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'Twas the heart's logic:—but the point, alas !

Was her stern father of the gold to rid, Who kept it closely, and was no such ass

As to yield up, or tell her where 'twas hid. At last, one day when he was gone to mass,

Love lent her instinct, and she found the lid Which cover'd all her treasures, and her eye Gleam'd, as she seized the gold triumphantly.

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Forgive her, reader; love's a bad logician,

But mostly honest ; and if now the tie
Of duty she broke through, her lone condition

Must be poor Blanch's sad apology;
True, she forgot parental admonition,

In seizing thus her own-but who'll deny That when young Love rebels, papa may go (As the song says) and preach at Jericho.


and sex,

This chanced one morn of merry Whitsuntide,

When the whole city and it's Corporation, Sheriffs, and Mayor, and Aldermen beside,

Were in a state of festal preparation; And company pour'd in from far and wide, Of every age

and rank and station, To the great banquet held in the Town-hall, Which was to be succeeded by a ball.

The noblest knight that ever couch'd a lance

Graced not that banquet-for his wealth was gone;
The loveliest maid that e'er adorn'd a dance

Graced not that banquet--for her cheek was wan; The former was reduced to trust to chance

For turnips or a crust to dine upon ; The latter was, just then, upon her way Her whole possessions at his feet to lay.


Indulgent reader, we'll omit the meeting,

Because I could'nt paint it, if I would;
You must conceive Sir Lonvil's courteous greeting,

His mild refusal, and his gratitude-
The pale-faced girl her earnest suit repeating-

His tears dried often and again renew'd-
This, and much more, kind reader, understand,
Because this Canto's longer than I'd plann'd.

Meekly she gazeth on his faded cheek

His cheek with hunger pale, as her's with love; And with sad speech and piteous tears doth seek The stubborn


of his heart to move ; Alas! she finds her best persuasion weak

With his unyielding spirit-so she strove
No longer of that boon to be a winner,
But only ask'd him if he'd come to dinner.

CXXIX. " Alas! thy cheek is thin and pale with want,

Famine stares wildly through thy keen wan eye, And thou art lean, and spectre-like, and gaunt,

Who wast bred up in tenderest luxury; Thou, of whom Britain did so lately vaunt,

The gentlest knight of all her chivalry; Thou, still the first in battle and at boardThe bravest champion and the noblest lord.


“ I am unworthy that a prince like thee Should in


father's house such shelter find ; Yet, gentle knight, do me this courtesy

Once, ere I die, (for thou wast ever kind, And still hast been the noblest friend to me)

And when we part, leave but one kiss behind, Such as thou gav'st of yore,—which I will keep For ever-till these eyes have ceased to weep."


Thus, the poor girl, with meek submissive eyes

And earnest supplication, wept and knelt, Till in Sir Lonvil did such ruth arise,

As half enforced his spell-bound heart to meltBut the charm held him—so, in courteous guise,

Once more did he dissemble what he felt,
And, in mild phrase, declined her gentle proffer-
But thank'd her, very kindly, for the offer.



Yet, lest his words should add one sorrow more

To that sad bosom's pain, did he request " That she would lend him, from her father's store,

A saddle and a bridle of the best ;" (His own were seized for debt some time before)

“ With which he would set out upon his quest Of great adventures, and redeem by strife His ruin’d fortunes, or else lose his life.”

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They came: but, ere that mournful knight departed,

The maiden's lips once gently did he press,
Striving in vain to stem the tears which started

At the sad prospect of her loneliness ;
He saw the girl for him was broken-hearted,

And why he loved her not, he could not guess ;
But was prevented, by some charm or other,
From feeling more than as a friend or brother.


So he departed ;-and, when next he came

To that old town, the gentle girl was dead'; Love was too mighty for her tender frame,

Which sunk beneath his shafts-and yet, 'tis said, She ne'er was heard to breathe Sir Lonvil's name

Till just before her guiltless spirit fled ; And then, she bless'd him with her parting breath, And said she died for him, and welcomed death.

Sir Lonvil visited her grave, and wept

Above it a long gush of silent tears ;-
And, in his noon of fortune, when he slept

On an immortal breast, in after years, Still in his heart her lovely image kept,

A thought distinct from earthly hopes and fears, But mix'd with yearnings for some after-home, And memories' sweetening hope of things to come.


Amen !this Canto's no more like the last

Than copper's like pure gold, or crockery delf;I shan't be angry, reader, if it's cast

Behind the fire, or left upon the shelf ;But by the next it shall be far surpast,

(At least in what depends upon myself ;-) In fact, the present Canto's whole demerit's Occasioned by my utter want of spirits.

Two more are yet to come ;-and then I quit

The octave rhyme-perhaps the Muse--for ever;
So I must try, in these, to shew my wit,

And make my final exit grand and clever ;-
I hope that Canto III. may prove a hit,

Nor shall it fail for want of due endeavour;
I only trust the prudes won't deem impure
Sir Lonvil's loves with gentle Tryamour.



Scene-Rome. A Cook's Shop. Time-Night.




Dam. (entering.) HILLOA! black dweller in darkness ! Hilloa ! monarch of perfumes and placentæ! how long am I to kick my royal feet before thy damnable dwelling-place, like a half-buried ghost before Charon, or a half-witted Grecian be. fore Troy? Shrivelled imp of Hades, answer me! Was it for me,--for me, reptile, the lord of all misrule, the bosom friend of every felon and flagon in Rome, the deepest drinker that ever kissed Chian-saving always the emperor, whom the fates and the furies preserve—was it for me to stand for an hour, roaring “ Syrinx, Syrinx," louder than ever poet cried Evoe! over his sour verses and sour vinegar, with not a hand of those who live by me, to take the bolt from the door, and the seal from the bottle ? Now, by Pollux,

Syr. Prince of patrons

Dam. I tell thee, foul fiend, all Rome has been at my heels, hooting and hallooing, sweating and swearing, making a very chaos of greasy caps and grievous imprecations, red flambeaux and faces almost as red, cooks and cobblers, slaves and centurions, money borrowers and money lenders. By Pollux, again I say, Themison is not more weary when he has prescribed for his twentieth patient, nor Palemon, when the last disputant of his hundred has murthered grammar and great Julius together.

Syr. Merciful lord

Dam. Hecate! we are come to a pretty pass, when a man of my

blood may not walk in the dark, and swear in a mask, and kiss a girl in the capitol, and cudgel an usurer in the Suburrabut fathers, and brothers, and cousins, ay, by the gods of the hearthstone! and mothers and aunts to boot, must start up, like the Argonaut's harvest, scouring and screaming in all the streets of Rome, and all the dialects of its provinces. Marry, hang them ! is there no respect or reverence for my this year's chariot, or my last year's fasces? Nay, then honour may hide in a cloaca, and fashion walk a.foot; patricians shall patronise the tunic, and consulships be sold for an as.

Syr. Most munificent of revellers

Dam. And for thee, scum of Ethiopia, for thee to keep thy YOL. II. PART II.

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