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Stay and attend him-closely! We will bear
My lord unto yon bank. Bring out some benches,
And spread my lord a couch-Nay, lady, nay!
Hold not his hand so to your precious lips;
He will be better soon; (which yet I doubt ;)
Look to the boy though.
Ay! where is he?-where?
Where is the murderer?
Treat my boy kindly:-O, Gasparo! now-
Now at this moment! yet would God I had
But mine own ruin to forgive thee.
Bear not the corpse away yet.-Off! unhold me! (Breaks away.)
I am a woman-would ye keep a woman
From loving whom it likes her?
How! a woman!
C. I am a woman-ay! a fond false woman,—
Yet to one true. I have no envy now-
No jealousy, now my love is borne to his grave.-
O lady, let me grovel at thy feet
Imploring pardon-pardon :-yet, oh yet
Let me let me go shut up those sweet eyes,
And pour my last life on those clay-cold lips,
My life which lingereth for that dissolution:
One sugar'd kiss in dying-oh! but one-
One from the dying to the dead!
Is this about me?-and what voice is that
Whose passioning tones have not been heard for years?
Camilla-coz-sweet coz-art thou too come?
Ha! in that dress! thou-Thou, Camilla?... oh!
T. Hast thou no thought for Thomasine?
Use my poor cousin kindly.
Not thy sweet,
Nor thy dear coz, my Giulio, now?
Oh yes! Sweet coz, dear coz ;-yet, cousin, my own death I could have well forgiven.
Mine I had well forgiven,-do forgive,
Since that alone was meant.-But, lady, this-
This noble ruin....
Oh! angelic pair,
Thus let me,.... no! I cannot !... yes! thus let me
Join your dear hands-Ah! but, Camilla,-she-
What must she do? Why weep thus-thus-oh thus!
How sweet are bitter tears!-my Giulio, turn
Away those pitying eyes-that pierce my soul!
Nay! nor thine, lady-fix them not on me
So chidingly--Oh! that yon drug should be
So past all aid !-Oh, that yon eyes should be
Fired, 'mid their tears, with the sharp pangs of pain !—
Oh that thy cheek, sweet lady, should o'erhang them,
So palely passionless-passioning so purely,
As bodes too well a threefold tragedy!
Oh that my guilty breath should utter forth
These cold, calm, callous words!-Forgive me, friends,-
Sweet friends, I see you do.-Wilt Thou-Thou, God?—
G. Hush up thy harrow'd heart, dear coz.-Thy hand
Hath given me bliss down here, and,-up in Heaven,
Eternal life, and love, and Thomasine.
-My love in life, my wife in a better world-
I have some breath left,-let me hear thy voice
Sing me to sleep the sleep of sweetest dreams
That knows no night-mare.-Let mine ashes die
Here in thy requiem-and my flitting soul
Soar on thy wing'd Hosanna.
Oh! This-this Of mine-oh! could a thousand hymns from it Its fiend exorcise!
Rest, my love, thy suffering clay,—
Soar, sweet spirit, soar to-day;
Swiftly pass the purging fires that shall but show the man-
Swiftly scale the heavenly stair, free from spot and stain-
There, mine own love, wait for me, nor long shall be thy staying,
Where, on Heaven's lowest orb, God's far-light is raying.
B. How movingly her faltering voice doth fail
Its music-yet more musical doth seem
Since feeling fathers the sweet fault.—But mark-
How my Lord Giulio on her swimming eyes
Gazes as he would grow there.-But, alas!
That guilt upon yon other face, which leans
So fair over his shoulder, should have spread
Idiocy's blank expression.-Still, again,
With fuller tones, she takes up her fine strain!
Heaven from Heaven, and sphere from sphere,
Love together we shall clear;
Both at once, shall change come o'er our soon refining souls,
Both at once, equal from each, darkness from us rolls,
And the brightness breathed in men by God at his creation
Shines forth brighter and more pure till the consummation.
Brother, bright as thou am I?
Beams as pure love from mine eye?
See the shining of the three, how from the throne it playsAnd the sunbright Cross above would blind the fleshly gaze; Now our blue path softer grows, and starry fanes flash brighter, And we breathe the odorous air freelier and lighter.
C. Are you not well, sir? Sure you feel some pain?
G. Sweet cousin, no!-no pangs-but my breath fails,-
I shall be rested quickly, if you place
The pillow higher, that my head may lie
Ah! poor gentleman,―he calls
Me cousin.-If I had a cousin now,
How happy I should be. Well, well-but, sir,
Let me just press the pillow down. "Twill be
The softer, sir. Nay, I don't think he breathes-
My tresses stir not by his lips. Why, sure
I know this face-sure 'tis my cousin's corpse.
Oh! well may he not breathe. Hush! these are monks
Coming for him I mourn for. Their song sounds
So soothingly, yet so exultingly,
He must be pleased to hear it in his death.
Nor from weakness now I faint,-
Transport hails thee, brother saint.
Hark! seraphic wires are chiming i'the home of God and love;
And the hours of Heaven timing, singing sunbeams move.
Now the fullest chorus thundering, marks the eve of Eden-
And my fix'd thoughts, dear, are sundering-my eyes with sleep are laden.
Beppo. She rests upon her harp, as if to wait
The inspiration of sweet song,-and end
The strain, that with such glowing eye-but weak
And quivering lip, she breathed in this last stanza.
Surely she hath not fainted! Heaven forefend-
But it is something worse: Sped is the spirit
That was so idolized.
Printed by James Ballantyne and Company, Edinburgh.
A NEW SONG, BY CHRISTOPHER NORTH, Esq. HIMSELF.
You will find by the cover, that our Magazine,
This month of its numbers A HUNDRED has seen:
Seven years and a half has old Christopher North
Its energies guided through paths full of worth;
He asks you, then, readers, to join in a glass,
And with hip, hip, hurrah! let the jolly toast pass.
Shout aloud! Let our foes hear the cheery sound thunder'd-
Here's to Maga success, and her NUMBER A HUNDRED!
When first he his right hand had set to her helm,
How gloomy and black look'd the state of the realm!
There were radical meetings-and blood-thirsty mobs-
And hunger-pinch'd bellies-and poorly-fill'd fobs;
In each hamlet was seen some vile demagogue's face-
And the Whigs-what a woe!—had some chances of place.
He said we'd outlive such bad times-has he blunder'd?-
He appeals to the days which see NUMBER A HUNDred.
There were riots, and tumults, and Manchester crowds-
And blockheads rigg'd out in their blankets for shrowds-
Then there came o'er the sea, more to darken the scene,
Full of murder and vengeance, Brougham's client the Queen.
Then villainy rampant paraded the land,
And strumpets and ruffians fought hard for command.
In the struggle, from loyalty he never sunder'd—
Number fifty spoke out just like NUMBER A HUNDRED.
He found a poor gang of poor praters had seized
The critical throne, and prosed just as they pleased.
One kick of his foot spurn'd these jackasses down—
Knock'd from Jeffrey's small numskull the gingerbread crown—
Frighten'd Chalmers away with his bellow of pith,
And smoked in fine style holy Jack-pudding Smith-
Show'd how Bully Brougham bounced-and how fat Leslie blunder'd
All from Number the Seventh, down to NUMBEr a Hundred.
Domineer'd, when he rose, in the realms of Cockaigne ;
Ah! where are they now?-Let them rot in the dirt,
For their fangs have been drawn, and they now cannot hurt.
Even Byron, though using their monarch as tool,
Call'd them after OUR nickname, the base Cockney-School.
Yet the wretches themselves would most sadly have wonder'd,
Had we said how they'd sink before NUMBER A HUNDRED.
He will leave you, kind readers, at leisure to judge
If he has not demolish'd the kingdom of Fudge-
Put some stop to all vapouring of critical stuff
'Mid the wholesale retailers of Balaam and Puff—
Laugh'd down, with what power he'll permit you to guess,
The airs of the gentlemen sage of the press-
And stripp'd many a daw of his plumages plunder'd,
From the day he commenced, up to NUMBER A HUNDRED.
If some idiots there be, both in Athens and Babel,
Whom in pertness and impotence still he lets gabble,
Don't lay this to your hearts. By no means apprehend
That their clack in due time shall not come to its end.
When the cup of their scampishness swells to the brim,
Look to Christopher then, and depend upon him;
Their last they'll have libell'd, lied, haver'd, and maunder'd,
Long ere Maga, triumphant, counts NUMBER TWO HUNDRED!
But let's end in good humour-since first we begun,
Have we not spread around a whole spring-tide of fun?
Written papers of eloquence, learning, and sense,
Prose and rhyme, which to pathos or wit have pretence?
(Mix'd with which, if some nonsense or trash you may find,
Why, pardon it, lads, 'tis the lot of mankind.)
On the whole, Kit is sure that by none 'twill be wonder'd,
If he calls "a high bumper for NUMBER A HUNDRED!"'