untimely. Our Lear hangs over her breathless lips, and cries "Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little !"'

'Vex not his ghost-oh! let him pass-he hates him
That would upon the rack of this tough world
Stretch him out longer!'

Hush! Strife and Quarrel, over the solemn grave!

Trumpets, a mournful march. Fall, dark curtain his pride, his grief, his awful tragedy!

Sound,

upon his

pageant,

THE END.

Edinburgh:
Printed by W. and R. Chambers.