DIALOGUE BETWEEN ALMERIA AND LEONORA IN THE AISLE OF THE TEMPLE; FROM CONGREVE'S MOURNING BRIDE. ACT 2, SCENE 3.

Almeria and Leonora.

Alm. It was a fancied noise, for all is hushed.
Leo. It bore the accent of a human voice.

Alm. It was thy fear or else some transient wind Whistling thro' hollows of this vaulted aisle. We'll

listen.

Leo. Hark!

Alm. No, all is hush'd, and still as death-'tis dread ful!

How reverend is the face of this tall pile,

Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,.
To bear aloft it's arch'd and ponderous roof,
By its own weight made stedfast and immoveable,
Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe
And terror on my aching sight; the tombs
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
Give me thy hand and let me hear thy voice;
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear
Thy voice-my own affrights me with its echoes..
Leo. Let us return, the horror of this place
And silence, will increase your melancholy.
Alm. It may my fears, but cannot add to that.
No, I will on shew me Anselmo's tomb.-
Lead me o'er bones, and skulls, and mould'ring earth
Of human bodies; for I'll mix with them,
Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corse.
Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride
Of Garcia's more detested bed: that thought
Exerts my spirit, and my present fears
Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then shew me,
Lead me, for I'm bolder grown; lead on
Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again
To him, to heav'n, and my Alphonso's soul.

Leo. Behold the sacred vault, within whose womb.

The poor remains of good Anselmo rest,
Yet fresh and unconsum'd by time or worms.
What do I see? O heav'n! either my eyes.

Are false or still the marble door remains
Unclos'd; the iron grates that lead to death
Beneath, are still wide stretch'd upon their hinge, -
And staring on us with unfolded leaves.

Alm. Sure 'tis the friendly yawn of death for me; And that dumb mouth significant in shew,

Invites me to the bed, where I alone

Shall rest; shew me the

grave, where nature weary And long oppressed with woes and bending cares, May lay the burden down, and sink in slumbers Of peace eternal. Death, grim death will fold Me in his leaden arms, and press me close To his cold clayey breast. My father then Will cease his tyranny, and Garcia too Will fly my pale deformity with loathing. My soul enlarged from its vile bonds will mount And range the starry orbs, and milky ways, Of that refulgent world where I shall swim In liquid light, and float on seas of bliss To my Alphonso's soul. O joy too great! O ecstacy of thought! help me, Anselmo. Help me, Alphonso! take me, reach thy hand; To thee, to thee I call, to thee Alphonso, O, Alphonso!

Enter Osmyn ascending from the tomb. Osm. Who calls that wretched thing that was Alphonso!

Alm. Angels! and all the hosts of heav'n support me! Osm. Whence is that voice, whose shrillness from the grave

And growing to his father's shroud, roots up-
Alphonso!

hide

Alm. Mercy, Providence, O! speak!
Speak to it quickly, quickly; speak to me,
Comfort me, help me, hold me, hide me,
Leonora, in thy bosom from the light
And from my eyes.

Osm. Amazement and illusion!

Rivet and nail me where I stand, ye pow'rs!
That motionless I may be still deceived.
Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I disselve

me,

That tender lovely form of painted air,
So like Almeria. Ha! it sinks! it falls!
I'll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade.
'Tis life! 'tis warm! 'tis she! tis she herself!
Nor dead, nor shade; but breathing and alive!
It is Almeria! 'tis, it is my wife.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

Sweet scented flower, who art wont to bloom
On January's front severe,
And o'er the wintery desert drear
To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;

And as I twine the mournful wreath
I'll weave a melancholy song,

And sweet the strain shall be, and long,
The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower, who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips and lie with me,
Beneath the lowly alder tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful and so deep..

And hark! the wind god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lowly shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead.

My grave shall be in yon lone spot,

Where, as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

GENIUS.

Many there be that through the vale of life
With velvet pace, unnotic'd softly go,
While jarring discord's unharmonious strife

Awakes them not to wo.

By them unheeded carking care, Green eyed grief, and dull despair, Smoothly they pursue their way,

With even tenor and with equal breath,
Alike through cloudy and through sunny day,
They sink in peace to death.

But Ah! a few there be whom griefs devour,
And weeping we and disappointment keen
Repining poverty, and sorrows sour,
And self consuming spleen.

And they are Genius favorites: these
Know the thought-throned mind to please,
And from her fleshy seat to draw

To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll
Disdaining all but wildering rapture's law,
The captivated soul.

Genius, from thy starry sphere,
High above the burning zone,
In radiant robe of light arrayed,

Ah hear the plaint by thy sad favorite made,
His melancholy moan.

He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows,

Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, Pangs that his sensibility uprouse,

To curse his being and his thirst for praise.. Thou gav'st to him with trebled force to feel

The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn,
And what o'er all does in his soul preside
Predominant, and tempers him to steel
His high indignant pride.

Lament not ye who humbly steal through life,
That Genius visits not your lowly shed:
For ah! what woes and sorrows ev e irife
Distract his hapless head

For him awaits no balmy sleep,

He wakes all night, and wakes to weep,
Or by his lonely lamp he sits,

At solemn midnight, when the peasant sleeps,.-
In feverish study and in moody fits,
His mournful vigils keeps.

And Oh! for what consumes his watchful oil! For what does thus he waste life's fleeting breath ♪~ "Tis for neglect and penury he doth toil;

"Tis for untimely death.

Lo when dejected, pale he lies,
Despair depicted in his eyes,

He feels the vital flame decrease;

He sees the grave wide yawning for its prey,

Without a friend to soothe his soul to
And cheer the expiring ray.

peace.

By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame,
By gentle Otway's magic name,
By him, the youth who smiled at death,
And rashly dared to stop his vital breath,
Will I thy pangs proclaim:

For still to misery closely thour'rt allied,
Though goodly pageants glitter by thy side,
And far resounding fame.

What though to thee the dazzled millions bow,
And to thy posthumous merit bend them low;
Though unto thee, the monarch looks with awe,
And thou at thy flashed car dost nations draw
Yet ah! unseen behind thee fly

Corroding anguish, soul subduing pain,
And discontent that clouds the fairest sky:
A melancholy train...

Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await,

Mocking thy derided state;

Thee, chill Adversity, will still attend,

Before whose face flies fast the summer friend,
And leaves thee all forlorn,