Oct. Thou hast shot lightning through me!
The sound was thrilling music! Oh, Floranthe !
I thought not even the magic of thy name
Could make a heart, so long benumbed with misery,
Leap as 'twould burst its prison! Do not mock me:
If thou dost juggle now, I ll tear thee-Hold!
Ay, I remember thee; and, as I peruse thee,
Past times rush in upon me with thy face;
And many a thought of happiness gone by
Does flash across my brain. Let me not wander:
Give me thy hand, Roque. I do know thy errand;
And 'tis of import, when thou journey'st thus
The trackless desert, to seek sorrow out.
Thou com’st to tell me my Floranthe's dead:
But we will meet again, sweet! I will back
With thee, old Honesty, and lay me down,
Heart-broke at last, beside her shrouded corse,
Kiss her cold cheek, then fy to her in Heaven !

Roque. [ Aside. An' this hold, I shall blubber outright,
like a female baby. I must muster my own resolution, that
I may rally his. [Aloud. Why, how now, siguior :- Shame
on this weakness !— Were all to bend like you, when they
meet disappointment, I know not who in this jostling life
would walk upright. Pluck up your manly spirits, sig-
aior : : your Floranthe lives ay, and is true to you!
Now, by Saint Dominick, I bring tidings that will glad
you !
Oct. I
pray you, do not sport with

me,
old

man,
Jeer not the wretched. I have worn away
Twelve weary months in anguish : I have sat,
Darkling, by day in caverns; and, at night,
Have fixed my eyes so long upon

the

moon, That I do fear my senses are in part Swayed by her influence. I'm past jesting with.

Roque. I never, signior, was much given to jesı ing; and he who sports with the misfortunes of another, though he may bring his head into repute for fancy, does his heart little credit for feeling. Rest you quiet, signior : here is one waiting without, that I have brought along with me, who will comfort you. Nay, I pray you, now, be patient. Aside. If this be the work of bringing lovers together, Heaven give him joy who makes a trade on't !—for, in fif

ty years that Time has clapped his saddle on my back, he never so sorely galled my old withers as now! [Exit, L.

Oct. Habit does much. I do begin to think, Since grief has been so close an inmate with me, That I have strained her nearer to my bosom Than I had pressed her, had the chequered scene, Which rouses man who mixes with his kind, Kept me from dotage on her. Our affections Must have a rest! and sorrow, when secluded, Grows strong in weakness.--" Pen the body up “ In solitary durance, and, in time, “ The human soul will idly fix its fancy “ E'en on some peg stuck in the prison's wall, “And sigh to quit it.” Re-enter Roque, L., conducting FLORANTHE—he points out

Octavian, and withdraws, L.
Sure I am not mad !
Floranthe's lost; and, since my stubborn frame
Will stand the tug, I'll to the heated world,
Fit mingler in the throng miscalled society.

[A pause—he gazes on Floranthe for some time.
What art thou ?-Speak!- That face-yet this attire !
Floranthe ?-No, it cannot-Oh, good Heaven!
Vex not a poor creature thus !-Floranthe !
How my sight thickens !-Speak!

Flor, Octavian !
Oct. That voice !-It is- 3–so long, too!-Let me clasp

thee!

(Runs to meet her, staggers, and falls on his face. Flor. Ob! I did fear this. My Octavian ! To see thee thus! [Calling off) Why, Roque !-Alas!

Octavian !
Revive, or thou wilt kill me !_'Tis Floranthe,-
Thy own Floranthe !

Re-enter Roque, L.--He assists Octavian to rise.
Oct. (Recovering.) It has chanced before
That I have dreamed this; and, when I awoke,
Big drops did stand upon my clay-cold front,
As they do now, the vision did so shake me.
'Tis there again !—Brain! brain !- Why, ay, that hand,-

E

the night

Pray, let me kiss it. Oh, 'tis she ! 'tis real!
For my strong pulse is still so sensible
To every touch of thine, that the sweet contact
Strikes certain to it; and now it throbs intelligence.
How comes this ?-Are you here to scoff me, lady ?
Alas, Floranthe! I am sadly changed
Since last we parted!

Flor. Scoff thee, Octavian !-Ah! thou little know'st
How often I have wept away
With thinking on thy fortunes ; but, alas!
I ne'er thought this ! Oh! what hast thou endured!
Wand'ring, exposed, unsheltered!

Oct. Pish! that's nothing, -I heeded not the storm. Why, I remember, When last the forkéd lightning struck me down, I lay upon the rock, and smiled to see The feeble malice of the elements. 'Tis here—[Pointing to his breast.l--here, only, I am v.'.

nerable. 1 have been galled too deep within, Floranthe, To think

upon

the

petty sufferance
Felt by a holiday and silken fool,
When the rough tempest beats against his body.

Flor. Pray you, be comforted:
I will pour balm into thy bleeding wounds,
And heal them

up

forever. Oct. Get thee back ! He who would snatch thee from me, though he fell,Fell by this arm, met not his death by me. I had not fled three days ere I did learn it. And, sure, thy father, whose delight it is To torture faithful love, has given thee to him. The thought does mad me!-Get thee to thy husband !

[Crosses, R. Flor. Then let me greet him here !-For here, Octa

vian,
In firm and maiden holiness I swear,
If thou dost never lead me to the altar,
My life shall waste in cloistered solitude ;
And when the passing bell proclaims me dead,
Our convents votaries will chant their dirge,
To grace a virgin sister's funeral.

Oct. How's this ? What! has thy father, then--Impos

sible ! Does he relent?

Flor. Alas! he is no more!
I needs must grieve, for still he was my

father.
And he who stood between thy love and thee,
Is wedded to another.
Oct. Art thou mine, then ?

[Bursts into hysterical laughter. Faith, I am very weak : pray pardon me. 'Tis somewhat sudden, this : I am unused To

any touch of joy, and it o'ercomes me. I shall weep soon, and then I shall be better.

Flor. Nay, calm thy spirits-prythee, now!

Oct. Well, well!
Look on me, sweet-my own beloved Floranthe !
Oh! many a time, in anguish, have I brought
That angel form before my fancy's eye,
Till my hot brain has driven me through the wild,
Daring by night the precipice's edge,
To clasp thy airy phantom. This repays me!
Oh! plunge me deep in Ætna's smoky gulf,
And I could wallow calmly in her fires,
Like lazy shepherds basking in the suti,
To hold thee ihus at last !

Flor. Restrain this passion :
These starts do wear thee sadly. We will leave this

gloom.
Oct. Let us on.
As I do cool, I shudder at myself;
And look with horror back

upon

this waste, Where, cheerless, I have strayed, shut out from man, A solitary wild inhabitant. Have with thee, sweet ! I know each turn and thicket. Alreally have I felt what 'tis to lose thee : They take my life who tear thee from me now; For death alone shall part us.

Come, Floranthe!

[Exeunt, 1..
SCENE IV.--The Sierra de Ronda.
Enter VIROLET, ZORAYDA, and KilMALLOCK, R.
Viro. I tell thee, thou dost lead us wrong,

Kilmallock :

See here—we measure back the self-same steps
That we have trod before.

Kilm. Faith, Count, then this falls out according to my old luck. How hard it is upon industrious travellers, who follow their noses on a journey, to find out they have been only walking backwards after all! If the world do go round, as they say, certain it has taken a twist extraordinary in the night ; else the two sides of the mountain could never have fairly changed places.

Viro. (To Zorayda.) I prythee, be of comfort.

Zoray. I will strive
To keep my heart from sinking; yet these perils
Might shake a firmer spirit. As I slept,
I dreamt my father came to me in wrath,
And held a dagger o'er me.

Kilm. I seldom knew a woman to go to sleep, that she did not dream upon mischief. “Of a truth, though, when

a grim fellow flourishes his dagger before the closed "eyes of a lady, it must make her lie a little uneasy.”— Well, 'tis no wonder we have, at last, lost our road; for the devil of anything like one is there in this whole abominable Sierra de Ronda.

Viro. Yon rock, which rises in a rugged spire,
O’ertopping his bleak fellows, does appear
The mountain's utmost summit. Could we climb it,
Perchance we might descry some distant town,
To serve us as a beacon on our way.

Kilm. By my soul, now, you have hit on't! What an advantage it is to a head to be gifted with brains! I had pondered all day ere I had stumbled on such an expedient, which carries with it only one small objection.

Viro. What is't, Kilmallock ?

Kilm. 'Tis so steep and perpendicular, that old Satan himself could never get up.

Viro. Tut, man ! I warrant-we'll assist each other.

Kilm. Faith, and that's true again; but I defy any human creature living to master it alone, but a cat or a monkey. Viro. Sure, naught can harm her bere. Sweet, iest

awhile: Straight we will both return, and bring, I trust, The clue to wind thee, ere the sun has set,