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Thought she as well of smiles, her lips | The wounded with the dead are gone;

would pout

With a perpetual simper. Walsingham Hath praised these crying beauties of the north,

So whimpering is the fashion. How I hate The dim dull yellow of that Scottish hair! Master of Revels. Hush! hush!-is that the sound of wheels I hear? [The Dead-cart passes by, driven by a Negro.

Ha! dost thou faint, Louisa! one had thought

That railing tongue bespoke a mannish heart. But so it ever is. The violent

Are weaker than the mild, and abject fear Dwells in the heart of passion. Mary Gray,

Throw water on her face. She now revives.

Mary Gray. O sister of my sorrow and my shame!

Lean on my bosom. Sick must be your heart
After a fainting-fit so like to death.
Louisa (recovering). I saw a horrid demon
in my dream!

With sable visage and white-glaring eyes,
He beckon'd on me to ascend a cart
Fill'd with dead bodies, muttering all the
while

An unknown language of most dreadful sounds.

What matters it? I see it was a dream.
-Pray, did the dead-cart pass?

Young Man. Come, brighten up,
Louisa! Though this street be all our own,
A silent street that we from death have
rented,

Where we may hold our orgies undisturb'd, You know those rumbling wheels are privileged,

And we must bide the nuisance. Walsingham, To put an end to bickering, and these fits Of fainting that proceed from female vapours, a free and gladsome

Give us a song;

song;

None of those Scottish ditties framed of sighs,
But a true English Bacchanalian song,
By toper chaunted o'er the flowing bowl.
Master of Revels. I have none such; but
I will sing a song

Upon the Plague. I made the words last night.

After we parted: a strange rhyming-fit
Fell on me; 'twas the first time in my life.
But you shall have it, though my vile crack'd
voice

Won't mend the matter much.

Many voices. A song on the Plague! A song on the Plague! Let's have it! bravo! bravo!

SONG.

Two navies meet upon the waves
That round them yawn like op'ning graves;
The battle rages; seamen fall,
And overboard go one and all!

But Ocean drowns each frantic groan,
And, at each plunge into the flood,
Grimly the billow laughs with blood.—
Then, what although our Plague destroy-
Seaman and landman, woman, boy?
When the pillow rests beneath the head,
Like sleep he comes, and strikes us dead.
What though into yon Pit we go,
Descending fast, as flakes of snow?
Who matters body without breath?
No groan disturbs that hold of death.

CHORUS.

I sing the praises of the Pest!
Then, leaning on this snow-white breast,

me thou wouldst this night destroy, Come, smite me in the arms of Joy.

Two armies meet upon the hill;
They part, and all again is still.
No! thrice ten thousand men are lying,
Of cold, and thirst, and hunger dying.
While the wounded soldier rests his head
About to die upon the dead,
What shrieks salute yon dawning light?
"Tis Fire that comes to aid the Fight!—
All whom our Plague destroys by day,
His chariot drives by night away;
And sometimes o'er a churchyard-wall
His banner hangs, a sable pall!
Where in the light by Hecate shed
With grisly smile he counts the dead,
And piles them up a trophy high
In honour of his victory.

Thy regal robes become thee well.
King of the aisle and churchyard-cell!
With yellow spots, like lurid stars
Prophetic of throne-shattering wars,
Bespangled is its night-like gloom,
Thy hand doth grasp no needless dart,
As it sweeps the cold damp from the tomb.
One finger-touch benumbs the heart.
If thy stubborn victim will not die,
Thou rollst around thy bloodshot eye,
With giant buffet smites the brain,
And Madness leaping in his chain
Or Idiocy with drivelling laugh
And down the drunken wretch doth lie
Holds out her strong-drugg'd bowl to quaff,
Unsheeted in the cemetery.

Thou! Spirit of the burning breath,
Alone deservest the name of death!
Hide, Fever! hide thy scarlet brow;
Nine days thou lingerst o'er thy blow,
Till the leach bring water from the spring,
And scare thee off on drenched wing.
Consumption! waste away at will!
In warmer climes thou failst to kill,
And rosy Health is laughing loud
As off thou stealst with empty shroud!

Ha! blundering Palsy! thou art chill!
But half the man is living still;
One arm, one leg, one cheek, one side
In antic guise thy wrath deride.
But who may 'gainst thy power rebel,
King of the aisle and churchyard-cell !

To thee, O Plague! I pour my song,
Since thou art come I wish thee long!
Thou strikest the lawyer 'mid his lies,
The priest 'mid his hypocrisies.
The miser sickens at his hoard,
And the gold leaps to its rightful lord.
The husband, now no longer tied,
May wed a new and blushing bride,
And many a widow slyly weeps

O'er the grave where her old dotard sleeps,
While love shines through her moisten'd eye
On yon tall stripling gliding by.
"Tis ours who bloom in vernal years
To dry the love-sick maiden's tears,
Who turning from the relics cold,
In a new swain forgets the old.

ACT II. SCENE II.

HYMN.

THE air of death breathes through our souls,
The dead all round us lie;

By day and night the death-bell tolls
And says: Prepare to die!

The face that in the morning-sun
We thought so wondrous fair,
Hath faded, ere his course was run,
Beneath its golden hair.

I see the old man in his grave
With thin locks silvery gray;

I see the child's bright tresses wave
In the cold breath of the clay.

The loving ones we loved the best,
Like music all are gone!
And the wan moonlight bathes in rest
Their monumental stone.

But not when the death-prayer is said,
The life of life departs:
The body in the grave is laid
Its beauty in our hearts.

At holy midnight voices sweet
Like fragrance fill the room,
And happy ghosts with noiseless feet
Come bright'ning from the tomb.

We know who sends the visions bright,
From whose dear side they came!
We veil our eyes before thy light,
We bless our Saviour's name!

This frame of dust, this feeble breath,
The Plague may soon destroy;
We think on Thee, and feel in death
A deep and awful joy,

Dim is the light of vanish'd years
In the glory yet to come;
O idle grief! O foolish tears!
When Jesus calls us home.

Like children for some bauble fair
That weep themselves to rest;
We part with life-awake! and there
The jewel in our breast!

ACT II. SCENE III.

-Before the Plague burst out, All who had eye-sight witness'd in the city Dread Apparitions, that sent through the soul Forebodings of some wild calamity. The very day-light seem'd not to be pour'd Down from the sun-a ghastly glimmering haze

Sent upwards from the earth; while every face

Look'd wan and sallow, gliding through the

streets

That echoed in the darkness. When the veil Of mist was drawn aside, there hung the sun In the unrejoicing atmosphere, blood-red, And beamless in his wrath. At morn and even, And through the dismal day, that fierce aspect

Glared on the city, and many a wondering group

Gazed till they scarce believed it was the sun. Did any here behold, as I beheld,

That phantom who three several nights appear'd,

Sitting upon a cloud-built throne of state Right o'er St. Paul's Cathedral? On that throne

At the dead hour of night he took his seat, And monarch-like stretch'd out his mighty

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And, unobservant of each other, gliding Down a dark flight of steps that seem'd to lead Into the bosom of eternity?

I have seen hearses moving through the sky!
Not few and solitary, as on carth
They pass us by upon a lonesome road,
But thousands, tens of thousands moved along
In grim procession—a long league of plumes
Tossing in the storm that roar'd aloft in
heaven,

Then rose a direful struggle with the Pest!
And all the ordinary forms of life
Moved onwards with the violence of despair.
Wide flew the crowded gates of theatres,
And a pale frightful audience, with their
souls

Looking in perturbation through the glare
Of a convulsive laughter, sat and shouted
At obscene ribaldry and mirth profane.
There yet was heard parading through the

streets

War-music, and the soldiers' tossing plumes Moved with their wonted pride. O idle show Of these worthless instruments of death, Themselves devoted! Childish mockery!

poor

Yet bearing onwards through the hurricane,
A black, a silent, a wild cavalcade
That nothing might restrain; till in a moment
The heavens were freed, and all the spark-At which the Plague did scoff, who in one

ling stars

Look'd through the blue and empty firma

ment!

And I have seen A mighty church-yard spread its dreary realms

O'er half the visible heavens yard blacken'd

a church

night

The trumpet silenced and the plumes laid low. As yet the Sabbath-day-though truly fear Rather than piety fill'd the house of GodReceived an outward homage. On the street Friends yet met friends, and dared to inter

change

A cautious greeting and firesides there were
Where still domestic happiness survived

With ceaseless funerals that besieged the Mid an unbroken family; while the soul,

gates

With lamentation and a wailing echo.
O'er that aërial cemet'ry hung a bell
Upon a black and thund'rous-looking cloud,
And there at intervals it swung and toll'd
Throughout the startled sky! Not I alone,
But many thousands heard it-leaping up,
Not knowing whether it might be a dream,
As if an earthquake shook them from their
beds,

Nor dared again to sleep.

ACT III. SCENE I.

Priest. Like a thunder-peal One morn a rumour turn'd the city pale; And the tongues of men, wild-staring on each other,

Utter'd with faltering voice one little word, The Plague! Then many heard within their dreams

At dead of night a voice foreboding woe,
And rose up in their terror, and forsook
Homes, in the haunted darkness of despair
No more endurable. As thunder quails
Th' inferior creatures of the air and earth,
So bow'd the Plague at once all human souls,
And the brave man beside the natural coward
Walk'd trembling. On the restless multitude,
Thoughtlessly toiling through a busy life,
Nor hearing in the tumult of their souls
The ordinary language of decay,

A voire came down that made itself be heard, And they started from delusion when the touch

Of Death's benumbing fingers suddenly Swept off whole crowded streets into the grave.

In endless schemes to overcome the Plague, In art, skill, zeal, in ruth and charity Forgot its horrors, and oft seem'd to rise But soon the noblest spirits disappear'd, More life-like 'mid the ravages of death. None could tell whither-and the city stood Like a beleaguer'd fortress, that hath lost, The flower of its defenders. Then the Plague Storm'd, raging like a barbarous conqueror, And, hopeless to find mercy, every one Fell on his face, and all who rose again Crouch'd to the earth in suppliant agony. Wilmot. Father! how mournful every Sabbath-day

To miss some well-known faces! to behold The congregation weekly thinn'd by death, And empty scats with all their Bibles lying Cover'd with dust.

Priest. Ay-even the house of God Was open to the Plague. Amid their prayers The kneelers sicken'd, and most deadly-pale Rose up with sobs, and beatings of the

heart

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And the soul looks o'er ocean, earth, and air,

Heedless to whom its fields or waves belong, So that there were some overshadowing

grove

Central amid a mighty continent,
Or sacred island in the healthful main,
Where men might be transported in a thought
Far from the wild dominion of the Plague.
Now He is monarch here-nor mortal brow
Durst wear a crown within the fatal sweep
Of his long bony arm.

Wilmot. He loves the silence
Of an unpeopled reign.

Priest. Once at noon-day Alone I stood upon a tower that rises From the centre of the city. I look'd down With awe upon that world of misery; Nor for a while could say that I beheld Aught save one wide gleam indistinctly flung From that bewildering grandeur; till at once The objects all assumed their natural form, And grew into a City stretching round On every side, far as the bounding sky. Mine eyes first rested on the squares that lay Without one moving figure, with fair trees Lifting their tufted heads unto the light, Sweet, sunny spots of rural imagery That gave a beauty to magnificence. Silent as nature's solitary glens Slept the long streets-and mighty London seem'd,

With all its temples, domes, and palaces, Like some sublime assemblage of tall cliffs That bring down the deep st llness of the heavens

To shroud them in the desert. Groves of masts

Rose through the brightness of the sunsmote river,

But all their flags were struck, and every sail

Was lower'd. Many a distant land had felt
The sudden stoppage of that mighty heart.
Then thought I that the vain pursuits of man
Possess'd a semblance of sublimity,
Thus suddenly o'erthrown; and as I look'd
Down on the courts and markets, where the
soul

Of this world's business once roar'd like the

sea,

That sound within my memory strove in vain, Yet with a mighty power, to break the silence That like the shadow of a troubled sky

Or moveless cloud of thunder lay beneath me,

The breathless calm of universal death.
Wilmot. How many children

Must have died in beauty and in innocence
This fatal summer!

Priest. Many sweet flowers died! Pure innocents! they mostly sank in peace. Yet sometimes it was misery to hear them | Praying their parents to shut out the Plague; Nor could they sleep alone within their beds, In fear of that dread monster. Childhood lost Its bounding gladsomeness its fearless

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glee

And infants of five summers walk'd about With restless eyes, or by their parents' sides Crouch'd shuddering, for they ever heard them speaking

Of death, or saw them weeping - no one smiled.

Wilmot. Hath not the summer been most beautiful,

'Mid all this misery?

Priest. A sunny season!

What splendid days, what nights magnificent
Pass'd in majestic march above the City,
When all below was agony and death!
O peaceful dwellers! in yon silent stars,
Burning so softly in their happiness!
Our souls exclaim'd, unknown inhabitants
of unknown worlds! no misery reaches you,
For bliss is one with immortality!
The very river as it flow'd along
Appear'd to come from some delightful land
Unknown unto the Plague, and hastening on,
To join the healthful ocean, calmly smiled,
A privileged pilgrim through the realms of
death.

Yea! in the sore disturbance of men's souls
They envied the repose of lifeless things!
And the leafy trees that graced the city-

squares,

Bright with the dews of morning, they seen'd blest!

On them alone th' untainted air of heaven
Shed beauty and delight-all round them died.
London alone, of all the world seem'd curst.
O happy spots in country-or in town!
'Mid savage wilds — or dark and noisome
streets-

Cut off from human intercourse—or haunted
By vice and sorrow, penury and guilt,
Ye seem'd to all a blessed Paradise,
Whither on wings of rapture they would fly,
Nor ever leave you more-for nature groans:
Where the Plague is not, there dwells hap-
piness.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

SYBILLINE LEAVES.

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT The ship was cheer'd, the harbour clear'd,

MARINER.

IN SEVEN PARTS.

Merrily did we drop

Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the light-house-top.

The Sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he;

Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles
quam visibiles in rerum universitate. Sed horum
omniam familiam quis nobis enarrabit? et gradus
et cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera?
Quid agunt ? quæ loca habitant? Harum rerum
notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nun-
quam attigit. Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, quando-Higher and higher every day,
que in animo, tanquam in tabula, majoris et me- Till over the mast at noon-
lioris mundi imaginem contemplari: ne mens as-
suefecta hodiernæ vitæ minutiis se contrahat ni-
mis, et tota subsidat in pusillas cogitationes. Sed
veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque ser-
vandus, ut certa ab incertis, diem a nocte, distin-
BURNET, Archæol. Phil.

And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.

guamus.

I.

It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.

By thy long gray beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopst thou me?

The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wide,
And I am next of kin;

The guests are met, the feast is set:
Mayst hear the merry din.

He holds him with his skinny hand,
There was a ship, quoth he.
Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon!
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye-
The wedding-guest stood still,
And listens like a three years child:
The Mariner hath his will.

The wedding-guest sat on a stone:
He can not chuse but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

The wedding-guest here beat his breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall,

Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.

The wedding-guest he beat his breast,
Yet he can not chuse but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe
And forward bends his head,

The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast,
And southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wonderous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.

And through the drifts the snowy clift
Did send a dismal sheen:

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken-
The ice was all between.

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