Be sweet to see my precious William give To him who gives him all? My dearest husband, And wonder why that cream and bread stand there, Mau. Thy precious boy! Amelia, that child's heart Am. Nature's his playmate; leaves and flowers and birds And the young innocent lambs are his companions; He needs no other. In his solitude He is as happy as the glittering beetle Mau. What are these? My precious boy! Tears! My own Amelia, That falls without a cloud. Fy! I must chide thee? I stole, a guilty wanderer, from my home,- Mau. Am. My Amelia! Seven years Have past since last I saw him ;—and that last! Think not too deeply My own beloved wife, there will come a time Am. Oh Maurice! All the grandeur that she left— The splendid vanities, ne'er cost thy wife A sigh, contented in her poverty, Happy in virtuous love. But that kind voice— That tender blessing-that accustomed name Of fondness!-Oh! they haunt my very dreams: They crowd upon my waking thoughts; then most Some sign of glorious promise, tells my heart How little I deserve Mau. My Emily! Am. No, not from thee, not even from thee, that name;"Tis sacred to those dear and honour'd lips. Which ne'er will breathe it more. I am ungrateful Thus to repine, whilst thou and our dear boy Where can he now be loitering! These dark clouds Am. He's here. My William, wherefore did st thou stay So long? And where's the basket? Wil. Am. Now, where's the basket? Kiss me first. I had fill'd it half, When a strange gentleman came through the wood Am. Did he eat the strawberries? Wil. Dear mother, no. He talked to me, and then I could not gather them. Am. What said he, dearest? Wil. He ask'd my name and your's, and where I lived, And kiss'd me. Call me so, father! For these seven years I have not seen your face. Disown me not Call me your daughter! Once from your dear lips Let me hear that dear sound! And bless my dear, dear child! Call me your Emily, For such a blessing I'd be content to die. William, kneel here; Lord M. Rise, Madam, rise. Am. Oh, call me once your daughter, only once, To still my longing heart! My William, pray For your poor mother. Wil. Pray, pray forgive us! Lord M. Oh, forgive us, Sir, Madam, I have sought A half-hour's shelter here from this wild storm; And as your guest-I pray you to forbear Please you to sit, my lord. [Exit Amelia. Lord M. I thank you, Sir.-You have a pleasant cottage Prettily garlanded with rose and woodbine, And the more useful vine. Has it been long Your home? Lord M. Five years. And you have left the army? Mau. Yes, since the peace. I could not bear to drag As her own heart. Here we have been most happy. [Re-enter Amelia, with a light and a basket.] Mau. [meeting her.] Thou tremblest still. Am. I could not stay away. It is such joyful pain to look upon him; For that kind word! Lord M. Now blessings on his head. Surely she was not always So thin and pale !—Your husband says, Amelia, That you are happy. Am. I have only known Not that! not that! Lord M. Ye are poor. Am. Lord M. You have implored my blessing on your son ;— I bless him. Am. On my knees I offer up My thanks to Heaven and thee. A double blessing Was that, my father! on my heart it fell Is such a joy! My William, tremble not! We Here on my lap, here on my bosom, William! Lord M. Why thou may'st have another child, and then- Of love and sorrow! Till this boy was born Wretchedly poor we were; sick, heart-sick, desolate, And light and warmth seem'd darting through my breast $04 With his first smile. Then hope and comfort came, A friend, and love, pure, firm, enduring love; Am. Mau. Maurice, say. My Lord, "Tis every whit as fond. You have my thanks. Virtuous and happy. Am. Mother, let me stay, My darling, yes; Thou shalt not leave me, not for the wide world. Lord M. Thou need'st not hug him so against thy bosom; I am no ruffian, from a mother's breast To pluck her child.-Amelia, as his arms Wind round thy neck, so thou a thousand times Am. O father father! Lord M. Thou wert a motherless babe, and I to thee Am. Did love! Oh never, never, Lord M. Then after eighteen years of tender care, Am. Father! this is worse than death. Am. I did. Alas! I did. Which thou did'st love so well, is vacant now; Amelia, when thou saw'st me last, my hair Was brown as thine. Look on it now, Amelia. Mau. My lord, this grief will kill her. See, she writhes Upon the floor. Lord M. Poor heart! I go still desolate ; I might have found a comfort had I had Something to live for still, something to love ; If she who robb'd me of my child had given Her child instead-but all is over now She would not trust her father!-All-Farewell. Am. [Starting up. Take him, whilst I have life to bid thee, take him! Nay, cling not to me, boy! Take, take him! Maurice? Am. Hush! hush! hush! And I shall still have thee. Lord M. Thou givest him then? Am. Lord M. My sweet Emily! Maurice, we are forgiven! Lord M. Emily! My own dear child, My children, bless ye all !-forgive this trial, We'll never part again. ETCHINGS OF DIFFERENT KINDS OF MEN. No. I. THE HUMOROUS MAN. You shall know the man I speak of by the vivacity of his eye, the "morn-elastic" tread of his foot, the lightness of his brow, and the dawning smile of pleasantry in his countenance. The muscles of his mouth curl upwards, like a Spaniard's mustachios, unlike Grief's, whose mouth has a "downward drag austere." He is a man who cares for nothing so much as a "mirth-moving jest;" give him that, and he has "food and raiment." He will not see what men have to cark and care for, beyond to-day; he is for To-morrow's providing for himself. He is for a new reading of Ben Jonson's old play of " Every Man in his Humour," he would have it "Every Man in Humour." He leaves money and misery, to misers; ambition and blood, to great warriors and low highwaymen; fame, to court-laureates and lord-mayors; honours, to court-pandars and city knights; the dread of death, to such as are not worthy of life; the dread of heaven, to those who are not good enough even for earth; the grave, to parish-clerks and undertakers; tombs, to proud worms; and palaces to paupers. It is enough for him if he may laugh the "hours away ;" and break a jest, where tempers more humorqus break a head. He would not barter with you one wakeful jest for a hundred sleepy sermons; or one laugh for a thousand sighs. If he could allow himself to sigh about any thing, it would be that he had been serious when he might have laughed; if he could weep for any thing, it would be for mankind, because they will not laugh more and mourn less. Yet he hath tears for the pitiable, the afflicted, the orphan, and the unhappy; but his tears die where they are born,-in his heart; he makes no show of them; like April showers, they refresh where they fall, and turn to smiles, as all tears will, that are not selfish. His grief has a humanity in it, which is not satisfied with tears only; it teaches him the disparity "Tween poor and rich, and weal and want, and moves His heart to ruth, his hands to charity. |