We conclude with the lovely scene out of Massinger. Drayton gives us to understand that angels converse in poetry. We know not how that may be; but if ever a blooming, angelical boy was visible in a book, and talked on paper, it is here.

ANGELO, an Angel, attends DOROTHEA as a Page. ANGELO, DOROTHEA. The time midnight.

Dor. My book and taper.

Ang. Here, most holy mistress.

Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never

Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound.

Were every servant in the world like thee,
So full of goodness, angels would come down
To dwell with us: thy name is Angelo,
And like that name thou art. Get thee to rest;
Thy youth with too much watching is opprest.
Ang. No, my dear lady. I could weary stars,

And force the wakeful moon to loose her eyes,
By my late watching but to wait on you.
When at your pray'rs you kneel before the altar,
Methinks I'm singing with some quire in heaven,
So blest I hold me in your company.

Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not bid
Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence;
For then you break his heart.

Dor. Be nigh me still, then.

In golden letters down I'll set that day,
Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope
To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself,
This little, pretty body, when I, coming
Forth of the Temple, heard my beggar-boy,
My sweet-fac'd godly beggar-boy, crave an alms,
Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand;
And when I took thee home, my most chaste bosom
Methought was filled with no hot wanton fire,
But with a holy flame, mounting since higher,
On wings of cherubims, than it did before.
Ang. Proud am I that my lady's modest eye
So likes so poor a servant.

Dor. I have offer'd

Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents.
I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of some,
To dwell with thy good father; for the son

Bewitching me so deeply with his presence,
He that begot him must do't ten times more.
I pray thee, my sweet boy, show me thy parents;
Be not ashamed.

Ang. I am not: I did never

Know who my mother was; but by yon palace,

Filled with bright heav'nly courtiers, I dare assure you,
And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand,
My father is in heav'n; and, pretty mistress,
If your illustrious hour-glass spend his sand
No worse than yet it doth, upon my life,
You and I both shall meet my father there,
And he shall bid you welcome.

Dor. A bless'd day! *

some

We had a great mind to conclude with this scene, but there is another in the same play which presents us with so beautiful a picture of the angel, what between the gorgeousness of the poets in general and the simplicity of the painters, that we cannot resist copying it. Theophilus, the persecutor, who has been the cause of the martyrdom of Dorothea, and who is converted and becomes a martyr himself, is soliloquizing upon the torture he will wreak upon those who differ with him, when Angelo comes in with a basket of fruit and flowers. The Roman does not see him at first, and so continues talking.

*"This scene," says an excellent critic, "has beauties of so high an order, that with all my respect for Massinger, I did not think he had poetical enthusiasm capable of furnishing them. His associate, Decker, who wrote Old Fortunatus, had poetry enough for anything. The very impurities which obtrude themselves among the sweet pieties of this play (like Satan among the sons of heaven), and which the brief scope of my plan fortunately enables me to leave out, have a strength of contrast, a raciness and a glow in them, which are above Massinger. They set off the religion of the rest, somehow, as Caliban serves to show Miranda."― Specimens of English Dramatic Poets, by Charles Lamb.

Thus it is that fine natures know how to turn fugitive or imaginary evil to account, instead of thinking themselves called upon to show that they cannot think too much evil about it; as some critics have done, whom it were a poor thing to name in so sweet a place.

Theoph.

This Christian slut was well,

A pretty one: but let such horror follow

The next I feed with torments, that when Rome

Shall hear it, her foundation at the sound

May feel an earthquake. How now !

Ang. Are you amazed, sir?

So great a Roman spirit, and doth it tremble?

Theoph. How cam'st thou in? To whom

Thy business?

Ang. To you:

I had a mistress, late sent hence by you
Upon a bloody errand; you entreated,

That when she came in to that blessed garden
Whither she knew she went, and where now happy,
She feeds upon all joy, she would send to you
Some of that garden fruit, and flowers; which here,
To have her promise saved, are brought by me.

Theoph. Cannot I see this garden?

Ang. Yes, if the master

Will give you entrance.

Theoph. 'Tis a tempting fruit

[Music.

[He vanisheth.

And the most bright-cheeked child I ever viewed,
Sweet smelling, goodly fruit. What flowers are these?
In Dioclesian's gardens the most beauteous,
Compared with these, are weeds: is it not February,
The second day she died? frost, ice, and snow,
Hang on the beard of winter: where's the sun
That gilds the summer? Pretty, sweet boy, say,
In what country shall a man find this garden?
My delicate boy, -gone! vanished! Within there,
Julianus! Geta !

Both. My lord.

Enter JULIANUS and GETA.

Theoph. Are my gates shut?

Geta. And guarded.

Theoph. Saw you not a boy?

Ful. Where?

Theoph. Here he entered; a young lad ;

A thousand blessings danced upon his eyes,

A smooth-faced, glorious thing, that brought this basket. Geta. No, sir?

Theoph. Away - but be in reach, if my voice calls you.

[Exeunt.

-

We need not point out to our readers the "brightcheeked child," the "smooth-faced glorious thing," that brings a basket, a thousand blessings dancing upon his eyes; -but we notice the words that we may enjoy them in their company. And so with this perfect taste of the angel and his Eden fruit, we conclude. 1830.

CHILD-BED.

A PROSE POEM.

A

ND is child-bed among the graces, with its close room, and its unwilling or idle visitors, and its jesting nurse (the old and indecent stranger), and its unmotherly, and unwifely, and unlovely lamentations? Is pain so unpleasant that love cannot reconcile it; and can pleasures be repeated without shame, which are regretted with hostile cries and resentment!

No. But child-bed is among the graces, with the handsome quiet of its preparation, and the smooth pillow sustaining emotion, and the soft steps of love and respect, and the room in which the breath of the universe is gratefully permitted to enter, and mild and venerable aid, and the physician (the urbane security), and the living treasure containing treasure about to live, who looks in the eyes of him that caused it and seeks energy in the grappling of his hand, and hides her face in the pillow that she may save him a

pain by stifling a greater. There is a tear for what may have been done wrong, ever; and for what may never be to be mutually pardoned again; but it is gone, for what needs it? Angelical are their whispers apart; and Pleasure meets Pain the seraph, and knows itself to be noble in the smiling testimony of his severity.

It was on a May evening, in a cottage flowering with the green-gage, in the time of hyacinths and new hopes, when the hand that wrote this, took the hand that had nine times lain thin and delicate on the bed of a mother's endurance; and he kissed it, like a bride's. 1827-1837.

WE

ROUSSEAU'S PYGMALION.

E are not aware that this piece of Rousseau's has hitherto appeared in English. It is a favorite in France, and very naturally so, on all accounts. To our countrymen there will perhaps appear to be something, in parts of it, too declamatory and full of ejaculation; and it must be confessed, that if the story alone is to be considered, the illustrious author has committed one great fault, which was hardly to be expected of him; and that is, that he has not made the sentiment sufficiently prominent. The original story, though spoiled by the rake Ovid, informs us, that Pygmalion, with all his warmth towards the sex, was so disgusted at the manners of his countrywomen, that instead of going any longer