Went. Madam, while you are Godfrey Wentworth's wife,
These tender-friendships must be laid aside. Oh! you can smile. By-
Amel. Mr Wentworth, you
(I must believe it) jest; you jest with me.
Went. Go on, go on: you think me quite a fool. Woman, my eyes are open; wide awake To you and all my infamy. By heaven I will not be a by-word and a mock In all the mouths of men for any- I still respect your ears, you see; I- Amel. You
Went. Forgive me: I indeed
Am somewhat of a prude; you'll scorn me for it. I still think women modest-in the mass.
Amel. Sir-Mr Wentworth-you have used me ill. Yourself you have used ill. You have forgot All-what is due to me-what to your wife. You have forgot-forgot-can I forget All that I sacrificed for you?-my youth,
My home, my heart-(you know, you knew it then) In sad obedience to my father's word? You promised to that father (how you kept That promise, now remember) you would save His age from poverty: he had been bred
In splendour, and he could not bow him down, Like men who never felt the warmth of fortune. He gave me up, a victim; and I saw
Myself (ah! how I shuddered) borne away By you, the evil angel of my life,
To a portentous splendour. I became
A pining bride, a wretch-a slave to all
Your host of passions; but I swore (may God Forgive me!) to love you-you, when I loved Another, and you knew it: Yes, you knew My heart was given away, and yet you wed me. Leave me, sir!
Went. Have you done? Woman, do you think This mummery is to work me from my purpose→→→ My settled will? Mistress, I leave you now: But this remember, that your minion-Oh, I do not heed your frowning-your boy-love Will visit India shortly, or, it may be,
(You are his guide) a prison here, in England. Farewell.
Amel. Yet stay-a word more ere we quit. I do beseech you (though my wrongs are great, And my proud spirit ill can stoop to this), You take your malediction from this youth. He is as innocent-I think he's innocent Of the least ill toward you. For me, I am Too innocent to sue; yet let me say, Since the sad hour I wed you, I have been As faithful to our cold communion
As though my heart had from the first been yours, Or you been generous after. Once more, sir, I would implore you-for your comfort-for Your honour and my name, to spare this boy. In the calm tone of one who has not erred I do require this of you.
And I am here-oh! such a weary wretch. Oh! father, father, what a heart had you To cast me on the wide and bitter world With such a friend as this! I would have toiled From the pale morning 'till the dusk of night, And lived as poorly, and smiled cheerfully, Keeping out sorrow from our cottage home. And there was one who would have loved you too, And aided with his all our wreck of fortune. You would not hear him; and--and did I hear His passionate petitioning, and see
His scalding tears, and fling myself away Upon a wintry bosom, that held years Doubling my own. What matters it?-'tis past.
I will be still myself: who's there?
Too gay for earnest talk. Who has been here? Amel. No one; I will not tell; I've made a vow, And will not break it, 'till-until I'm pressed. Ch. Then let me press you.
Amel. Silly boy, away;
Go gather me more flowers, violets.
Ch. Here let me place them in your hair. Amel. No, no;
The violet is for poets: they are yours.
O rare! I like to see you bosom them. Had they been golden, such as poets earned, You might have treasured them.
Ch. They are far more
To me for they were yours, Amelia. Amel. Give me the rose.
Ch. But where shall it be placed? Amel. Why, in my hand-my hair. blushes!
To see us both so idle. Give it me.
Where? where do ladies hide their favourite flowers But in their bosoms, foolish youth. Away--'Tis I must do it.
Pshaw! how sad you look,
And how you tremble.
Ch. Dear Amelia.
Amel. Call me your mother, Charles. Ch. My guardian-
Amel. Ah! name him not to me. Charles, I have been
Jesting awhile; but my dark husband's frown Comes like a cloud upon me. You must go
Far, my dear Charles, from the one friend who loves
To Hindostan.
Ch. I know it.
Amel. For myself,
I shall think of you often, my dear Charles. Think of me sometimes. When your trumpet sounds, You'll recollect the coward knew once, you Over the seas in England?
Amel. I do not think you have a heart: 'tis buried. Ch. Amelia, oh! Amelia, will you never
Know the poor heart that breaks and bursts for
Oh! do not take it ill; but now believe
How fond, and true, and faithful
You act well, sir; or-but if it be true, Then what am I?
Ch. Oh! by these burning tears,
By all my haunted days and wakeful nights, Oh! by yourself I swear, dearest of all, I love love you, my own Amelia! Once I will call you so.
Do-do not scorn me And blight my youth-I do not ask for love; I dare not. Trample not upon my heart, My untouched heart-I gave it all to you, Without a spot of care or sorrow on it. My spirit became yours-I worshipped you, And for your sake in silence. Say but once You hate me not, for this-Speak, speak! Amel. Alas!
Ch. Weep not for me, my gentle love. You said Your husband threatened you. Come, then, to me; I have a shelter and a heart for you, Where, ever and for ever you shall reign. Amelia, dear Amelia! speak a word Of kindness and consenting to me- e-Speak! If but a word, or though it be not kindness: Speak hope, doubt, fear-but not despair; or say That some day you may love, or that if ever Your cruel husband dies, you'll think of me; Or that you wish me happy-or that perhaps Your heart-nay, speak to me, Amelia.
Amel. Is, then, your love so deep? Ch. So deep? It is
Twined with my life: it is my life-my food- The natural element wherein I breathe- My madness-my heart's madness-it is all -Oh! what a picture have I raised upon My sandy wishes. I have thought at times That you and I in some far distant country Might live together, blessing and beloved; And I have shaped such plans of happiness, For us and all around us (you, indeed, Ever the sweet superior spirit there), That were you always-fair Amelia, You listen with a melancholy smile?
Amel. Let me hear all: 'tis fit I should hear all.
Ch. Weep not for me, my love.
I-I am nought: not worth a single tear:
I will depart or may I kiss away
Charles, I have driven you from your early home; I see it now: I only-hate me for it.
Ch. I'll love you, like bright heaven. The fixed
Shall never be so constant. I am all
Your own. Not sin, nor sorrow, nor the grave, Not the cold hollow grave shall chill my love. It will survive beyond the bounds of death, The spirit of the shadow which may there Perhaps do penance for my deeds of ill. Amel. Stay this wild talk.
Ch. Men have been known to love Through years of absence, ay, in pain and peril; And one did cast life and a world away
For a loose woman's smile: nay, love has dwelt, A sweet inhabitant in a demon's breast, Lonely, amidst bad passions; burning there, Like a most holy and sepulchral light, And almost hallowing its dark tenement. Why may not I-
Amel. I thought I heard a step.
How strangely you speak now-again, again. Leave me; quick, leave me.
Ch. 'Tis your tyrant coming:
Fly rather you.
Amel. If you have pity, go.
Ch. Farewell, then: yet, should he repulse you- Amel. Then
I will-but go: you torture me. Ch. I am gone.
Amel. Farewell, farewell, poor youth; so desolate That even I can spare a tear for you.
My husband comes not: I will meet him, then, Armed in my innocence and wrongs. Alas! "Tis hard to suffer where we ought to judge, And pray to those who should petition us. 'Tis a brave world, I see. Power and wrong Go hand in hand resistless and abhorred, And patient virtue and pale modesty, Like the sad flowers of the too early spring, Are cropped before they blossom-or trod down, Or by the fierce winds withered. Is it so?- But I have flaunted in the sun, and cast My smiles in prodigality away: And now, and now-no matter. I have done. Whether I live scorned or beloved-Beloved!
Better be hated, could my pride abate
Those drops of rain? Well, well, I will not pain you. And I consent to fly. It may be thus.
And yet-oh! what a paradise is love; Secure, requited love. I will not go : Or we will go together. There are haunts For young and happy spirits: you and I Will thither fly, and dwell beside some stream That runs in music 'neath the Indian suns; Ay, some sweet island still shall be our home, Where fruits and flowers are born through all the year,
And Summer, Autumn, Spring, are ever young, Where Winter comes not, and where nought abides But Nature in her beauty revelling.
You shall be happy, sweet Amelia,
At last; and I-it is too much to think of. Forgive me while I look upon thee now, And swear to thee by Love, and Night, and all The gliding hours of soft and starry night, How much-how absolutely I am thine. My pale and gentle beauty-what a heart Had he to wrong thee or upbraid thee! He Was guilty-nay, nay: look not so. Amel. I have
Been guilty of a cruel act toward you. Charles, I indeed am guilty. When to-day My husband menaced me, and told me of Public and broad disgrace, it met my scorn: But have I, my poor youth, been so unkind To you as not to see this-love before!
SCENE II. A Chamber.-Night.
A considerable period of time is supposed to have elapsed between this and the preceding scene. AMELIA-MARIAN.
Mar. Are you awake, dear lady? Amel. Wide awake.
There are the stars abroad, I see. I feel As though I had been sleeping many a day. What time o' the night is it?
Mar. About the stroke
Of midnight.
Amel. Let it come. The skies are calm And bright; and so, at last, my spirit is. Whether the heavens have influence on the mind Through life, or only in our days of death, I know not; yet, before, ne'er did my soul Look upwards with such hope of joy, or pine For that hope's deep completion. Marian! Let me see more of heaven. There enough. Are you not well, sweet girl?
Mar. Oh! yes: but you
Speak now so strangely: you were wont to talk Of plain familiar things, and cheer me: now You set my spirit drooping.
Nothing but cheerful words, thou idle girl.
Look, look! above: the canopy of the sky, Spotted with stars, shines like a bridal dress: A queen might envy that so regal blue Which wraps the world o' nights. Alas, alas! I do remember in my follying days What wild and wanton wishes once were mine, Slaves-radiant gems-and beauty with no peer, And friends (a ready host)-but I forget. I shall be dreaming soon, as once I dreamt, When I had hope to light me. Have you no song, My gentle girl, for a sick woman's ear? There's one I've heard you sing: They said his eye' No, that's not it: the words are hard to hit. 'His eye like the mid-day sun was bright'— Mar. 'Tis so.
You've a good memory. Well, listen to me. I must not trip, I see.
Amel. I hearken. Now.
His eye like the mid-day sun was bright, Hers had a proud but a milder light, Clear and sweet like the cloudless moon: Alas! and must it fade as soon?
His voice was like the breath of war, But hers was fainter-softer far; And yet, when he of his long love sighed, She laughed in scorn:-he fled and died. Mar. There is another verse, of a different air, But indistinct-like the low moaning Of summer winds in the evening: thus it runs--
They said he died upon the wave,
And his bed was the wild and bounding billow: Her bed shall be a dry earth grave:
Prepare it quick, for she wants her pillow. Amel. How slowly and how silently doth time Float on his starry journey. Still he goes, And goes, and goes, and doth not pass away. He rises with the golden morning, calmly, And with the moon at night. Methinks I see Him stretching wide abroad his mighty wings, Floating for ever o'er the crowds of men, Like a huge vulture with its prey beneath. Lo! I am here, and time seems passing on: To-morrow I shall be a breathless thing- Yet he will still be here; and the blue hours Will laugh as gaily on the busy world As though I were alive to welcome them. There's one will shed some tears. Poor Charles!
Ch. I am here.
Did you not call?
Amel. You come in time. My thoughts Were full of you, dear Charles. Your mother (now I take that title), in her dying hour Has privilege to speak unto your youth. There's one thing pains me, and I would be calm. My husband has been harsh unto me-yet He is my husband; and you'll think of this If any sterner feeling move your heart? Seek no revenge for me. You will not?-Nay, Is it so hard to grant my last request? He is my husband: he was father, too, Of the blue-eyed boy you were so fond of once. Do you remember how his eyelids closed When the first summer rose was opening? 'Tis now two years ago-more, more: and II now am hastening to him. Pretty boy! He was my only child. How fair he looked In the white garment that encircled him'Twas like a marble slumber; and when we Laid him beneath the green earth in his bed,
I thought my heart was breaking-yet I lived: But I am weary now.
Mar. You must not talk, Indeed, dear lady; nay-
Ch. Indeed you must not.
Amel.. Well, then, I will be silent; yet not so. For ere we journey, ever should we take
A sweet leave of our friends, and wish them well, And tell them to take heed, and bear in mind Our blessings. So, in your breast, dear Charles, Wear the remembrance of Amelia. She ever loved you-ever; so as might Become a mother's tender love-no more. Charles, I have lived in this too bitter world Now almost thirty seasons: you have been A child to me for one-third of that time.
I took you to my bosom, when a boy,
Who scarce had seen eight springs come forth and vanish.
You have a warm heart, Charles, and the base crowd Will feed upon it, if-but you must make That heart a grave, and in it bury deep
Its young and beautiful feelings.
All that you wish-all; but you cannot die And leave me?
Amel. You shall see how calmly Death Will come and press his finger, cold and pale, On my now smiling lip: these eyes men swore Were brighter than the stars that fill the sky, And yet they must grow dim: an hour- Ch. Oh! no.
No, no: oh! say not so. To hear you talk thus. Amel. No: I would That soon must happen. When I am dead-
Ch. Alas, alas!
Amel. This is
Will you break my heart? caution it against a change, Calmly let us talk.
Ch. Is it then so? My soul is sick and faint. Oh! mother, mother. I-I cannot weep. Oh for some blinding tears to dim my eyes, So I might not gaze on her. And has death Indeed, indeed struck her-so beautiful? So wronged, and never erring; so beloved By one-who now has nothing left to love. Oh! thou bright heaven, if thou art calling now Thy brighter angels to thy bosom―rest, For lo! the brightest of thy host is goneDeparted-and the earth is dark below. And now-I'll wander far and far away, Like one that hath no country. I shall find A sullen pleasure in that life, and when
I say 'I have no friend in all the world,'
My heart will swell with pride, and make a show Unto itself of happiness; and in truth There is, in that same solitude, a taste Of pleasure which the social never know. From land to land I'll roam, in all a stranger, And, as the body gains a braver look,
By staring in the face of all the winds, So from the sad aspects of different things My soul shall pluck a courage, and bear up Against the past. And now-for Hindostan.
The REV. HENRY HART MILMAN, vicar of St Mary, in the town of Reading, is author of several poems and dramas, recently collected and published in three volumes. He first appeared as an author in 1817, when his tragedy of Fuzio was published. It was afterwards acted with success at Drury Lane theatre. In 1820 Mr Milman published a dramatic poem, the Fall of Jerusalem, and to this succeeded three other dramas, Belshazzar, the Martyr of Antioch, and Anne Boleyn, but none of these were designed for the stage. He has also written a narrative poem, Samor, Lord of the Bright City, and several smaller pieces. To our prose literature Mr Milman has contributed a History of the Jews, in three volumes, and an edition of Gibbon's Rome, with notes and corrections. Mr Milman is a native of London, son of an eminent physician, Sir Francis Milman, and was born in the year 1791. He distinguished himself as a classical scholar, and in 1815 was made a fellow of Brazen-nose college, Oxford. He also held (1821) the office of professor of poetry in the university. The taste and attainments of Mr Milman are seen in his poetical works; but he wants the dramatic spirit, and also that warmth of passion and imagination which is necessary to vivify his sacred learning and his classical creations.
[Jerusalem before the Siege.]
And yet it moves me, Romans! It confounds The counsel of my firin philosophy,
That Ruin's merciless ploughshare must pass o'er, And barren salt be sown on yon proud city. As on our olive-crowned hill we stand, Where Kedron at our feet its scanty waters Distils from stone to stone with gentle motion, As through a valley sacred to sweet peace, How boldly doth it front us! how majestically! Like a luxurious vineyard, the hill-side Is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line, Terrace o'er terrace, nearer still, and nearer To the blue heavens. There bright and sumptuous palaces,
With cool and verdant gardens interspersed; There towers of war that frown in massy strength; While over all hangs the rich purple eve, As conscious of its being her last farewell Of light and glory to that fated city.
And, as our clouds of battle, dust and smoke, Are melted into air, behold the temple In undisturbed and lone serenity, Finding itself a solemn sanctuary
In the profound of heaven! It stands before us A mount of snow, fretted with golden pinnacles! The very sun, as though he worshipped there, Lingers upon the gilded cedar roofs, And down the long and branching porticos, On every flowery-sculptured capital, Glitters the homage of his parting beams. By Hercules! the sight might almost win The offended majesty of Rome to mercy.
[Hymn of the Captive Jews.]
[From Belshazzar.']
God of the thunder! from whose cloudy seat The fiery winds of desolation flow: Father of vengeance! that with purple feet,
Like a full wine-press, tread'st the world below:
The embattled armies wait thy sign to slay, Nor springs the beast of havock on his prey, Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way, Till thou the guilty land hast sealed for wo. God of the rainbow! at whose gracious sign The billows of the proud their rage suppress; Father of mercies! at one word of thine
An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness! And fountains sparkle in the arid sands, And timbrels ring in maidens' glancing hands, And marble cities crown the laughing lands,
And pillared temples rise thy name to bless. O'er Judah's land thy thunders broke, O Lord! The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate, Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian sword, Even her foes wept to see her fallen state; And heaps her ivory palaces became, Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame, Her temple sank amid the smouldering flame,
For thou didst ride the tempest-cloud of fate. O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam, And the sad city lift her crownless head;
And songs shall wake, and dancing footsteps gleam, Where broods o'er fallen streets the silence of the
On Carmel's side our maiden's cull the flowers, The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers, To deck, at blushing eve, their bridal bowers, And angel-feet the glittering Sion tread. Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand, And Abraham's children were led forth for slaves; With fettered steps we left our pleasant land,
Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves. The stranger's bread with bitter tears we steep, And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep, 'Neath the mute midnight we steal forth to weep, Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' waves. The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy; Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children home; He that went forth a tender yearling boy,
Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come. And Canaan's vines for us their fruits shall bear, And Hermon's bees their honied stores prepare; And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer,
Where, o'er the cherub-seated God, full blazed the irradiate dome.
[Summons of the Destroying Angel to the City of Babylon.]
The hour is come! the hour is come! With voice Heard in thy inmost soul, I summon thee, Cyrus, the Lord's anointed! And thou river, That flowest exulting in thy proud approach To Babylon, beneath whose shadowy walls, And brazen gates, and gilded palaces, And groves, that gleam with marble obelisks, Thy azure bosom shall repose, with lights Fretted and chequered like the starry heavens: I do arrest thee in thy stately course,
By Him that poured thee from thine ancient fountain, And sent thee forth, even at the birth of time, One of his holy streams, to lave the mounts Of Paradise. Thou hear'st me: thou dost check Abrupt thy waters as the Arab chief
His headlong squadrons. Where the unobserved Yet toiling Persian breaks the ruining mound, I see thee gather thy tumultuous strength; And, through the deep and roaring Naharmalcha, Roll on as proudly conscious of fulfilling The omnipotent command! While, far away, The lake, that slept but now so calm, nor moved, Save by the rippling moonshine, heaves on high
Its foaming surface like a whirlpool-gulf, And boils and whitens with the unwonted tide. But silent as thy billows used to flow, And terrible, the hosts of Elam move, Winding their darksome way profound, where man Ne'er trod, nor light e'er shone, nor air from heaven Breathed. Oh! ye secret and unfathomed depths, How are ye now a smooth and royal way For the army of God's vengeance! And ministers of the Eternal purpose, Not guided by the treacherous, injured sons Of Babylon, but by my mightier arm,
Ye come, and spread your banners, and display Your glittering arms as ye advance, all white Beneath the admiring moon. Come on! the gates Are open-not for banqueters in blood Like you! I see on either side o'erflow The living deluge of armed men, and cry, Begin, begin! with fire and sword begin
The work of wrath. Upon my shadowy wings I pause, and float a little while, to see Mine human instruments fulfil my task Of final ruin. Then I mount, I fly, And sing my proud song, as I ride the clouds, That stars may hear, and all the hosts of worlds, That live along the interminable space, Take up Jehovah's everlasting triumph!
[The Fair Recluse.]
[From Samor, Lord of the Bright City."]
Sunk was the sun, and up the eastern heaven, Like maiden on a lonely pilgrimage, Moved the meek star of eve; the wandering air Breathed odours; wood, and waveless lake, like man, Slept, weary of the garish, babbling day.
Dove of the wilderness, thy snowy wing Droops not in slumber; Lilian, thou alone, 'Mid the deep quiet, wakest. Dost thou rove, Idolatrous of yon majestic moon, That like a crystal-throned queen in heaven, Seems with her present deity to hush To beauteous adoration all the earth? Might seem the solemn silent mountain tops Stand up and worship! the translucent streams Down the hills glittering, cherish the pure light Beneath the shadowy foliage o'er them flung At intervals; the lake, so silver-white, Glistens; all indistinct the snowy swans Bask in the radiance cool. Doth Lilian muse To that apparent queen her vesper hymn? Nursling of solitude, her infant couch Never did mother watch; within the grave She slept unwaking: scornful turned aloof Caswallon, of those pure instinctive joys By fathers felt, when playful infant grace, Touched with a feminine softness, round the heart Winds its light maze of undefined delight, Contemptuous: he with haughty joy beheld His boy, fair Malwyn; him in bossy shield Rocked proudly, him upbore to mountain steep Fierce and undaunted, for their dangerous nest To battle with the eagle's clam'rous brood.
But she, the while, from human tenderness Estranged, and gentler feelings that light up The cheek of youth with rosy joyous smile, Like a forgotten lute, played on alone By chance-caressing airs, amid the wild Beauteously pale and sadly playful grew, A lonely child, by not one human heart Beloved, and loving none: nor strange if learnt Her native fond affections to embrace Things senseless and inanimate; she loved All flowrets that with rich embroidery fair Enamel the green earth-the odorous thyme, Wild rose, and roving eglantine; nor spared
To mourn their fading forms with childish tears. Gray birch and aspen light she loved, that droop Fringing the crystal stream; the sportive breeze That wantoned with her brown and glossy locks; The sunbeam chequering the fresh bank; ere dawn Wandering, and wandering still at dewy eve, By Glenderamakin's flower empurpled marge, Derwent's blue lake, or Greta's wildering glen.
Rare sound to her was human voice, scarce heard, Save of her aged nurse or shepherd maid Soothing the child with simple tale or song. Hence all she knew of earthly hopes and fears, Life's sins and sorrows: better known the voice Beloved of lark from misty morning cloud Blithe carolling, and wild melodious notes Heard mingling in the summer wood, or plaint By moonlight, of the lone night-warbling bird. Nor they of love unconscious, all around Fearless, familiar they their descants sweet Tuned emulous; her knew all living shapes That tenant wood or rock, dun roe or deer, Sunning his dappled side, at noontide crouched, Courting her fond caress; nor fled her gaze The brooding dove, but murmured sounds of joy.
The Day of Judgment.
Even thus amid thy pride and luxury,
Oh earth! shall that last coming burst on thee, That secret coming of the Son of Man, When all the cherub-throning clouds shall shine, Irradiate with his bright advancing sign: When that Great Husbandman shall wave his fan, Sweeping, like chaff, thy wealth and pomp away; Still to the noontide of that nightless day Shalt thou thy wonted dissolute course maintain. Along the busy mart and crowded street, The buyer and the seller still shall meet, And marriage-feasts begin their jocund strain: Still to the pouring out the cup of wo;
Till earth, a drunkard, reeling to and fro, And mountains molten by his burning feet,
And heaven his presence own, all red with furnace heat.
The hundred-gated cities then,
The towers and temples, named of men Eternal, and the thrones of kings; The gilded summer palaces,
The courtly bowers of love and ease, Where still the bird of pleasure sings: Ask ye the destiny of them?
Go, gaze on fallen Jerusalem!
Yea, mightier names are in the fatal roll,
'Gainst earth and heaven God's standard is unfurled; The skies are shrivelled like a burning scroll, And one vast common doom ensepulchres the world. Oh! who shall then survive?
Oh! who shall stand and live?
When all that hath been is no more;
When for the round earth hung in air,
With all its constellations fair
In the sky's azure canopy;
When for the breathing earth, and sparkling sea, Is but a fiery deluge without shore,
Heaving along the abyss profound and dark- A fiery deluge, and without an ark?
Lord of all power, when thou art there alone On thy eternal fiery-wheeled throne, That in its high meridian noon
Needs not the perished sun nor moon:
When thou art there in thy presiding state, Wide-sceptred monarch o'er the realm of doom:
When from the sea-depths, from earth's darkest womb,
The dead of all the ages round thee wait:
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