As wishing to avoid me. To all others
She look'd an elegance of ease, and spoke
In terms as free as air-to me, her speech,
Unfrequent, was abrupt and cautious.
With scorpion jealousy, I, to my soul,
Thus spoke indignant- What have these to boast,
These favour'd rivals, o'er rejected Hugon?
Does their pre-eminence consist in shape,
Or feature?-eyes, that are not Eliphene's,
Will answer, no. And, as to feats of prowess,
Compar'd with me, they 're nameless!-O shame,
shame,
Shame on this weakness, this degrading passion!
Henceforth, I will wage war on my own heart-
And conquer it, or perish!'
The tidings of your dread invasion reach'd us.
Quick, at the name of Conrade, my whole soul
Kindled to generous rivalship- - Yes, yes,
Thou shalt be met, thou mighty one!' I cried,
• Thou shalt be met-thy best esteemer shall
Oppose thee, front to front!-I ask of Heaven
No boon, no other bounty, than to have
My death ennobled by the arm of Conrade!'
"Straight I address'd for war; but love, un-
Obtruded, whispering to my secret soul,
First take thy last adieu of Eliphene !'
Pride, haughty champion, rose, with stern rebuke
Against the gentler power. He frown'd, and cried,
What, are we not, as yet, enough debased?
Shall we add further forces to the foe;
And furnish arms, against our nobleness,
To the tried scorn and insolence of beauty?'
"Dire was the contest-Love long kept his
But Pride, at last, was prevalent-I rent, [ground;
I tore myself away from my belov'd,
From my true lover-
As a self-murderer, desperate of his state.
Makes a divorce betwixt his soul and body!
"I lay encamp'd, my legions tented round me, When word was brought me of a youthful warrior, Of graceful mien, and more than matchless beauty, Who ask'd admission. To my presence led He bow'd submiss; and, blushing, pray'd the grace Of being privileg'd to do me service. [aspect"My heart straight took acquaintance with his Some strange similitude fond memory found "Twixt him and Eliphene !-but, my soul Conceiv'd no thought, that she her tender frame Should vest in steel-should seek the man she
Should trace her Hugon into death and dangers!
"Instant, our hearts commenced a friendship,
Fondly inviolate, as caught together
By hooks of golden grappling. I, no more,
Sought Conrade on the perilous edge of conflict;
I now had one to care for! and my eye,
My guardian eye pursued and watch'd his motions,
On this side, and on that. In this day's battle,
I charg'd him, on his duty, on his love,
To hold him rearward. Still I turn'd, and turn'd,
Even as a timid deer accompanied
By her lov'd fawn, to see if he was near
But yet, alas, in fear of losing fame,
I led my friend too deeply into dangers!
"At length, toward eve-for who can cope with
Conrade?-
Your host prevail'd! Indignant I oppos'd,
And would have reinforc'd the fight-when, lo,
A random shaft rush'd, rudely, through the mail,
The light fram'd mail of my belov'd companion,
And ting'd his arms with blood! Upon the instant,
Our legions sounded a retreat. Then, then-
Must I confess that Hugon trembled ? Straight
Into my arms I caught my best belov'd,
And fled the hindmost: night came on apace,
And parted all affray. Upon a bank
I laid her down, and, to the pitying Moon, [broke,
Whose doubtful glimpses through the darkness
Utter'd my wailings. Then, our lov'd Slemfannon
Came, provident of comforts, to console;
And did console, by showing that, on Earth,
Such virtue still was extant!'-Here the hero
Clos'd his sad narrative!
"Meantime, Elphenor, pendent o'er the corse,
Still plied his tender offices. At length,
The beauteous form began to move-each heart
Bounded with expectation-when her eyes
Open'd their faint refulgence to the light,
Look'd wild around her with a sickly gleam,
And clos'd their orbs for ever! Then Elphenor:
By Death's cold hand this rose of beauty cropp'd, Fades, and shall bloom no more-except in Hea
"Meantime, astonish'd, o'er the lifeless corse The hero speechless stood-then, all at once, As some high cliff, far jutting o'er its base, Disparts and dashes on the sea-beat shore, Bereft of sense he fell-bless'd pause of being! But O, how fearfully to be succeeded By anguishes nnutterable! Long, Long lay he tranc'd. I thought, I wish'd him dead. For what had life, midst all its stores of bliss, For him, save misery extreme? At length, He wak'd to all the pangs of mental feeling!
"Five days, and five soul-tort'ring nights, he lay By th' embalm'd remains-in all which time, Nor food, nor word of utterance, pass'd his lips; Nor word of consolation to his ear Obtain'd admission. By his side fast laid, I press'd his hand in mine, and on it dropp'd The tear of sad condolence! Through the camp Sudden I heard the shout of joint lament. I rose, and issu'd forth."
Behold, my lovely child, behold,
Yon portion fair of Moab's earth,
To Israel's Chosen Plant gives birth!
Hence the mighty tree shall spring,
How Bethlehem's streets at our approach pour The glory of the grove, of every tree the king! forth their young and old!
NAOMI, RUTH, BOAZ, ISRAELITES.
CHORUS.
Naomi-lost and found again,
O welcome to thy native plain!
Raise all your voices, brethren, raise,
And hail your sister's glad return with gratulating lays.
Say, brethren, who is he that leads the throng, And like a hero moves majestical along?
RECITATIVE.-FIRST ISRAELITE.
'Tis Boaz, Bethlehem's prince, your near alliedYour first of kindred by your husband's side!
His step is at a distance from thousands discern'd! When he speaks in the gate, elders hear and grow learn'd!
His couches are spread for the stranger's repose; For the naked he shears, for the hungry he sows! He stands like a tree in the midst of his ground, With the widow and orphan rejoicing around!
Hail, mother of thy people!-this embrace Bids thee thrice welcome to thy native place. Oft have those arms my infant years caress'd, And clasp'd thy little kinsman to thy breast!
Hail, son!-May Heaven in bounty heap on thee Tenfold the blessings it has rent from me!
RECITATIVE.-BOAZ.
In this our present happy lot,
Be past calamities forgot!
But where is she, our new allied-
'Of Moab's land so late the pride?
Lo, there like a mist on the morning, her veil
Strives in vain to obscure her from sight;
It betrays what it means to conceal,
A beauty for vision too bright!
Thee, fairest Ruth, by Israel's law I claim, A glad succeeder to thy husband's name! Thrice have the visions of the night Brought to my view thy semblance fair, that fill'd my tent with light!
If so your laws ordain,
Your handmaid will not of her lot complain.
RECITATIVE.-HIGH PRIEST.
Hear, men of Bethlehem, and rejoice! The LORD informs his servant's voice
BRITONS! this night presents a state distress'd: Though brave, yet vanquish'd; and though great, oppress'd.
Vice, rav'ning vulture, on her vitals prey'd ;
Her peers, her prelates, fe'l corruption sway'd:
Their rights, for pow'r, the ambitious weakly sold;
The wealthy, poorly, for superfluous gold.
Hence wasting ills, hence severing factions rose,
And gave large entrance to invading foes:
Truth, justice, honour, fled th' infected shore;
For freedom, sacred freedom, was no more.
Then, greatly rising in his country's right,
Her hero, her deliverer, sprung to light:
A race of hardy northern sons he led,
Guiltless of courts, untainted, and unread;
Whose inborn spirit spurn'd th' ignoble fee,
Whose hands scorn'd bondage, for their hearts were
Ask ye, what law their conquering cause con
Great Nature's law, the law within the breast;
Form'd by no art, and to no sect confin'd,
But stamp'd by Heav'n upon th' unletter'd mind.
Such, such, of old, the first-born natives were,
Who breath'd the virtues of Britannia's air,
Their realm when mighty Cæsar vainly sought;
For mightier freedom against Cæsar fought,
And rudely drove the fam'd invader home,
To tyrannise o'er polish'd-venal Rome.
Our bard, exalted in a freeborn flame,
To ev'ry nation would transfer this claim:
He, to no state, no climate, bounds his page,
But bids the moral beam through ev'ry age.
Then be your judgment gen'rous as his plan;
Ye sons of freedom!-save the friend of man
THIS night, to your free censure, are expos'd
Scenes, now almost two hundred winters clos'd:
Scenes, yet, that ought to be for ever near,
To freedom sacred, and to virtue dear!
Deep is the spring, whose stream this night we draw;
Its source is truth-'tis liberty made law:
A draught divine to ev'ry generous breast;
The cordial of the wretched-of the bless'd!
The juice, by which the strength of souls is fed;
Without whose aliment, who lives-is dead.
If aught is honest, noble, kind, or great,
Which yet may give some British hearts to beat;
If aught has been by mighty fathers won,
Which yet descends to animate a son;
However weak the warmth, or dim the beam,
We show from whence the distant glory came;
And lead you backward, by the kindred ray,
To the full blaze of Britain's brightest day-
Elizabeth!-a light till then unknown,
The virgin sun, of truth's meridian, shone,
And in the subject's freedom fix'd a living throne.
Is there, to whom one privilege is sure,
Who holds fair property, as yet, secure?—
Is there, to whom religion stands endear'd,
So hardly rescued, so divinely clear'd?—
Is there, who claims, who feels, who prizes aught,
For which the hero bled, the patriot wrought?-
Elizabeth, as one inspiring soul,
Reform'd, connected, and affirm'd the whole;
And sent the blessings down, through ev'ry reign,
For you to clasp, to cherish, and retain !
Like Cynthia, peerless queen, supremely crown'd,
Her guardian constellations blaz'd around-
Selected chiefs, for council, as for fight;
Her men of wisdom, and her men of might;
Whose acts, illustrating our annals, stand
The grace, the good, the glory of the land!
For then no courtly faction stood confess'd-
Who serv'd his country, serv'd his queen the best!
If yet, among those godlike men of old,
Some taint of earth lay mingled with the mould;
On human frailty if misfortune grew,
And sufferings, such as all who read must rue-
Through time descending let the sorrow flow,
And you who share the virtue, share the woe!
WHENE'ER the brave, the gen'rous, and the just,
Whene'er the patriot sinks to silent dust,
The tragic Muse attends the mournful hearse,
And pays her tribute of immortal verse.
Inspir'd by noble deeds, she seeks the plain,
In honour's cause where mighty chiefs are slain;
And bathes with tears the sod that wraps the dead,
And bids the turf lie lightly on his head.
Nor thus content she opens death's cold womb, And bursts the cearments of the awful tomb
To cast him up again-to bid him live,
Aud to the scene his form and pressure give.
Thus once-fam'd Essex at her voice appears,
Emerging from the sacred dust of years.
Nor deem it much, that we retrace to night
A tale to which you have listen'd with delight.
How oft of yore, to learned Athens' eyes,
Did new Electras and new Phædras rise?
In France, how many Theban monarchs groan
For Laius' blood, and incest not their own?
When there new Iphigenias heave the sigh,
Fresh drops of pity gush from ev'ry eye:
On the same theme though rival wits appear,
The heart still finds the sympathetic tear.
If there soft pity pours her plenteous store,
For fabled kings and empires now no more;
Much more should you-from freedom's glorious
plan,
Who still inherit all the rights of man-
Much more should you with kindred sorrows glow
For your own chiefs, your own domestic woe;
Much more a British story should impart
The warmest feelings to each British heart.
TO THE EARL OF WESTMORLAND,
A TRAGEDY.
CHARM'D to this spot, concurring to this night,
Wide nations close, and centuries unite.
Scenes long eras'd, past ages rise to view, [you!
Realms change their place, and time returns-for
The merchant, vent'rous in his search of gain,
Who ploughs the winter of the boist'rous main,
From various climes collects a various store,
And lands the treasure on his native shore.
Our merchant yet imports no golden prize,
What wretches covet, and what you despise!
A different store his richer freight imparts-
The gem of virtue, and the gold of hearts;
The social sense, the feelings of mankind,
And the large treasure of a godlike mind!
When Westmorland, unhappy, brave, and great,
Appears conflicting with the pow'rs of fate,
Guilty yet good, deserving yet forlorn,
And by the strife of warring passions torn-
Although our author brings the distant woe,
From eyes that wept a thousand years ago,
He claims your kindred tears for the distress'd,
Nor thinks one virtue foreign to your breast!
But when the bright Rowena shall appear,
First of her scx-except her rivals here-
No more let man assert his lordly claim,
No more presume to step the first for fame;
But to the fair their native rights allow,
Look round, and with becoming homage bow!
TO THE EARL OF WESTMORLAND.
THERE was a time, these polish'd times preceding,
Fre our good sires of Britain-knew fine breeding;
Ere honesty was elbow'd from the nation,
Or life's learn'd lie entitled "Education."
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