And rosy Peace, the cherub bless'd, That nightly sings us all to rest.

Hence, from the bud of Nature's prime,
From the first step of infant time,
Woman, the world's appointed light,
Has skirted ev'ry shade with white;
Has stood for imitation high,

To ev'ry heart and ev'ry eye;
From ancient deeds of fair renown,

Has brought her bright memorials down;
To time affix'd perpetual youth,
And form'd each tale of love and truth.
Upon a new Promethean plan,
She moulds the essence of a man,
Tempers his mass, his genius fires,
And, as a better soul, inspires.

"The rude she softens, warms the cold,
Exalts the meek, and checks the bold;
Calls Sloth from his supine repose;
Within the coward's bosom glows;
Of Pride unplumes the lofty crest;
Bids bashful Merit stand confess'd;
And, like coarse metal from the mines,
Collects, irradiates, and refines.

"The gentle science she imparts,

All manners smooths, informs all hearts:
From her sweet influence are felt

Passions that please, and thoughts that melt;
To stormy rage she bids control,
And sinks serenely on the soul;
Softens Deucalion's flinty race,
And tunes the warring world to peace.

"Thus, arm'd to all that's light and vain,
And freed from thy fantastic chain,
She fills the sphere, by Heav'n assign'd,
And, rul'd by me, o'errules mankind."

He spoke. The nymph impatient stood;
And laughing, thus her speech renew'd.
"And pray, sir, may I be so bold
To hope your pretty tale is told;
And next demand, without a cavil,
What new Utopia do you travel?—
Upon my word, these high flown fancies
Show depth of learning-in romances.

"Why, what onfashion'd stuff you tell us,
Of buckram dames, and tiptoe fellows!
Go, child; and when you 're grown maturer,
You'll shoot your next opinion surer.

"O such a pretty knack at painting!
And all for softening, and for sainting!
Guess now, who can, a single feature,
Through the whole piece of female nature!
Then mark! my looser hand may fit
The lines, too coarse for Love to hit.

"T is said that woman, prone to changing,
Through all the rounds of folly ranging,
On life's uncertain ocean riding,
No reason, rule, nor rudder guiding,
Is like the comet's wand'ring light,
Eccentric, ominous, and bright;
Trackless, and shifting, as the wind;
A sea, whose fathom none can find
A moon, still changing, and revolving;
A riddle, past all human solving;
A bliss, a plague, a Heav'n, a Hell,
A-something, that no man can tell.

;

"Now learn a secret from a friend;

But keep your counsel, and attend.

"Though in their tempers thought so distant, Nor with their sex, nor selves consistent,

"T is but the diffrence of a name,
And ev'ry woman is the same.
For as the world, however vary'd,
And through unnumber'd changes carry'd,
Of elemental modes, and forms,

Clouds, meteors, colours, calms, and storms,
Though in a thousand suits array'd,
Is of one subject matter made;
So, sir, a woman's constitution,
The world's enigma, finds solution;
And let her form be what you will,
I am the subject essence still.

"With the first spark of female sense,
The speck of being, I commence;
Within the womb make fresh advances,
And dictate future qualms and fancies;
Thence in the growing form expand,
With childhood travel hand in hand,
And give a taste to all their joys,
In gewgaws, rattles, pomp, and noise.
"And now, familiar, and unaw'd,

I send the flutt'ring soul abroad.
Prais'd for her shape, her face, her mien,
The little goddess, and the queen,
Takes at her infant shrine oblation,
And drinks sweet draughts of adulation.
"Now blooming, tall, erect, and fair,
To dress becomes her darling care:
The realms of beauty then I bound;
I swell the hoop's enchanted round,
Shrink in the waist's descending size,
Heav'd in the snowy bosom rise,
High on the floating lappet sail,
Or curl'd in tresses kiss the gale.
Then to her glass I lead the fair,
And show the lovely idol there;
Where, struck as by divine emotion,
She bows with most sincere devotion;
And, numb'ring ev'ry beauty o'er,
In secret bids the world adore.

"Then all for parking, and parading,

Coquetting, dancing, masquerading;

For balls, plays, courts, and crowds, what passion!

And churches, sometimes-if the fashion:

For woman's sense of right, and wrong,

Is rul'd by the almighty throng;

Still turns to each meander tame,
And swims the straw of ev'ry stream.
Her soul intrinsic worth rejects,
Accomplish'd only in defects;
Such excellence is her ambition;
Folly, her wisest acquisition;
And ev'n from pity and disdain,
She 'Il cull some reason to be vain.

"Thus, sir, from ev'ry form and feature, The wealth and wants of female nature, And ev'n from vice, which you 'd admire, I gather fewel to my fire; And, on the very base of shame,

Erect my monument of fame.

"Let me another truth attempt,

Of which your godship has not dreamt.
"Those shining virtues, which you muster,
Whence, think you, they derive their lustre?
From native honour, and devotion?—

O yes, a mighty likely notion!

Trust me, from titl'd dames to spinners,

"T is I make saints, whoe'er makes sinners;

"T is I instruct them to withdraw,

And hold presumptuous man in awe;

For female worth, as I inspire,
In just degrees still mounts the higher,
And virtue so extremely uice,
Demands long toil, and mighty price:
Like Sampson's pillars, fix'd elate,
I bear the sex's tott'ring state;
Sap these, and in a moment's space
Down sinks the fabric to its base.
"Alike from titles, and from toys,
I spring, the fount of female joys;
In ev'ry widow, wife, and miss,
The sole artificer of bliss.
For them each tropic I explore;
I cleave the sand of ev'ry shore;
To them uniting Indias sail,
Sabaa breathes her furthest gale:
For them the bullion I refine,

Dig sense and virtue from the mine;
And from the bowels of invention
Spin out the various arts you mention.

"Nor bliss alone my pow'rs bestow, They hold the sov'reign balm of woe: Beyond the stoic's boasted art,

I soothe the heavings of the heart;
To pain give splendour and relief,
And gild the pallid face of grief.

"Alike the palace, and the plain,
Admit the glories of my reign:
Through ev'ry age, in ev'ry nation,
Taste, talents, tempers, state, and station,
Whate'er a woman says, I say;
Whate'er a woman spends, I pay :
Alike, I fill and empty bags,
Flutter in finery and rags,

With light coquets through folly range,
And with the prude disdain to change.

"And now you 'd think, 'twixt you and I,
That things were ripe for a reply-
But soft; and, while I'm in the mood,
Kindly permit me to conclude,
Their utmost mazes to unravel,
And touch the furthest step they travel.
"When ev'ry pleasure's run aground,
And folly tir'd through many a round,
The nymph, conceiving discontent hence,
May ripen to an hour's repentance,
And vapours, shed in pious moisture,
Dismiss her to a church or cloister:
Then on I lead her, with devotion
Conspicuous in her dress and motion;
Inspire the heav'nly-breathing air,
Roll up the lucid eye in pray'r,
Soften the voice, and in the face
Look melting harmony and grace.
"Thus far extends my friendly pow'r,
Nor quits her in her latest hour:
The couch of decent pain I spread,
In form incline her languid head,
Her thoughts I methodise in death,
And part not, with her parting breath:
Then do I set, in order bright,
A length of funeral pomp to sight,
The glitt'ring tapers and attire,
The plumes that whiten o'er her bier ;
And last, presenting to her eye
Angelic fineries on high,

To scenes of painted bliss I waft her,
And form the Heav'n she hopes hereafter."
"In truth," rejoin'd love's gentle god,
"You have gone a tedious length of road:
VOL. XVII.

And strange, in all the toilsome way,

No house of kind refreshment lay;
No nymph, whose virtues might have tempted,
To hold her from her sex exempted."

"For one, we 'll never quarrel, man;
Take her; and keep her-if you can:
And, pleas'd, I yield to your petition,
Since ev'ry fair, by such permission,
Will hold herself the one selected;
And so my system stands protected."
"O, deaf to virtue, deaf to glory,
To truths divinely vouch'd in story!"
The godhead in his zeal return'd,
And, kindling, at her malice burn'd:
Then sweetly rais'd his voice, and told
Of heav'nly nymphs, rever'd of old-
Hypsipyle, who sav'd her sire;
And Portia's love, approv'd by fire;
Alike Penelope was quoted,

Nor laurel'd Daphne pass'd unnoted;
Nor Laodamia's fatal garter,

Nor fam'd Lucretia, honour's martyr;
Alceste's voluntary steel,

And Catherine smiling on the wheel!
But who can hope to plant conviction,
Where cavil grows on contradiction?
Some she evades, or disavows;
Demurs to all, and none allows-
"A kind of ancient things, call'd Fables!"
And thus the goddess turn'd the tables.
Now both in argument grew high,
And choler flash'd from either eye;
Nor wonder each refus'd to yield
The conquest of so fair a field.
When happily arriv'd in view

A goddess, whom our grandames knew;
Of aspect grave, and sober gait,
Majestic, awful, and sedate;

As Heav'n's autumnal eve serene,
When not a cloud o'ercasts the scene;
Once Prudence call'd, a matron fam'd,
And in old Rome Cornelia nam'd.
Quick at a venture, both agree
To leave their strife to her decree.

And now by each the facts were stated, In form and manner as related. The case was short. They crav'd opinion, "Which held o'er females chief dominion?' When thus the goddess, answering mild, First shook her gracious head, and smil'd: "Alas, how willing to comply,

Yet how unfit a judge am I!
In times of golden date, 't is true,
I shar'd the fickle sex with you;
But from their presence long precluded,
Or held as one whose form intruded,
Full fifty annual suns can tell,
Prudence has bid the sex farewell."

In this dilemma what to do,
Or who to think of, neither knew;
For both, still biass'd in opinion,
And arrogant of sole dominion,

Were forc'd to hold the case compounded,
Or leave the quarrel where they found it.
When in the nick, a rural fair,

Of inexperienc'd gait and air,
Who ne'er had cross'd the neighb'ring lake,
Nor seen the world beyond a wake,
With cambric coif, and kerchief clean,
Tript lightly by them o'er the green.

Fe

Go, put those boasted powers to proof;
And if your prevalence of art
Transcends my yet unerring dart,
I give the fav'rite contest o'er,
And ne'er will boast my empire more."
At once, so said, and so consented,
And well our goddess seem'd contented;
Nor, pausing, made a moment's stand,
But tript, and took the girl in hand.

Meanwhile the godhead, unalarm'd,
As one to each occasion arm'd,
Forth from his quiver cull'd a dart,
That erst had wounded many a heart;
Then bending, drew it to the head-
The bow-string twang'd, the arrow fled;
And, to her secret soul address'd,
Transfix'd the whiteness of her breast.

But here the dame, whose guardian care
Had to a moment watch'd the fair,
At once her pocket mirror drew,
And held the wonder full in view;
As quickly, rang'd in order bright,
A thousand beauties rush to sight,
A world of charms till now unknown,
A world reveal'd to her alone!
Enraptur'd stands the love-sick maid,
Suspended o'er the darling shade;
Here only fixes to admire,
And centres ev'ry fond desire.

CONRADE:

A FRAGMENT.

THE SONG OF THE FILEA OF ANCIENT DAYS, PHELIN THE GRAY-HAIRED SON OF THE SON OF KINFADDA.

WHAT do I love-what is it that mine eyes
Turn round in search of-that my soul longs after,
But cannot quench her thirst?-'T is beauty, Phe-
lin!

I see it wide beneath the arch of Heaven,
When the stars peep upon their evening hour,
And the Moon rises on the eastern wave,
Hous'd in a cloud of gold!—I see it wide
In Earth's autumnal teints of various landscape,
When the first ray of morning tips the trees,
And fires the distant rock!-I hear its voice,
When thy hand sends the sound along the gale,
Swept from the silver strings; or, on mine ear
Drops the sweet sadness!-At my heart I feel
Its potent grasp, I melt beneath the touch,
When the tale pours upon my sense humane
The woes of other times!-What art thou, Beauty?
Thou art not colour, fancy, sound, nor form—
These but the conduits are, whence the soul quaffs
The liquor of its Heaven.-Whate'er thou art,
Nature, or Nature's spirit, thou art all

I long for!-0, descend upon my thoughts!
To thine own music tune, thou power of grace,
The cordage of my heart! fill every shape
That rises to my dream, or wakes to vision;

And touch the threads of every mental nerve
With all thy sacred feelings!

The Sun now hasten'd down bis western Heaven,
And saw his beams reflected from the spires
Of fair Emania. High, within the hall,
With all his heroes, names of wide renown,
With all his sages, heads grown white in council,
With all his bards, the sires of song, around him-
Conrade the mighty, sat!

Before

Wide o'er the festal board, in many a bowl, The various liquor flow'd. In various cups, Metal, or wrought from veiny adamant, Or of the treasures of the pearly deep, The social pledge of health went round. The king of chiefs, the hoar and reverend brow Of wisdom was unbent, and ev'ry heart Caught gladness from his aspect. Near the seat Of lifted majesty, stood the young bloom Of Erin's hope, Slemfannon, as a sapling Sprouting aloft beneath the parent oak, That overlooks the forest. Now, and oft, He turn'd his face of filial sweetness upward, To catch the glance of the paternal eye, That dropp'd indulgence and delight upon him : Now, with both hands, fast by the sinewy wrist He grasp'd the first of heroes-" O," he cried, "Will ever, ever, your Slemfannon wield The crashing mace, or bend the bow of steel, With such an arm as this?"-He spoke, and rear'd The pond'rous hand on high! The shout of joy Pour'd round the table!-for in that right hand Lay Erin's glory, and the sure resource Of nations from the wasters of the world!

[rade,

Soft smiling, gently bending from his seat
The monarch answer'd-"Yes, thou pride of Con-
In whom he fondly joys to live renew'd,
Fresh born, a dearer growth of young existence-
Thou art the vessel that shall pour his fame
On future times! The day is yet to come,
When nations, to exalt the name of Conrade,
Shall say, he was the father of Slemfannon! [ous;
"Thine arm is young, my son, but not inglori-
The Romans, from the Rhodane to the Po,
Have felt it through their steel! The ear of heroes
Lists not to its own praise-yet know, thy name
Is in the song of bards; and Phelin oft
To me gives up the music of thy deeds,
And tunes my soul to joy. But, mark, Slemfannon!
Th' arm of power is ever worthiest seen
In preservation-he who saves, is next
To him who gives existence. O, Slemfannon,
That we might save!--that we might save all, then,
Without offence to any! In this hall,

O, might yon length of sword, yon shining mail,
Hang indolent for ever!-and, in days
Of ages yet to come, the sons of peace,
Gazing and wond'ring, question with each other,
What once had been their use!-Attend, my heroes!

"Man comes into this passing world of weakness,
And cries for help to man: for feeble is he,
And many are his foes-thirst, hunger, nakedness;
Diseases infinite within his frame;
Without, th' inclemency and wrath of seasons,
Famines, plagues, pests, devouring elements,
Earthquakes beneath, and thunders rolling o'er him;
Age and infirmity on either hand;

And Death, who lifts the certain dart behind him! "These we might deem (had any pitying power Ordain'd the ways of man) were ills sufficient! Man thinks not so-on his own race he turns

The force of all his talents, exquisite To shorten the short interval, by art,

Which Nature left us! Fire and sword are in
His hand; and, in his thought, are machinations
For speeding of perdition! Half the world,
Down the steep gulf of dark futurity,

Push off their fellows-pause upon the brink-
And then drop after!-

"Tell me, ye sages, tell me, if ye can,
Whence is the stream of life! It rises fresh
In smiling infancy; and pours along,
Short, turbulent, and murmuring in its course,
To its capacious sea. The sea fills not;

The sea, from whence it never has return'd;
Nor ceases yet the stream. Where lies the fund
From whence it flows?-will it be ever thus ?-
And to no end, no purpose?"

While thus the hero question'd on the height
And depth of vast infinitude, intent

To plumb it with his fathom; through the hall
A sudden radiance broke! All turn'd their eyes
Upon the coming glory; for of Earth
They did not deem the vision! On she came,
Shulama, daughter of the gold-thron'd king
Of Scandinavia-on she came, in all
Her pleasantness of beauty, as the morn,
Blushing amidst the brightness of its east,
Rises on human sight! A train of virgins
Follow'd her steps; to them, twice twenty heroes,
Lords of wide lands, and fam'd in northern fields,
Succeeded; and yet, distant, far behind,
Was seen the long retinue! Through the hall,
Silent and still, as in the noon of night,
Attention held its breath-the white-hair'd sages
Rear'd their spread hands, in wonder-and Slem-
fannon

Gaz'd, as a blind-born man endow'd with sight,
When first he looks upon a new-found world!

Toward the gem'd throne of awful majesty
The maiden bent the lustre of her eye,
And grace of motion. Lowly on her knee
She sunk, imploring-" Hail, thou first of heroes,
The conqueror of the conquerors of the world,
King over kings uplifted!-Have I then
Beheld the face of Conrade, and surviv'd it?

"Ruthamor, monarch of the golden throne,
Whose deeds light up the north, hath sent Shulama
To seek alliance with the might of Conrade!-
I come from far, ambassadress of love;
And claim a partner for my father's throne,
Even your beloved daughter, Segaleme,
The witch who rolls th' eyes of young enchantment!"
Rising, and slow descending from his throne,
Conrade advanc'd. He rais'd the awe-struck maid,
And, to his war-imprinted bosom, clasp'd
The dangers of her beauty-" Welcome, welcome,
Welcome," he cried, " to Conrade, to his Erin,
Thou daughter of delight!-for fav'ring Heaven
Hath made thee in its pride of workmanship,
And planted loveliness, as light, around thee!
"Hadst thou, O daughter of the bless'd Ruthamor,
Requir'd a province at the hands of Conrade,
It had been given-or gold, and costly jewels;
He would have stor'd your shipping with the burden,
Till you cried, hold! But, here, alas, you ask
Th' only thing I covet!-Segaleme,

And young Slamfannon, are the eyes of Conrade-
The precious eyes by which he guides his steps,
And looks, alone, for joy! And shall I, then,
Shall I send off the treasure from my soul,

To enrich the land of strangers?—No, Shulama!
Haply, when grown infirm, and dim with age,
When I can only feel around for comfort,

How shall my hands stretch forth to foreign climes,
And to my knees draw up the little ones
Of Segaleme?"-While the monarch spoke,
A distant portal open'd: Segaleme

Appear'd to sight, and fill'd the pass with brightness!
As, should two moons, at east and west, arise
In aspect opposite; and each, in other,
Behold the image of its own perfection;

So shone, so mov'd, so gaz'd, the rival lights
Of Conrade and Ruthamor! They approach'd-
Their steps seem'd measur'd by the sound of music;
And each had lost the memory of herself,
In admiration of the other's beauty!
Silent, their arms of ivory they expand;
They fold each other to a polish'd bosom,
And mix their rays of brightness!-Segaleme
First broke the stillness in the hall of heroes.
"Welcome," she cried, "thrice welcome to the
vale

Of Erin, that shall gladden in thy presence,
O beam of northern hills!"-" And have I, then,
Have I, at length, beheld thee," cried Shulama,
"Thou praise of every tongue ?-mine eyes are
satisfied,
[joy,
And take their rest with thee !"-" Thou art the
The sister of my soul!" said Segaleme-
She spoke, and kiss'd her forehead. Whispering soft,
Shulama then inquir'd-" Say, which is he,
The force of your Slemfannon, so renoun'd
For feats of warfare in the field of Romans?
Which is your mighty brother, Segaleme ?—
For mine eye dare not venture in his search,
Amid the groups of heroes that surround us."

[den,

"There, there he grows, the flower of Erin's garFast by the royal pillar of the land! There stands the young Slemfannon, in his sweetness!"

Full on the youth the maid of Scandinavia Roll'd the young lightning of the glance of beautyHis eyes met hers; and down they sunk abash'd, As caught in some transgression.

"Ah, thou deceiver, beauteous witch of Erin," Rejoin'd Shulama, "this is not thy brother! I ween'd to meet some giant, as in tales Of old renown, and terrible to sight! But here I view the infant of the spring, Like one of us, who pale to look on blood, And o'er the dying songster of the cage Shed tears of mourning !"-Segaleme smil'd; And from the dimpling of her radiant cheek A glory went abroad! Forth, by the hand, She led the lovely stranger to her bower.

Mean-season, to the peers of Scandinavia The monarch bow'd benevolent, and said"Welcome, ye heroes of the sky-topp'd hills! Thrice welcome all, though each had been an hundred

For plenty dwells upon the vales of Erin,
And Conrade's palace is the home of strangers!
The night descends, light up my many halls;
Spread wide the boards; pour plenteous, to the brim,
The juice of every region!" It was done.

By hundreds, and by fifties, sat the chiefs
Commix'd with bards and sages; while the voice
Of festal joy was heard throughout Emania.
But far within, in regal majesty,

Sat Erin's strength! Slemfannon bless'd his side;

And, full in view, he plac'd the high-born maids,
And fed his soul upon the work of Beauty,

Phelin, the seer and song of ancient days,
The sage instructor of his lov'd Slemfannon,
Was seated here- and here, again, Siffrenna,
The white-hair'd guardian of Shulama's beauties.
Soon as the board lay lighten'd of the banquet,
Fair boys and maidens, into crystal cups,
Pour'd the rich vintage of the Greekish isles
Of Archipelago. The joy went round;
The wish of pleasing, and the sweets of converse!
"Slemfannon," said the monarch, "take the
harp-

Thou arm of Conrade, take the strings of story,
And, to the ear of Erin's lovely guest,

Tune some of thine adventures, when thou stood'st,
In southern climates, by the side of Conrade,
Then, like a glimpse of lightning, shot abroad,
And overtura'd the foe!" Yet still obedient
To the high call, the blushing youth replied:
"I turn'd, and shelter'd me behind your buckler,
As though behind the walls of Arisphellan!"

Old Phelin from its chain releas'd the lyre,
And gave it, smiling. O'er the silver strings
Light flew the fingers of the shamefac'd boy,
Scarce audible. At length the tale began:

"Our tent was pitch'd amid the field of Narbon—The dead lay wide around-the night came down, To veil their ghastliness-no star appear'dAnd the Moon, sick'ning at the sight of blood, Had shrouded up her visage !-Through the gloom Mine car was stricken with the voice of wailing, Sad as a thousand sighs, when the dark winds Sob through the yews that stand amid the graves Of Arnel! -Forth I went to seek the mourner. "Through the night's glimpse, that struck upon I saw a warrior, tall and fair of stature. [his mail, Upon his strenuous arm he lightly bore The corse of his companion. On a bank He laid the body down, and sunk beside it. "Art thou then gone?' he cried; for ever gone, Companion of my soul! in whom I liv'd, The dearer self of desolated Hugon! Wilt thou no more arise, like light, upon me? Nor give the smile of friendship to mine eyes; Nor cheer my spirit with thy voice of music? "Why didst thou step before me in the battle? Wast thou not safe, behind my wheeling sword, As in the fort of Delma?-That my breast, O, that my naked breast had met the dart That slew my brother!-Thou hast left me, Berith, With grief alone companion'd. O, stern grief, Sad is thy fellowship! I will not bide it. I will o'ertake thee, Berith!-We will live, Perchance, in happier climes; or in one grave Silent lie down, and sleep in peace together! "Look not, my mother, from the wonted pride Of thine high battlements, to see thy son Returning, in the front of all his trophies! Mistake not Arden's forest for his flags; Nor the wind's western clangour for his trumpets! Thou shalt look upward, with a tearful eye, And sigh to see how empty is his armour! Thy hall, it shall be hung around with black, And one lone lamp shall light thee!'

"Straight, by th' accent of the hero's tongue, I knew him for an enemy to Conrade: But well I knew that Conrade was the friend Of humankind!-With gentle voice, the voice As of a brother, I the chief accosted:

"My heart, O warrior! takes a kindred share
In all thy sufferings. In the field, indeed,
My falchion rises in my country's quarrel;
But my soul knows no warfare with the brave,
The good, or the unhappy!-Know, great Hugon,
That the dristress'd are held as sons and brothers
To Conrade and Slemfannon! Near at hand
Extends our camp-whate'er of friendly aid
Can there be given, is thine! He answer'd not;
But, with a grateful and assenting clasp,
Confin'd me to his bosom-while our souls,
Mingling their friendships, coalesced together.
"Attendants straight I call'd; then to my tent
Convey'd the corse, and gently on a bed
Reclin'd, and soon the steelly mail unbrac'd-
When, strange to tell! upon th' astonish'd sight
Rose two twin orbs of beauty!--Back, abash`d,
Starting I turn'd, and sent the female train;
Then sought where Hugon, all involv'd in grief,
Sat with my sire. In panting haste I told
The wondrous tale. The hero cried, "T is she,
"T is she herself!-it must be Eliphene!
My heart confess'd her, though my eyes refus'd
Its attestation, turning love's fierce ardours

To friendship's gentler flame-At once they rose,
And follow'd where the beauteous body lay,
Decent, in virgin sheets. We sent in haste,
And call'd Elphenor, sovereign of all herbs
And arts for healing. He the deadly wound
Ere long discover'd; for it still ooz'd crimson,
Like a rose springing midst a bed of lilies!
The vital heat, unwilling to forego

Its lovely mansion, feebly held the centre;
And still a thread of life gave faint pulsation!
From his elixir'd crystal, drop by drop,
Through the pale lips, the cautious sage infused
The potent cordial. Thus, while doubtful life
Hung, fearfully suspended, generous Hugon
Address'd my sire-

"O Conrade,' cried the chief,

Thou dread of tyrants; hateful to oppressors,
But, to the feeble and oppress'd, a name
Of sure asylum-lov'd of all the valiant!-
Yes, Hugon swears the valiant love thee, Conrade,
Even while as foes they draw the sword against thee!
O, monarch, lend the ear of thy compassion!
Thine ear, still open to the tale of mourning,
Lend it a while to Hugon! He's a Tuscan,
By clime and birth thine enemy-although
His kindred spirit long has held thee dear,
Even with the dearest. Hear then, hear my tale
Of sad distress!-That lovely, hapless maid,
Of noblest lineage, to my guardian care
Was by her parents left. She was address'd
By all the potentates, whose station warranted
To lift an eye so lofty. I was then
In foreign climes, on travel-I return'd.

"Upon a stated festival, the chiefs
And princes of the land, with princely dames,
Conven'd a galaxy!-I too was there;
And there was Eliphene, as the star
Of beauty, regent, midst the smaller sparklers!
With fond attraction she compell'd me to her,
As the touch'd needle to the frozen north;
For so I did misdeem it. From that day,
Amidst the noblest of her princely suitors,

I too preferr'd my claim. She first receiv'd me
With smiling, kind, encouraging complacence:
But soon her looks grew more constrain'd-whene'er
Her eyes met mine, she blush'd and turn'd aside,