which, to an experienced mind, suggests the likelihood of abortion rather than of abundance. Bardolph's speech to "We fortify in paper," is not in the quarto.

ACT. III.

cr -in the slippery clouds."

I must prefer shrowds, here, to clouds; and, notwithstanding the instances produced by Mr. Steevens, to shew that shrowds, sometimes, is the same as clouds, I cannot be reconciled to slippery clouds; nor to the tempest, or kind of poetry, which would hang the waves in the clouds, at all; though the waves might, in some intemperate and ambitious moments, aspire to kiss or touch the clouds.

"The happiest youth, reading the Book of Fate,
What perils past, what crosses yet to come

Would shut the book, and sit him down and die.”

Mr. M. Mason, I think, conceives this passage truly. If a youth, whose pre-ordained course of life were the happiest that a mortal could experience, were, by anticipation, admitted to contemplate its progress, he would pause in the midst; and reflecting on the numerous evils and vexations foregone and to come, in this visionary survey, would, in despair, shut up the book, and die at once. In Milton occurs a similar train of thinking:

"Better end here, unborn: Why is life given
To be thus wrested from us? rather, why,
Obtruded on us thus? who, if we knew
What we receive, would either not accept
Life offer'd, or soon beg to lay it down
Glad to be so dismiss'd, in peace."

"My brother general the commonwealth,
To brother born, a houshold cruelty,

I make my quarrel in particular."

All the attempts to explain this passage, have been, hitherto, unsuccessful; the best I can do with it is this, Westmoreland had asked the archbishop what he complained of? General, replies the bishop, The Commonwealth; my brother general (i. e. genèral bro-, ther) become, as it is, by misrule, a houshold cruelty to its brothers born, I make my special cause of quarrel.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

ODE

ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE D'ENGHIEN, SON OF CONDE.
Translated from the French.*

BY OCTAVIUS GILCHRIST, ESQ.

Finis vitæ ejus nobis luctuosus, amicis tristis, extraneis etiam ignotisque non sine curâ fuit. Tacitus.

By an usurping tyrant's hand

Destroy'd, the victim of his fears,
Thee! offspring of a noble band,
Fall'n in the flower of thy years,
We mourn;-accept thrice-honour'd chief
(While yet thy ashes lightly lie,)
The willing homage of our grief,
In tribute to thy memory.

Thee! forefathers' illustrious deeds,
In cradled childhood could inflame,
Like them to merit glory's meeds,
And glory cherished thy aim;
But fraud, (will later days believe?)
Thy laurel-wreath to cypress turns,
And memory, blending with her grief
Thy worth, inconsolable mourns :

Say, miscreant! that by her smile
Capricious fortune has made bold
The royal lillies to defile

What her august records unfold?
The boast of Bourbon's honour'd line,

'Gainst whom thou didst thine arm extend,

And, urg'd by jealousy malign,

Doom'd to an ignominious end.

Offspring of heroes! cherish'd shade!
In vain the stern usurper tries
To soil thy honour by his blade,

Embalm'd, for ever, in our memories;

*The original of this translation appeared in some of the daily papers, a short time since, and excited considerable interest.

While the fierce tyrant's hated name-
(Unblemish'd thine-in after times)
Shall never more our lips proclaim,
Unless to execrate his crimes.

Gallia! of old in war renown'd,

That sung the deeds of chivalry,
Shall acts like these thy fame confound?
Wild how thy neck in slavery?

Low in the dust thy sceptre lies;

Thy nobles are in fetters bound;

Why sleep'st thou ? rouse! thy genius cries;
Revenge thyself, the lands resound.

O! sons of France! in mem'ry's seat,
D'Engien shall hold a station long,
And let his lamentable fate

Proclaim thy wrongs with trumpet tongue;
For why? enamour'd of his name,

He was the glory of the wars;
A child, he ran the course of fame,
Young, died heroic in her cause.

Thou! towards whom thy subjects bend,
And Europe hails with glad acclaim;
Who saw'st thy persecuted friend,
Asylum seek in thy domain;

Keen is the pang thy bosom bears,

Thy crown usurp'd-but Gallia sees

Thy grief-ev'n now her vengeance rears,

His injur❜d ashes to appease,

IMPROMPTU,

66

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE PATRIOTIC CLARION,"

On the Price of Dollars, bearing the Impression of the King's Head being raised from 4s. 9d. to 5s.

WHEN the head of King George, on King Charles's of Spain, Was stamp'd on each Dollar-the wits of the town,

Have often remark'd, "that the heads of the twain (Although mighty kings) were not both worth a CROWN!"

But times now are alter'd-their value's more high, (Though foes our finances still strive to derange,) For those who the heads of the monarchs espy,

Declare them, 66

now worthy of CROWNS in exchange!"

Museum, Birmingham, 18 Jan, 1804.

THE WANDERERS.

SCENE-A Mountain in Andalusia. TIME-Sunset.
CARLOS.

Oh holy Pilgrim! kindly stay,
To guide a trav❜ller's dreary way-
The sun beneath the mountain sinks,
And from night's shadows, Lilla shrinks;
She fears to wait the beams of morn,
The air so chill, the place forlorn-
Its branches no kind cedar spreads,
To guard from dews our weary heads;
No myrtles here in fragrance bloom,
No orange sheds its rich perfume;
And tho' green vallies round us lic,
I see no shelt'ring cabin nigh:-
O'er wilds we've wander'd many a league,
And both are fainting with fatigue;
Then prythee, gentle Pilgrim, stay,
And quick to safety point the way.

PILGRIM.

Sleep hangs upon the lady's eyes,
The rose upon her cheek too dies;
Far must you roam thro' brakes and briars,
Ere you can reach yon gilded spires;
'Tis there alone, you safe may sleep,
Till twilight o'er the mountain peep:
E'en now myself, the path I tread,
For there I hope to rest my head,
But 'tis a solitary way,

And 'mong the dells banditti stray:

Why o'er this mountain bleak and bare,

Wander you thus, Signor, declare

Thro' its lone wilds no guide to lead,
No mule, the lady-you, no steed.

LILLA.

Hold, Carlos, hold, and let me tell,
How you ensnared me by a spell;
Virtue was this dread spell of thine,
If guilt there was, the guilt was mine.
Oh gaze not, stranger, as I speak,
To see a blush suffuse this cheek!
Deem it no crime, for oh! I claim
Your pity, not deserve your blame-
Soft love possess'd this tender heart-
Oh do not at the mention start;
Love is a wily boy, and creeps
To seek a home, e'en while one sleeps,
How could I, then, his power deny?
He prest, he forced me to comply;
But, oh! I met a father's look!
Whom love, alas! had long forsook!

His beard old age had silver'd o'er,
And love had charms to charm no more.

Long for my mother had he sigh’d,

And with my mother, love had died—
I see my pleadings do not fail,

I see you feel my artless tale,

Else why that deep, that labour'd groan?

PILGRIM.

Your father's fate's so much my own! But quick, proceed, and say what more?

LILLA.

I stung that breast ne'er stung before;
But if, alas, I've caused his woe,
These tears by day, by night, shall flow?

CARLOS.

Oh cease my Lilla, sigh no more,

The clouds of grief will soon fly o'er!
Let me go on-I woo'd the maid,
And found my love with love repaid.