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man; but arrows and spears rebounded in shivers from my body. The Saracen's flaming sword broke upon my skull-balls in vain hissed upon me--the lightnings of battle glared harmless around my loins—in vain did the elephant trample on me-in vain the iron hoof of the wrathful steed! The mine, big with destructive power, burst upon me, and hurled me high in the air. I fell on heaps of smoking limbs, but was only singed. The giant's steel club rebounded from my body; the executioner's hand could not strangle me; the tyger's tooth could not pierce me, nor would the hungry lion in the circus devour me. I mixed with poisonous snakes, and pinched the red crest of the dragon. The serpent stung, but could not destroy me; the dragon tormented, but dared not to devour me.

I now provoked the fury of tyrants: I said to Nero, Thou art a bloodhound! I said to Christiern, Thou art a bloodhound ! I said to Muley Ismail, Thou art -a bloodhound! The tyrants invented cruel torments, but did not kill me. -Ha! not to be able to die --not to be able to die-not to be permitted to rest after the toils of life-to be doomed to be imprison

ed for ever in the clay-formed dungeon-to be for rever clogged with this worthless body, its load of diseases and infirmities to be condemned to hold for millenniums that yawning monster Sameness and

Time, that hungry hyena, ever bearing children, and ever devouring again her offspring !-Ha! not to be permitted to die! Awful avenger in heaven, hast thou in thine armoury of wrath a punishment more dreadful ?—then let it thunder upon me--command a hurricane to sweep me down to the foot of Carmel, that. I there may lie extended : may pant, and writhe, and die !

This fragment is the translation of part of some German work, whose title I have vainly endeavoured to discover. I picked it up, dirty and torn, some years ago, in Lincoln's-Inn Fields. SHELLEY.

ACCOUNT OF SAM SCOT'S SMOKING CLUB:

My magotty man Sam, as his master - used to call him in the time of his apprenticeship; when he set up for himself, kept a music shop at the TempleGate, where the bastard Sons of Apollo were accustomed to furnish themselves with harps and fiddles; and the tiptoe masters of the mathematical step used to supply their occasions with new minuets and bories. Sam Scot, the better to ingratiate himself with his customers, affected such a sort of life as he thought might be most agreeable to those whimsical performers, who, having their heads stuffed with crotchets, and their heels full of activity, could never rest in their beds till they had tamed their faculties, and drowned all thoughts of their airy professions, with an inebrious excess. This Sam Scot observing, was resolved to be as forward as any of them

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But sadder still it were to trace
What once were feelings in that face-
Time hath not yet the features fixed,
But brighter traits with evil mixed
And there are hues not always faded, i
Which speak a mind not all degraded
Even by the crimes through which it waded :
The common crowd but see the gloom
Of wayward deeds--and fitting doom 1.1
The close observer can espy
A noble soul, and lineage high.
Alas ! though both bestowed in vain,
Which Grief could change--and Guilt could

stain
It was no vulgar tenement
To which such lofty gifts were lent,
And still with little less than dread
On such the sight is riveted
The roofless cot decayed and rent,

Will scarce delay the passer by-
The tower by war or tempest bent,
While yet may frown one battlement,

Demands and daunts the stranger's eye.
Each ivied arch-and pillar lone,
Pleads haughtily for glories gone!

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If solitude succeed to grief,
Release from pain is slight relief ;
The vacant bosom's wilderness
Might thank the pang that made it less... snije

We loathe what none are left to share
Even bliss—’twere woe alone to bear;
The heart once left thus desolate,
Must fly at last for ease-to hate.
It is as if the dead could feel
The icy worm around them steal,
And shudder as the reptiles creep
To revel o'er their rotting sleep,
Without the power to scare away
The cold consumers of their clay !
It is as if the desart bird,

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream;

To still her famish'd nestlings' scream, Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd ; Should rend her rash devoted breast, And find them flown her empty nest. The keenest pangs the wretched find

Are rapture to the dreary void-
The leafless desert of the mind

The waste of feelings unemploy'd
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon
A sky without a cloud or sun ?
Less hideous far the tempest's roar,
Than ne'er to brave the billows more
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er,
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore,
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay,

1
Unseen to drop by dull decay ;-
Better to sink beneath the shock,
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! BYRON

PROLOGUE SPOKEN BY THE CELEBRATED GEORGE

BARRINGTON, AT OPENING THE THEATRE AT

BOTANY BAY.

FROM distant climes, o'er far spread seas we come,
But not with much eclat or beat of drum,
Tho' patriots all; for, be it understood,
We left our country for our country's good.

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In private views at end, our generous zeal,
That urg'd our travels, was our country's weal ;
And none will doubt but that our emigration
Has prov'd most useful to the British nation.

But you inquire, what could our breasts inflame
With this new passion for theatric fame?
What, in the practice of our former days,
Could shape our talents to exhibit plays ?

Your patience, Sirs; some observations made,
You'll grant us equal to the scenic trade.
He who to midnight ladders is no stranger,
You'll own must prove an admirable Ranger.

To find Macheath we have not far to roam;
And sure to Filch I shall be quite at home.
Unrivall'd there, none will dispute my claim liri
To sure pre-eminence in exalted fame.

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