The gilded swarm that wantons in the sunshine

Of thy full favor; Seneca be there
In gorgeous phrase of labor'd eloquence
To dress thy plea, and Burrhus strength-
en it

With his plain soldier's oath, and honest seeming.

Against thee, Liberty and Agrippina : The world, the prize; and fair befall the victors.

But soft! why do I waste the fruitless hours

In threats unexecuted? Haste thee, fly These hated walls that seem to mock my

shame,

And cast me forth in duty to their lord.

ACER. 'Tis time to go, the sun is

high advanced,

And, ere mid-day, Nero will come to Baiæ.

AGRIP. My thought aches at him; not the basilisk

More deadly to the sight, than is to me The cool injurious eye of frozen kindness. I will not meet its poison. Let him feel Before he sees me.

ACER. Why, then, stays my sovereign, Where he so soon may—

Has spread among the crowd; things that but whisper'd

Have arch'd the hearer's brow, and

riveted

His eyes in fearful ecstasy; no matter What; so't be strange, and dreadful.— Sorceries,

Assassinations, poisonings - the deeper My guilt, the blacker his ingratitude. And you, ye manes of ambition's vic

tims,

Enshrined Claudius, with the pitied

ghosts

Of the Syllani, doom'd to early death, (Ye unavailing horrors, fruitless crimes!) If from the realms of night my voice ye hear,

In lieu of penitence, and vain remorse, Accept my vengeance. Though by me ye bled,

He was the cause. My love, my fears for him,

Dried the soft springs of pity in my heart,

And froze them up with deadly cruelty. Yet, if your injured shades demand my

SCENE II.

OTHO.-POPPÆA.

OTHо. Thus far we're safe. Thanks

to the rosy queen

Of amorous thefts: and had her wanton

son

Lent us his wings, we could not have beguiled

With more elusive speed the dazzled sight

Of wakeful jealousy. Be gay securely; Dispel, my fair, with smiles, the tim'rous

cloud

That hangs on thy clear brow. So Helen look'd,

So her white neck reclined, so was she borne

By the young Trojan to his gilded bark With fond reluctance, yielding modesty, And oft-reverted eye, as if she knew not Whether she feared, or wished to be pursued.

HYMN TO IGNORANCE.

A Fragment.

HAIL, horrors, hail! ye ever gloomy bowers,

Ye gothic fanes, and antiquated towers, Where rushy Camus' slowly winding

flood

Perpetual draws his humid train of mud : Glad I revisit thy neglected reign,

Oh take me to thy peaceful shade again! But chiefly thee, whose influence breathed from high

Augments the native darkness of the sky;

Ah! Ignorance! soft salutary power! Prostrate with filial reverence I adore. Thrice hath Hyperion roll'd his annual

race,