my country needs,
My bosom will be open to thy steel,
As now to thy embrace!

Pho. Thus let me fall

Low at thy feet, and, kneeling, here receive
Forgiveness! do not crush me with more love
Than lies in the word "PARDON."

Ion. And that word

I will not speak;—what have I to forgive?
A devious fancy, and a muscle raised
Obedient to its impulse! Dost thou think
The tracings of a thousand kindnesses,

Which taught me all I guessed of brotherhood,
Are in the rashness of a moment lost?

Pho. I can not look upon thee: let me go,
And lose myself in darkness.

Ion. Nay, old playmate,

We part not thus:-the duties of my state
Will shortly end our fellowship: but spend
A few short minutes with me. Dost remember
How in a night like this we climbed yon walls-
Two vagrant urchins-and with tremulous joy
Skimmed through these statue-bordered walks, that gleamed
In bright succession? Let us tread them now,
And think we are but older by a day;
And that the pleasant walk of yester-night
We are to-night retracing. Come, my friend!
What, drooping yet! thou wert not wont to seem
So stubborn. Cheerily, my Phocion-come!

Ex. CCXLVI.-GUILT AND INNOCENCE.

[Scene.-A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps.]

MANFRED and the CHAMOIS HUNTER.

BYRON.

C. Hun. No, no-yet pause-thou must not yet go forth; Thy mind and body are alike unfit

To trust each other, for some hours at least ;
When thou art better, I will be thy guide-
But whither?

Man.

It imports not. I do know

My route full well, and need no further guidance.

C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high lineage--
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags
Look o'er the lower valleys-which of these
May call thee lord? I only know their portals;
My way of life leads me but rarely down
To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls,
Carousing with the vassals, but the paths,

Which step from out our mountains to their doors,
I know from childhood--which of these is thine?
Man. No matter.

C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the question,
And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine;
'Tis of an ancient vintage; many a day
It has thawed my veins among our glaciers; now
Let it do thus for thine.-Come, pledge me fairly.

Man. Away, away! there's blood upon the brim !
Will it then never, never sink into the earth?

C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half-maddening sin,

Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er

Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yet—

The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience-

Man. Patience and patience! Hence-that word was made For brutes of burden, not for birds of prey;

Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,

I am not of thine order.

C. Hun.

Thanks to heaven!

I would not be of thine, for the free fame

Of William Tell; but whatsoe'er thine ill,

It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless.
Man. Do I not bear it ?-Look on me-

-I live.

C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life.
Man. I tell thee, man! I have lived many years,

Many long years, but they are nothing now
To those which I must number; ages-ages-
Space and eternity-and consciousness,

With the fierce thirst of death-and still unslaked!

C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age
Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far.

Man. Think'st thou assistance doth depend on time?
It doth; but actions are our epochs; mine
Have made my days and nights imperishable,
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore,
Innumerable atoms; and one desert,

Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,

But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks,

Rocks, and the salt surf weeds of bitterness.

C. Hun. Alas! he's mad-but yet I must not leave him. Man. I would I were-for then the things I see

Would be but a distempered dream.

C. Hun.
What is it
That thou dost see, or think thou lookest upon?
Man. Myself and thee-a peasant of the Alps--
Thy humble virtues, hospitable home,

And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free;
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts;
Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy toils,
By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave,
With cross and garland over its green turf,
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph ;
This do I see-and then I look within-

It matters not-my soul was scorched already!

C. Hun. And wouldst thou, then, exchange thy lot for mine?

Man. No, friend! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange My lot with living being: I can bear

However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear

In life what others could not brook to dream,

But perish in their slumber.

This cautious feeling for another's pain,
Canst thou be black with evil?

Man.

Oh! no, no!

My injuries came down on those who loved me,-
On those whom I best loved: I never quelled
An enemy, save in my just defense ;—

But my embrace was fatal.

C Hun.

Heaven give thee rest!

And penitence restore thee to thyself;
My prayers shall be for thee.

Man.

I need them not,

But can endure thy pity. I depart

'Tis time-farewell!—Here's gold, and thanks for theeNo words-it is thy due.-Follow me not

I know my path-the mountain peril's past:

And once again I charge thee, follow not! [Exit Manfred.Į

Ex. CCXLVII.—A NG ER AND OBSTINACY.

SHERIDAN.

Capt. A. Sir Anthony, I am delighted to see you here. and looking so well! Your sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health.

Sir A. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, you are recruiting here, hey?

Capt. A. Yes, sir, I am on duty.

Sir A. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did not expect it; for I was going to write to you on a little matter of business. Jack, I have been considering that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not be with you long.

Capt. A. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and hearty; and I pray fervently that you may coutinue so.

Sir A. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all my heart. Well, then, Jack, I have been considering that I am so strong and hearty, I may continue to plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit.

Capt. A. Sir, you are very good.

Sir 4. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to fix you at once in a noble independence.

Cap. A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Yet, sir, I presume you would not wish me to quit the army? Sir A. Oh! that shall be as your wife chooses.

Capt. A. My wife, sir!

Sir A. Ay, ay, settle that between you; settle that between you.

Capt. A. A wife, sir, did you say?

Sir A. Ay, a wife: why, did not I mention her before? Capt. A. Not a word of her, sir.

Sir A. Yes, Jack, the independence I was talking of is by marriage; the fortune is saddled with a wife;

that makes no difference?

Capt. A. Sir, sir, you amaze me!

but I suppose

Sir A. What's the matter with the fool?-just now you ere all gratitude and duty.

Japt. A. I was, sir; you talked to me of independence Ld a fortune, but not one word of a wife.

Sir A. Why, what difference does that make? Sir, if you nave the estate, you must take it with the live stock on it, as it stands.

Capt. A. Pray, sir, who is the lady?

Sir A. What's that to you, sir? Come, give me your promise to love, and to marry her directly.

Capt. A. Sure, sir, that's not very reasonable, to summon my affections for a lady I know nothing of!

Sir A. I am sure, sir, 'tis more unreasonable in you to object to a lady you know nothing of,—

Capt. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, that in this point I can not obey you.

Sir A. Hark ye, Jack; I have heard you for some time with patience,-I have been cool,-quite cool: but take care; you know I am compliance itself, when I am not thwarted; no one more easily led, when I have my own way; but don't put me in a frenzy.

Capt. A. Sir, I must repeat it; in this I can not obey you. Sir A. Now, hang me, if ever I call you Jack again, while I live!

Capt. A. Nay, sir, but hear me.

Sir A. Sir, I won't hear a word, not a word! not one word! So give me your promise by a nod, and I'll tell you what, Jack, I mean you dog,—if you do n't by———

Capt. A. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugliness; to

Sir A. Zounds! sirrah! the lady shall be as ugly as I choose: she shall have a hump on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the crescent; her one eye shall roll like the bull's in Cox's museum; she shall have a skin like a mummy, and the beard of a Jew. She shall be all this, sirrah! Yes, I'll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write sonnets on her beauty.