THE WITCH: A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. CHARACTERS. OLD SERVANT in the Family of Sir Francis Fairford. STRANGER. Servant.-ONE summer night, Sir Francis, as it chanced, Was pacing to and fro in the avenue That westward fronts our house, Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted Three hundred years ago By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name. The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate, Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate For she was one who practised the black arts, And served the devil, being since burned for witchcraft. She looked at him as one that meant to blast him: And with a frightful noise, ("Twas partly like a woman's voice, And partly like the hissing of a snake,) She nothing said but this: (Sir Francis told the words.) "A mischief, mischief, mischief, And a nine-times-killing curse, By day and by night, to the caitiff wight, And still she cried, "A mischief, And a nine-fold-withering curse: For that shall come to thee that will undo thee, so saying, she departed, Leaving Sir Francis like a man beneath Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling; Stranger.-A terrible curse! What followed? Servant.-Nothing immediate; but some two months after Loung Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick, And none could tell what ailed him; for he lay, And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off, And he, that was full-fleshed, became as thin As a two-months' babe that has been starved in the nursing. And sure, I think He bore his death-wound like a little child; With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy, He strove to clothe his agony in smiles, Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks, Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling there, And thereupon Sir Francis called to mind Stranger. But did the witch confess? Servant.-All this and more at her death. Stranger. I do not love to credit tales of magic. Heaven's music, which is order, seems unstrung, And this brave world (The mystery of God,) unbeautified, Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted. DEDICATION. DEAR MOXON, TO THE PUBLISHER. I do not know to whom a dedication of these trifles is mo properly duo than to yourself. You suggested the printing of them. You were desirous of exhibiting a specimen of the manner in which publications intrusted to your future care would appear. With more propriety, perhaps, the " Christmas," or some other of your own simple, unpretending compositions, might have served this purpose. But I forget-you have bid a long adieu to the muses. I had on my hands sundry copies of verses written for albums "Those books kept by modern young ladies for show, Of which their plain grandmothers nothing did know”— or otherwise floating about in periodicals; which you have chosen in this manner to imbody. I feel little interest in their publication. They are simply-Advertisement Verses. It is not for me nor you to allude in public to the kindness of our honoured friend, under whose auspices you are become a bookseller. May that fineminded veteran in verse enjoy life long enough to see his patronage justified! I venture to predict that your habits of industry and your cheerful spirit wil carry you through the world. I am, dear Moxon, Your friend and sincere well-wisher, Enfield, 1st June, 1830. ALBUM VERSES, WITH A FEW OTHERS. IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY. AN album is a garden, not for show Planted, but use; where wholesome herbs should grow No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare. Are pure as crowns of saints, or angels' wings. For naines of some since mouldering in the tomb, And, lady, such I wish this book to thee. IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SER- HAD I a power, lady, to my will, You should not want handwritings. I would fill |