Page images
PDF
EPUB

hour was first practised in Germany; and in this he is partly borne out by Montaigne, who, in his travels through that country in 1580, observes that he thought the calling out the hours in their cities a strange custom. The watchman's rattle is unquestionably of German origin. The night-watch in Holland is called the ratel-waght.

(To be continued.)

EXTRACTS FROM THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE BY JOHN WILSON, AUTHOR OF THE ISLE OF PALMS.

The scene opens with the conversation of Frankfort and Wilmot, two young naval officers, on the banks of the Thames, a few miles below the city. They had heard of the pestilence on their making the coast some days before ;-and one of them is pressing on with overwhelming fears and forebodings, to satisfy himself as to the fate of a beloved mother and brother, whom he had left in the devoted city at his last sailing, and not heard of since ;-the other belongs to a different part of the kingdom, and accompanies his friend from mere love and affection. The lonely and desolate appearances of the once gay and populous region through which they are advancing, oppress the despairing son with new terrors, while his friend endeavours to comfort him, by reminding him that it is then the sabbath evening. answers,

O unrejoicing Sabbath! not of yore

Did thy sweet evenings die along the Thames
Thus silently! Now every sail is furl'd,
The oar hath dropt from out the rower's hand,
And on thou flow'st in lifeless majesty,
River of a desert lately filled with joy!
O'er all that mighty wilderness of stone
The air is clear and cloudless as at sea
Above the gliding ship. All fires are dead,
And not one single wreath of smoke ascends
Above the stillness of the towers and spires.
How idly hangs that arch magnificent
Across the idle river! Not a speck
Is seen to move along it. There it hangs,
Still as a rainbow in the pathless sky.'

He

In the same spirit of fanciful foreboding, he views all the objects that successively present themselves; and at last observes

Here, on this very spot where now we rest,
Upon the morning I last sail'd from England,
My mother put her arms around my neck,
And in a solemn voice, unchoak'd by tears,
Said, "Son! a last farewell!" That solemn voice,
Amid the ocean's roaring solitude,

Oft past across my soul, and I have heard it
Steal in sad music from the sunny calm.

Upon our homeward voyage, when we spake

The ship that told us of the Plague, I knew

That the trumpet's voice would send into our souls
Some dismal tidings; for I saw her sails
Black in the distance, flinging off with scorn

A shower of radiance from the blessed sun.'

While they are pausing in these melancholy contempla tions, they are accosted by an old man flying from the city with a little infant, the sole survivor of a late happy family, • Know ye what you will meet with in the city? Together will ye walk, through long, long streets, All standing silent as a midnight church.

You will hear nothing but the brown red grass
Rustling beneath your feet; the very beating
Of your own hearts will awe you; the small voice
Of that vain bauble, idly counting time,

Will speak a solemn language in the desert.
Look up to heaven, and there the sultry clouds,
Still threatening thunder, lower with grim delight,
As if the Spirit of the plague dwelt there,
Darkening the city with the shadows of death."

The Second Act shows us Frankfort at the door of his mother's house, looking in agony upon its black windows, now gleaming in the silent moon; afra 1 to enter, and watching for the least sign of life or motion in that beloved dwelling. A pious priest at last comes and tells him, that his mother and little brother had both died that very morning. After some bursts of eloquent sorrow, the poor youth enquires how they died; and the priest answers

Last night I sat with her,

And talk'd of thee;-two tranquil hours we talk'd
Of thee and none beside, while little William

Sat in his sweet and timid silent way

Upon his stool beside his mother's knees,

And, sometimes looking upwards to her face,
Seem'd listening of his brother far at sea.
This morning early I look'd in upon them
Almost by chance. There little William lay
With his bright hair and rosy countenance
Dead! though at first I thought he only slept.

"You think," his mother said, "that William sleeps!
"But he is dead! He sicken'd during the night,
And while I pray'd he drew a long deep sigh,

"And breath'd no more!"

-I found that she had laid upon her bed

Many of those little presents that you brought her
first
your voyage to the Indies.

Shells

From
With a sad lustre brighten'd o'er the whiteness

Of these her funeral sheets; and gorgeous feathers,
With which, few hours before, her child was playing,
And lisping all the while his brother's name,

Form'd a sad contrast with the pale, pale face

Lying so still beneath its auburn hair.

The Last Act, for there are but three, opens with a quiet conversation between Frankfort's friend and the reverend Priest, in which the latter describes some of the most remarkable effects of the first appearance of the plague.

As thunder quails

Th' inferior creatures of the air and earth,
So bowed the Plague at once all human souls,
And the brave man beside the natural coward
Walk'd trembling. On the restless multitude
Thoughtlessly toiling through a busy life,
Nor hearing in the tumult of their souls
The ordinary language of decay,

A voice came down that made itself be heard,
As Death's benumbing fingers suddenly

Swept off whole crowded streets into the grave.
Then rose a direful struggle with the Pest!

And all the ordinary forms of life

Moy'd onwards with the violence of despair.
Wide flew the crowded gates of theatres,
And a pale frightful audience, with their souls.
Looking in perturbation through the glare
Of a convulsive laughter, sat and shouted
At obscene ribaldry, and mirth profane.
There yet was heard parading through the streets
War-music, and the soldier's tossing plumes
Mov'd with their wanted pride. O idle show
Of these poor worthless instruments of death,
Themselves devoted! Childish mockery!

At which the Plague did scoff, who in one night The trumpet silenc'd and the plumes laid low.' And a little after

'Silent as nature's solitary glens

Slept the long streets-and mighty London seem'd,
With all its temples, domes, and palaces,
Like some sublime assemblage of tall ciiffs
That bring down the deep stillness of the heavens
To shroud them in the desert. Groves of masts
Rose through the brightness of the sun-smote river,
But all their flags were struck, and every sail
Was lower'd. Many a distant land had felt
The sudden stoppage of that mighty heart.
And as I look'd
Down on the courts and markets, where the soul
Of this world's business once roar'dlike the sea,
That sound within my memory strove in vain.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

TO THE THREE MISSES DENNETT,

Again, again, sweet Maids! again,

Ah! come and fascinate my sight!
Worthy to dance in Dian's train,

With your clustering hair and vestments white
And eyes all languishingly bright!
Again may I see that fairy bound-
That step that never prints the ground,
Noiseless, firm, and full of grace,
Like Children of the Cygnet race,
(The fairest, lovliest birds, that lave
Their bosoms in the salt-sea wave)
As floating thus ye seem to move,
Yet fashion'd all t' th' mould of Love,
And breathing what might well express
None of its hopes, its fears, its sting-
None of its wild imaginings—
But all its tenderness!

The First comes-like a Dryad maid
Slow stealing from ber haunted shade,
As if some Satyr dared profane
The spot where she was wont to reign,

The Second, with that Helen look
Which Menelaus' beauty wore

[ocr errors]

When she her husband's home forsook,
To wander on the Asian shore.

The Third-how like an evening star '
That sheds its tremulous light afar;
Her dark eye glances brightly by
In nameless witchery!

'Round and around they swim,
Bending with undulating motion,
Like foam upon the heaving ocean
Now, as upon the winds they skim,
Like "creatures of the element".

In movement graceful as the fawn,
And fresh and fair as the summer dawn.
But now her look is upwards bent,
And gone is all its merriment;

She who late own'd that Helen glance,
Which lent a spirit to the dance
Away! that wild and wandering eye,
Speaks love in love's extremity!

Sweet girls, adieu!-and yet again
And oft, I'll view your fairy train;
For never, since the Graces flew
And left mere women here on earth,
Have I seen aught of mortal birth
That may compare with you.

October, 1816.

PIERRE

* "Like foam upon the highest wave."—Lord Byron.

ZELINDA'S PLAINT SUNG BY MISS STEPHENS IN "THE SLAVE.”

Sons of Freedom, hear my story
Mercy well becomes the brave;
Humanity is Britains glory,

Pity and protect the Slave.

Free born daughters, who possessing
Eyes that conquer, hearts that save

Greet me with a sister's blessing,
Oh! pity and protect the Slave.

G. Stobbs, Printer, Catherine Street, Strand.

« PreviousContinue »