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VII.

Weakness bends to Strength in vain—Duke John is resolved-The horrible Sentence of

the Law.

My breast grows hot, my hands clench up, my heart beats hard, to see
Weak innocence upon her knees to strong ferocity.

Yet ever since the world began, until this passing hour,

The wrong has surely been the strong, the right without the pow'r.

Why bends that flowing, graceful form, to angular old age?

What means the damsel by her tears-the old man by his rage?
That corner'd, elbow'd, ugly vice, was never meant to be
The arbiter of joy or woe to round-cheek'd purity.

But man's capacity for sin, and pow'r of sinning free,
Make many sorrows here on earth, God never meant to be.
Duke John has frightful pow'r in hand, and savage will to use:
"Twere charity to wish him blind, who can such eyes refuse.
And Genevieve has wept for nought; knelt and implored in vain.
To make impressions, there must be the sand as well as rain.
'Tis weary work for tender hearts the harden'd to implore:
No tides their ripple-marks may leave upon a granite shore.
Why is that unrelenting man so stubborn and unmoved
To one whom, hitherto, through life he's like a daughter loved?
Alas! he has deep motives, which the maiden may not know.
He promis'd her another's bride in secret long ago.

And now is he resolv'd upon Earl Simon's deep disgrace,

In hope that she, for very shame, may scorn to see his face.

"What lady," so says he, "would wed who's met the same low fate,

As should the vilest felon-serf upon his own estate?

"In his own clever trap he's caught, and torn by his own claw:
The law is most imperative, and hideous is the law.

No pow'r on earth can save him-neither rank, nor love, nor land.
Fast to the Bloody Table they shall nail the Earl's left hand !*

"But mercy still, and tenderness, the law has kept in view,
Or ne'er had it provided means of liberation too.
An axe it leaves the culprit-if his spirit be but brave-
Whereby he may lop off his hand, and thus his carcase save.
"With daily bread and river drink most amply he's supplied,
Until he's either freed himself, or linger'd out and died.
Here's pleasant choice! But this or that the earl must surely do:
My heart will equally rejoice at either of the two.

"Should he prefer to die!-why, good! He will not want a wife.
To live? The mangl'd felon then must pass a single life.
If my old years know ought of love, the maid is far to seek,
Who'd lay upon that bloody stump, for life, her satin cheek!"

VIII.

The Dungeon, and what Sounds were heard in it.

Look up! Dos't see a dungeon-keep upon your precipice?

Six hundred feet it gazes down into a dim abyss.

Hard by its feet the eagles build, it is so safely high;
And oft beneath it floats in storms a secondary sky.

Hark! there are men within! I hear a scuffling, heavy tread:

And up that steep, not long ago, I saw Earl Simon led.

They say the executioner-But, what is that I hear?

"Tis iron upon iron clinks. They're at it now, I fear?

Such, I have somewhere read, was the ancient punishment for felony committed in a mine.

How sickly is this dull, dead sound! It is a hammer's blows:
First soft, like flesh-then hard-O, God, into my heart it goes!
It beats within my brain like blows: as wave on wave it rolls.
'Tis one of those drear sounds that shake the fabric of men's souls.

No voice! No shriek, nor groan that may to cruelty belong.
Brave suffering seems more pitiful, that scorns to find a tongue.
And cruelty more odious grows, the more deliberate

And coldly on the silent brave it wreaks its demon hate.

IX.

The Lovers' favourite Walk, and how they met there-Duke John is not too old to learn
-Earl Simon's Coat of Arms.

Although the earl's condemn'd, at least they've sav'd the old church tow'r;
It's hoarse asthmatic bell ere long will cough the supper hour.

And then again the dust will fall, as years ago it fell

As constantly as came the hour when struck the wheezing bell.

Lo, in their once familiar walk, what lady spectre stands?
Deserted shade! Ah, cease to wring those visionary hands!

Nor seem from bloodless lips to breathe those voiceless pray'rs and sighs!
Nor heavenwards more, for pity, raise those pure supernal eyes!

What cruelties and crimes of man have wrought thy heart this woe,
That e'en thy grave-that house of peace-may not its peace bestow?
In Heaven's high name-back, awful shade to thy unhappy dust,
Nor rise uncall'd, but wait in hope the summons of The Just!
Ah, false, deluding glooms! Ah, night! whose shadows so deceive.
Behold! thou know'st her not again, the grief-worn Genevieve.
But now-love's last resource-she sent a message to the king.
This morn the messenger return'd, and answer thus did bring:
"No pow'r have I to pardon grant, and set thy lover free:
Though king am I of all the land, that law is king of me
But this, henceforth, for ever is commanded by the king,
Abolish'd in all marriages shall be that fatal ring."

"Ah, happy you, ye maids to come! But what to such as I,"
Cried Genevieve, "When he I love, half crucified must die?

But no! He lives, he lives! He comes amid the shadows dim!
Were nights as dark as vaulted caves, my heart would still see him!"

Poor wounded, bleeding, faithful soul-how faint he staggers on!
She flies to meet him, doubly dear, now that dear hand is gone.
So true it is in human hearts-and beautiful 'tis so!
Love feeds on sorrow evermore, and faster clings to woe.

Hence, by the means to sever them, the cruel duke had tried;
He only, in his ignorance of love, had closer tied.

The ancient man, although so old, had yet to live and learn-
The more you try to dash Love's torch, the brighter will it burn.

The nuptial morn did come at last-the old tow'r bell did ring-
The wedding feast of Genevieve was grac'd by England's king.
And to commemorate the tale, he quarter'd Simon's arms
With two red hands, cross-finger-knit, with hearts upon the palms.

THE PORTFOLIO.

No. I.

So much as from occasions you may glean.-Hamlet.

THE TWO WORLDS.

"THE imaginative love of nature," remarks the author of "Guesses at Truth," "harmonised the dim conceptions of the mysteries that lie behind the curtain of the senses with the objects surrounding it, incarnating the invisible in the visible, and impregnating the visible with the invisible." Blind men and keen-eyed gropers in the dark have indeed sometimes attempted a fusion, or rather a confusion, of the two worlds; but let it not be said that their dim conceptions have accomplished a harmony between them. We may, to a certain extent, elevate and spiritualise the tangible, by lifting it out of its materiality; but when we attempt to incarnate the invisible with the visible, the result invariably degrades the former without exalting the latter. Deep was the meaning of the ancient myth which represented the offspring of Coelus and Terra as being Titans and monsters. Of the desecration thus produced, the Pagans seem to have been sensible, when they gave to their Pan, or universal god, the lower limbs of a brute; a rude but frank type, upon which later religionists have hardly improved, for in the hopelessness of raising earth to Heaven, they have brought down Heaven to earth, and sacrilegiously reversing the work of God, when he made man in his own image, have humanised and even demonised the Deity.

Even of the material world immediately surrounding us, wonderfully as our visionary scope has been recently enlarged, how incalculably large a portion must still remain undiscovered! Improvements in optical instruments, partially uplifting the curtains both above and below us, have revealed new worlds in the illimitable wilds of Heaven, and in the life-swarming globe of a water-drop; and yet the visible, compared with the unseen, may be as a single grain of sand compared with the whole of our solid globe. Lord Rosse's telescope has consolidated the nebulæ into sidereal masses, forming, perhaps, countless worlds; every improvement of the microscope reveals to us new races of animalculæ ; and who shall prescribe limits to this wide-spreading and exuberant stream of life, unless he can set bounds to the infinite power and goodness of the Deity, who has called such multiform myriads of sentient creatures into existence, for the unquestionable purpose of enjoying it. We know that whole islands and continents of the coral and chalk formation have once been alive; recent microscopic investigations give reason to suppose that even granite has been partly formed from the siliceous shells of insects; organised and unorganised matters are in perpetual interchange; and as every thing that now lives must die, we should be almost justified in asserting that every thing now dead has once been living.

Not for mere curiosity, however, should we pore with microscopic eyes into the wonders of Nature, but that, as Moses saw the Deity in a bush, so may we recognise his presence in a pebble and a drop of water. Not as astronomers only should we gaze upon the sky, seeking new discoveries, but rather like mariners, that what we mark in the Heavens may serve to guide our course upon earth. Science is not always

wisdom; nay, the knowledge that is not illustrated by practice is often worse than ignorance. How happily has Bacon remarked that speculative philosophy is like the lark, which wings its way upwards, and contents itself with proclaiming its ascent by a song; while experimental philosophy may be compared to the falcon, which soars as high, but rarely descends without a prize.

MORAL ARITHMETIC.

One enemy may do us more injury than twenty friends can repair. It is politic, therefore, to overlook a score of offences before you make a single foe. Moral arithmetic is sometimes very different from Cocker's. Thus, by imparting our griefs we halve them; by communicating our joys we double them. When a married couple are one, their success is pretty sure to be won too; when they are two, the chances are two to one that their affairs will be all at sixes and sevens. The money-scraping miser, who is always thinking of number one, and looking out for safe investments, forgets that the only money we can never lose is that which we give away; and that the worst of all wants is the want of what we have. In the cyphering of the heart division is sometimes multiplication, and subtraction is addition.

PERILS OF SUPERIORITY.

Shakspeare, speaking of one whose aspirations and pursuits were superior to his station, says

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but these delights are ever dangerous. Such a man might better be compared to the flying fish, which, when it raises itself into the air in order to escape from the sharks and sword-fish below, is exposed to the attacks of gulls and vultures above. Reformers, therefore, have generally been martyrs, and many discoverers, besides Galileo, have been imprisoned for understanding the heavens better than their contemporaries. Comfort and safety are only to be found in the average standard, whether physical or moral. The giant must be always stooping if he would not knock his head against a door-top or an awning; and the high-minded man must often bow to prejudices and ignorance if he would avoid a painful collision with them. Blessings on the brave men who, defying all danger, advance beyond their age, and dare to "stand upon the forehead of the coming morn." As in the high northern latitudes the furs and feathers of beasts and birds turn white in the winter, that they may adapt themselves to the cold and snow, it seems unkind that nature should not have made some similar provision for men who have elevated themselves into the high mental latitudes. Alas! the halo around their heads only renders them a more conspicuous mark for their assailants, as the light of the glow-worm and the fire-fly only serves to attract their destroyers.

BIPED RATS.

In some of our deep coal-pits the workmen stick lighted candles to the sides of the shafts and cuttings to guide them in their operations, but no sooner do they turn their backs than large black rats issue from their

hiding-places, and run away with the candles; not for the sake of the light, but that they may feast upon the tallow. Are there not bipeds, arrayed in garments of a similar hue, who "for their belly's sake creep into the fold," and think less of enlightening our darkness than of running away with the fat things upon which they can lay their clutches ? True it is that they who need a lamp ought to supply it with oil; but it is also true that we sometimes find a pluralist who attaches much more importance to the oil than to the lamp.

MENTAL FREEDOM.

After ten minutes' conversation an intelligent blind man would always be enabled to discover whether his colloquist were in his non-age, middle age, dotage, or anecdotage, for our minds, in spite of ourselves, are the most faithful of all birth-registers. Nay, they betray the century to which we belong, as well as our individual date. Could I summon up a spirit at hazard from the darkness of the past, a dozen questions and answers would suffice to fix, or to make a close approximation towards his chronological position. Every generation has some mode of thinking different from all that preceded and all that is to follow it. It may be said there is but one truth. Granted: but every era may repeat the question of Pilate "What is truth?"

He who gives utterance to what he sincerely believes, is a true man, even though his faith may be erroneous; while he who, without inquiry, professes any particular creed, because it has been established by act of parliament, and he finds conformity pleasant and profitable, is no true believer though his doctrine be irrefutable. Thank Heaven! in all these changes of opinion, we still make sure though slow advances towards toleration. Sentiments which we may now publish with impunity would have been visited, a century ago, with anathemas and fulminations; and honest convictions which we are now obliged to suppress, if we would avoid obloquy and persecution, may doubtless be promulgated, a century hence, without exciting a single animadversion. Sincere inquirers may displease men, but they are little likely to offend Heaven, for in searching for truth we must always be approaching the Deity, who is the fountain of all truth.

LOCOMOTION.

The railroads, that almost render us ubiquitous, however favourable they may be to observation, are somewhat hostile to reflection. We see more and think less than our ancestors. When the grand tour was restricted to young noblemen and the eldest sons of rich commoners, the rest of the community, shut up in their own petty localities, were glad to read the description of places which they could not visit. In those days there were bookworms, studious recluses, stay-at-home philosophers; but now action is substituted for meditation, sight-seeing for mental scrutiny, and men perform travels instead of perusing them. Many there are who are oftener in a railroad carriage than at home, and see more of the stoker's furnace than their own fire-side. Our bodies are conveyed from place to place with an almost incredible activity; but our minds, I suspect, have been rather retarded than accelerated by the process. Pleasure excursions by railroad recur with an augmenting frequency, as if "increase of appetite did grow with what it fed on," but the time that we gain in

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