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Paul.

Music, awake her; strike!

[Music.

'Tis time; descend; be stone no more; approach ;
Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come,
I'll fill your grave up: stir, nay, come away,
Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him
Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs :
[Hermione comes down.

Start not; her actions shall be holy as
You hear my spell is lawful: do not shun her
Until you see her die again; for then

You kill her double. Nay, present your hand :
When she was young you wooed her; now in age
Is she become the suitor?

Leon.

O, she's warm!

If this be magic, let it be an art

Lawful as eating.

Pol.

She embraces him.

Cam. She hangs about his neck :

If she pertain to life let her speak too.

Pol. Ay, and make't manifest where she has lived, Or how stolen from the dead.

That she is living,

Paul.
Were it but told you, should be hooted at

Like an old tale: but it appears she lives,

Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while.
Please you to interpose, fair madam: kneel

And pray your mother's blessing. Turn, good lady;
Our Perdita is found.

Her.

You gods, look down

And from your sacred vials pour your graces

Upon my daughter's head! Tell me, mine own,

Where hast thou been preserved? where lived? how

Thy father's court? for thou shalt hear that I,

Knowing by Paulina that the oracle

Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserved
Myself to see the issue.

Paul.

[found

There's time enough for that;

Lest they desire upon this push to trouble
Your joys with like relation. Go together,
You precious winners all; your exultation
Partake to every one. I, an old turtle,

Will wing me to some withered bough and there
My mate, that's never to be found again,

Lament till I am lost.

W. Shakespeare.

CCXLV.

ELLEN BRINE OF ALLENBURN.

(IN THE DORSET DIALECT.)

OO soul did hear her lips complaïn,
An' she's a-gone vrom all her païn,
An' others' loss to her is gaïn
For she do live in heaven's love;
Vull many a longsome day an' week
She bore her aïlèn, still, an' meek;
A-workèn while her strangth held on,
An' guidèn housework, when 'twer gone.
Vor Ellen Brine of Allenburn
Oh! there be souls to murn.*

The last time I'd a-cast my zight
Upon her feäce, a-feäded white,
Wer in a zummer's mornèn light
In hall avore the smwold'rèn vire,
The while the childern beät the vloor
In plaÿ, wi' tiny shoes they wore,
An' called their mother's eyes to view
The feats their little limbs could do.
Oh! Ellen Brine of Allenburn,
They childern now mus' murn.

* Murn, mourn.

404

A Hymn for Christmas Morning.

Then woone,* a-stoppèn vrom his reäce, *
Went up, an' on her knee did pleäce
His hand, a-lookèn in her feäce,
An' wi' a smilèn mouth so small,
He zaid, 'You promised us to goo
To Shroton feäir, an' teäke us two!'
She heard it wi' her two white ears,
An' in her eyes there sprung two tears
Vor Ellen Brine of Allenburn

Did veel that they mus' murn.

September come, wi' Shroton feäir,
But Ellen Brine wer never there!
A heavy heart wer on the meäret
Their father rode his hwomeward road.
'Tis true he brought zome feärèns back,
Vor them two childern all in black;
But they had now, wi' playthings new,
Noo mother vor to show 'em to,
Vor Ellen Brine of Allenburn

Would never mwore return.

W. Barnes.

CCXLVI.

A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS MORNING.

T is the Christmas time,

And up and down 'twixt heaven and earth,
In glorious grief and solemn mirth

The shining angels climb.

And unto everything

That lives and moves, for heaven, on earth,

With equal share of grief and mirth,—
The shining angels sing:

• Woone, one.

† Medre, mare.

'Babes new-born, undefiled,

In lowly hut, or mansion wide-
Sleep safely through this Christmas-tide
When Jesus was a child.

'O young men, bold and free,
In peopled town, or desert grim,
When ye are tempted like to Him
'The man Christ Jesus' see.

'Poor mothers, with your hoard
Of endless love and countless pain-
Remember all her grief, her gain,
The Mother of the Lord.

'Mourners, half blind with woe,

Look up! One standeth in this place;
And by the pity of His face

The Man of Sorrows know.

'Wanderers in far countrie,

O think of Him who came, forgot,

To His own, and they received Him not—
Jesus of Galilee.

'O all ye who have trod

The wine-press of affliction, lay

Your hearts before His heart this day

Behold the Christ of God!'

Anon.

CCXLVII.

LIFE.

IFE! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me's a secret yet,

Life! we've been long together,

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear-
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;

-Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;

Say not Good Night,--but in some brighter clime

Bid me Good Morning.

A. L. Barbauld.

CCXLVIII.

THE BARD.

UIN seize thee, ruthless King1!

Confusion on thy banners wait;

Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing,

They mock the air with idle state !

Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,

Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail

To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears !'
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side

He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Gloster stood aghast in speechless trance,
To arms! cried Mortimer,3 and couched his quiv'ring
lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,

Robed in the sable garb of woe,

With haggard eyes the Poet stood;

1 Ruthless King, Edward I., who is said, after conquering Wales, to have

put the native poets to death.

2 Gloucester, son-in-law to Edward.

3 Mortimer, one of the Lords Marchers of Wales.

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