That gave my spirit strength to sweep

Adown the gult of Time !
I saw the last of human mold
That shall Creation's death behold,

As Adam saw her prime !

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,

The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight,—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands,-

In plague and famine some !
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead

To shores where all was dumb !

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,

With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood

As if a storm passed by,
Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun!
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

"Tis mercy bids thee go:
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears

That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth
| His pomp, his pride, his skill ;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,

The vassals of his will ?
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day ;

For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang

Entailed on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall

Life's tragedy again:
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe,
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,

Like grass beneath the scythe.

Even I am weary in yon skies

To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sunless agonies,

Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of deathTheir rounded gasp and gurgling breath

To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, The majesty of Darkness shall

Receive my parting ghost !

This spirit shall return to Him

Who gave its heavenly spark ;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim

When thou thyself art dark !
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,

By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robbed the grave of Victory,

And took the sting from Death!

Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up,

On Nature's awful waste,
To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste-
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race

On Earth's sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his Immortality,
Or shake his trust in God!


From SHAKSPEARE's tragedy of KING JOHN.


HUBERT, a Rough Soldier.

(King John was at once the most tyrannical and the most pusillani. mous monarch that ever disgraced the throue of England, which he had usurped: most of the authorities claiming that the throne of right belonged to young Prince Arthur, the son of Constance of Bretagne. The father being Geoffrey, the third son of Henry II. Dreading the tumult that might arise if he put the young and much loved Prince to death, John determined to have his sight destroyed, and thus vir. tually rid himself of a much feared competitor. Our extract opens with the entrance of the tools selected to carry out the cowardly King's design.

Prince Arthur should be represented by a lad of twelve or fourteen or a young lady might well take and person ato the character; as the soft, pleading tones and beseeching expression would be very suitable for a female.

Hubert should be represented much as possible, as a rough, robust, stern-looking soldier; and should speak in a bluff, off-handed manner. The contrast between the two characters make this scene highly effective.

CUSTUMES.-A very proper dress for Arthur might be made of black velvetoen-a close-fitting shape, i. e. with black tights, and shoes. Hubert and the attendants should wear dresses of dark brown cheap serge or flannel in same fashion.

Any skillful girl could make dresses in a few hours.)


A room supposed to be in the castle, enter HUBERT and two


HUBERT. Heat me these irons hot; and, look thou stand Within the arras; when I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, And bind the boy which you shall find with me, Fast to the chair : be heedful. Hence, and watch. 1ST ATTENDANT. I hope your warrant will bear out the

deed. Hu. Uncleanly scruples : fear not you ; look to't,


Young lad, come forth ; I have to say with thee



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AR. Good morrow,

HU. Good morrow, little prince.

AR. As little prince (having so great a title
To be more prince) as may be.—You are sad.

Hu. Indeed, I have been merrier.
AR. Mercy on me!
Methinks nobody should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my Christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be as merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practices more harm to me:
He is atraid of me, and I of him.
Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey's son?
No, indeed, is't not; and I would to heaven,
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.

HU. (aside). If I talk to him, with his innocent prato
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead :
Therefore I will be sudden, and dispatch.

AR. Are you sick, Hubert ? you look pale to-day.
In sooth, I would you were a little sick,
That I might sit all night, and watch with you:
I warrant I love you more than you do me.

Hu. (aside). His words do take possession of my bosom. Read here, young Arthur. (showing a paper).

(aside.) How now, foolish rheum!
Turning despiteous torture out of door?
I must be brief, lest resolution drop
Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.-
Can you not read it ? is it not fair writ?

AR. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ?

HU. Young boy, I must.
AR. And will you ?
HU. And I will.
AR. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me),
And I did never ask it you again :
And with my hand at midnight held your head,
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheered up the heavy time,

Saying, what lack you ? and, where lies your grief?

Or, what good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning: do, an if you will.
If heaven be pleased that you will use me ill,
Why, then you must.-Will you put out mine eyes ?
These eyes that never did nor never shall
So much as frown on you?

Hu. I have sworn to do it,
And with hot irons must I burn them out.

AR. Ah! none but in this iron age would do it.
The iron of itself, though heat red hot,
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,
And quench his fiery indignation,
Even in the matter of mine innocence:
Nay, after that, consume away in rust,
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron ?
An if an angel should have come to me,
And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,
I would not have believed him; no tongue but Hubert's.
HU. Come forth. (stamps.)

Re-enter ATTENDANTS, with cord, irons, &c. Do as I bid you do.

AR. O! save me Hubert, save me! my eyes are out, Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

Hu. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

AR. Alas! what need you be so boisterous-rough ?
I will not struggle; I will stand stone-still.
For heaven's sake, let me not be bound,
Nay, hear me, Hubert: drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angerly.
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.

Hu. Go, stand within ; let me alone with him.
FIRST ATTENDANT. I am best pleased to be from such a

[Exeunt ATTENDANTS. AR. Alas! I then have chid away my friend; He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart, Let him come back, that his compassion may Give life to yours.

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