A prince of power.

MIRA. Sir, are not you my father?

PRO. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and
She said-thou wast my daughter; and thy father
Was Duke of Milan, and thou, his only heir,
A princess; no worse issued.

MIRA. O, the heavens!

What foul play had we, that we came from thence;
Or blessed was't, we did,

PRO. Both, both, my girl:

By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved thence, But blessedly holp hither.

MIRA. O, my heart bleeds

To think o' the teen that I have turn'd you to,
Which is from my remembrance! Please you farther.
PRO. My brother and thy uncle, call'd Antonio,-

I pray thee, mark me,—that a brother should
Be so perfidious!-he whom, next thyself,
Of all the world I loved, and to him put
The manage of my state; as at that time,
Through all the signiories it was the first,
And Prospero the prime duke; being so reputed
In dignity, and for the liberal arts

Without a parallel those being all my study,
The government I cast upon my brother,

And to my state grew stranger, being transported,
And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle-
Dost thou attend me?

MIRA, Sir, most heedfully.

PRO. Being once perfected how to grant suits,

How to deny them; whom to advance, and whom

To thrash for over-topping; new created

The creatures that were mine; I say, or changed them, Or else new form'd them; having both the key

Of officer and office, set all heart i' the state

To what tune pleased his ear; that now he was

The ivy, which had hid my princely trunk

And suck'd my verdure out on't-Thou attend'st not: I pray thee, mark me.

MIRA. O, good sir, I do.

PRO. I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicate
To closeness, and the bettering of my mind
With that which, but by being so retired,

O'erprized all popular rate, in my false brother
Awakened an evil nature: and my trust,
Like a good parent, did beget of him
A falsehood, in its contrary as great

As my trust was; which had, indeed, no limit,

A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded,
Not only with what my revenue yielded,
But what my power might else exact-like one,
Who having, unto truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory,

To credit his own lie,-he did believe
He was the duke; out of the substitution,
And executing the outward face of royalty,
With all prerogative: hence his ambition
Growing-Dost hear?

MIRA. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

PRO. To have no screen between this part he play'd, And him he play'd it for, he needs will be Absolute Milan. Me, poor man! my library Was dukedom large enough. Of temporal royalties He thinks me now incapable: confederates

(So dry he was for sway) with the king of Naples,
To give him annual tribute, do him homage,
Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend

The dukedom, yet unbow'd (alas! poor Milan !)
To most ignoble stooping.

MIRA. O, the heavens!

PRO. Mark his condition, and the event; then tell me, If this might be a brother.

MIRA. I should sin

To think but nobly of my grandmother.

Good wombs have borne bad sons.

PRO. Now the condition:

This king of Naples, being an enemy

To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit;
Which was, that he, in lieu o' the premises,-

Of nomage, and I know not how much tribute,—
Should presently extirpate me and mine
Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan,
With all the honors on my brother: Whereon,
A treacherous army levied one midnight

Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open

The gates of Milan; and, i' the dead of darkness,
The ministers for the purpose hurried thence
Me, and thy crying self.

MIRA. Alack, for pity!

I, not rememb'ring how I cried out then,

Will cry it o'er again: it is a hint

That wrings mine eyes to 't.

PRO. Hear a little farther,

And then I'll bring thee to the present business.
Which now's upon us; without the which, this story
Were most impertinent.

MIRA. Wherefore did they not

That hour destroy us?

PRO. Well demanded, wench;

My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not (So dear the love my people bore me) nor set

A mark so bloody on the business; but

With colors fairer painted their foul ends.
In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,

Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared
A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg'd.
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast: the very rats
Instinctively had quit it: there they hoist us,
To cry to the sea, that roar'd to us; to sigh
To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again,
Did us but loving wrong.

MIRA. Alack! what trouble

Was I then to you!

PRO. Oh! a cherubim

Thou wast, that did preserve me! Thou didst smile,
Infused with a fortitude from heaven,

When I have deck'd the sea with drops full salt;
Under my burden groan'd; which raised in me
An undergoing stomach, to bear up

Against what should ensue.

MIRA. HOW came we ashore?

PRO. By Providence divine.

Some food we had, and some fresh water, that
A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,

Out of his charity, (who being then appointed
Master of this design), did give us; with

Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries,


Which since have steaded much; so, of his gentleness,
Knowing I loved my books, he furnish'd me,
From my own library, with volumes that

I prized above my dukedom.

MIRA. Would I might

But ever see that man!

PRO. Now I arise :

Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.
Here in this island we arrived; and here
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit
Than other princesses can that have more time
For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful.

MIRA. Heavens thank you for't; And now, I pray you, sir,

(For still 'tis beating in my mind,) your reason

For raising this sea-storm?

PRO. Know thus far forth.

By accident most strange, bountiful fortune,
Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore: and by my prescience
I find my zenith doth depend upon

A most auspicious star; whose influence
If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes

Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions,
Thou art inclined to sleep, 'tis a good dulness,
And give it way; I know thou can'st not choose.



[The following poem, by one of the best of our Lyrists, is full of feeling and energy. It is supposed to allude to the fatal encounter in which one of Maine's most gifted sons fell a victim to that worst relic of barbarism, ironically termed the code of honor.]

THE mother sat beside her fire,

Well trimmed it was, and bright,

While loudly moaned the forest-pines,

Amid that wintry night.

She heard them not, those wind-swept pines,

For o'er a scroll she hung,

That bore her husband's voice of love,

As when that love was young.

And thrice her son, beside her knee,
Besought her favoring eye,

And thrice her lisping daughter spoke,
Before she made reply.

"O, little daughter, many a kiss
Lies in this treasured line,
And boy, a father's counsels fond,

And blessed prayers are thine.

"Thou hast his high and arching brow,
Thou hast his eye of flame,

And be the purpose of thy soul,

Thy sun-bright course the same."

Then as she drew them to her arms,
Down her fair cheek would glide
A tear, that shone like diamond spark,
A tear of love and pride.

She took the baby from its rest,
And laid it on her knee,

"Thou ne'er hast seen thy sire," she said,
But he'll be proud of thee;

"Yes, he'll be proud of thee, my dove,
The lily of our line,

I know what eye of blue he loves,
And such an eye is thine."

"Where is my father gone, mamma?
Why does he stay so long?"
"He's far away in Congress-hall,
Amid the noble throng.

"He's in the lofty Congress-hall,
To swell the high debate,

And help to frame those righteous laws,
That make our land so great.

"But ere the earliest violets bloom,

You in his arms shall be,

So, go to rest, my children dear,

And pray for him and me."

The snow-flakes reared their drifted mound,
To bury Nature deep,

But naught, amid that peaceful home,
Disturbed the dews of sleep:

For lightly as an angel's dream,
The trance of slumber fell,
Where innocence, and holy love,
Maintained their guardian spell.

Another eve,—another scroll!
Wist ye, what words it said?
Two words,-two awful words it bore,
The duel! and the dead!

The duel? and the dead? How dark
Was that young mother's eye,
How fearful was her lengthened swoon,
How wild her frantic cry!

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