Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yet—
The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience-

Man. Patience and patience! Hence-that word was made For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey;

Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,—

I am not of thine order.

C. Hun.

Thanks to Heaven!

I would not be of thine for the free fame

Of William Tell; but, whatsoe'er thine ill,

It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless.
Man. Do I not bear it?-Look on me I live.
C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life.
Man. I tell thee, man! I have lived many years,
Many long years, but they are nothing now
To those which I must number: ages-ages-
Space and eternity-and consciousness,

With the fierce thirst of death-and still unslaked!

C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far.

:

Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time?
It doth; but actions are our epochs mine
Have made my days and nights imperishable,
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore,
Innumerable atoms; and one desert,

Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,

But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks,

Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness.

C. Hun. Alas! he's mad-but yet I must not leave him. Man. I would I were for then the things I see

Would be but a distempered dream.

C. Hun.

What is it

That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon?

Man. Myself and thee-a peasant of the Alps:

The humble virtues, hospitable home,

And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free;

Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts;

Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy toils,
By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes

Of cheerful old age, and a quiet grave,
With cross and garland over its green turf,
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph;
This do I see-and then I look within-

It matters not-my soul was scorched already!

C. Hun. And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for mine! Man. No, friend! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange My lot with human being: I can bearHowever wretchedly, 'tis still to bear

In life what others could not brook to dream,

But perish in their slumber.

This cautious feeling for another's pain,

Canst thou be black with evil?—say not so.

Can one of gentle thoughts have wreaked revenge
Upon his enemies?

Man.

Oh, no, no, no!

My injuries came down on those who loved me—
On those whom I best loved: I never quelled

An enemy, save in my just defence

But my embrace was fatal.

C. Hun.

Heaven give thee rest!

And penitence restore thee to thyself;

My prayers shall be for thee.

Man.

I need them not,

But can endure thy pity. I depart-

'Tis time-farewell!—Here's gold, and thanks for thee-
No words-it is thy due.-Follow me not-

I know my path-the mountain peril's past:
And once again I charge thee, follow not !

FAZIO.

MILMAN.

[DEAN MILMAN'S "Fazio" had a singular fate. It was written while he was at Oxford, and was published soon after he had taken his first degree. One of the minor theatres seized upon it, and brought it out with success under the name of "The Italian Wife." The robbery was repeated at Covent Garden; and the managers had not even the decency to consult the author upon the matter, or to show him the slightest courtesy when it was crowned with the highest success in the performance of Miss O'Neill. These things are better regulated now. The story of Fazio is that of a poor man discovering and appropriating the treasure of one who is murdered. The possession of riches corrupts him; he leaves his wife, Bianca, for the caresses of a profligate woman; the wife, in the distraction of her wrongs, betrays to the Duke of Florence the appropriation of the hoarded gold; he is unjustly accused of the murder, and dies on the scaffold. The following scene exhibits Bianca's agony before she rushes to impeach her husband, in the sole idea that, being deprived of his fatal riches, he will be restored to her affections.]

Bianca. Not all the night, not all the long, long night,
Not come to me! not send to me! not think on me!
Like an unrighteous and unburied ghost

I wander up and down these long arcades.
Oh, in our old poor narrow home, if haply
He lingered late abroad, domestic things
Close and familiar crowded all around me ;
The ticking of the clock, the flapping motion
Of the green lattice, the gray curtains' folds,
The hangings of the bed myself had wrought,
Yea, e'en his black and iron crucibles,
Were to me as my friends. But here, oh, here,
Where all is coldly, comfortlessly costly,
All strange, all new in uncouth gorgeousness,
Lofty and long, a wider space for misery-
E'en my own footsteps on these marble floors
Are unaccustomed, unfamiliar sounds.-
Oh, I am here so wearily miserable,

That I should welcome my apostate Fazio,
Though he were fresh from Aldabella's arms.
Her arms !—her viper coil-I had foresworn

That thought; lest he should come, and find me mad,
And so go back again, and I not know it.

Oh that I were a child to play with toys,
Fix my whole soul upon a cup and ball—
On any pitiful poor subterfuge,

A moment to distract my busy spirit

From its dark dalliance with that cursed image!
I have tried all: all vainly. Now, but now
I went in to my children. The first sounds
They murmured in their evil-dreaming sleep
Was a faint mimicry of the name of father.
I could not kiss them, my lips were so hot.
The very household slaves are leagued against me,
And do beset me with their wicked floutings,
"Comes my lord home to-night?"-and when I say,

"I know not," their coarse pity makes my heartstrings
Throb with the agony. [Enter PIERO.]-Well, what of my
lord?

Nay, tell it with thy lips, not with thy visage.
Thou raven, croak it out if it be evil :
If it be good I'll fall and worship thee;
'Tis the office and the ministry of gods
To speak good tidings to distracted spirits.
Piero. Last night my lord did feast-
Bianca.

Speak it at once—

Where? where I'll wring it from thy lips-Where? where? Piero. Lady, at the Marchesa Aldabella's.

Bianca. Thou liest, false slave: 'twas at the Ducal Palace, 'Twas at the arsenal with the officers,

"Twas with the old rich senator-him-him—him—

The man with a brief name: 'twas gaming, dicing,
Riotously drinking.-Oh, it was not there;

"Twas anywhere but there-or, if it was,
Why, like a sly and creeping adder, sting me

With thy black tidings-Nay, nay: good my friend;
Here's money for those harsh intemperate words—

But he's not there: 'twas some one of the gallants,
With dress and stature like my Fazio.

Thou wert mistaken :—no, no! 'twas not Fazio.
Piero. It grieves me much: but, lady, 'tis my fear
Thou 'lt find it but too true.

Bianca.

Hence hence! Avaunt,

With thy cold courteous face! Thou seest I'm wretched:
Doth it content-thee? Gaze-gaze-gaze !-perchance
Ye would behold the bare and bleeding heart,

With all its throbs, its agonies.—O Fazio !
O Fazio!

Hymn on the Seasons.

THOMSON.

[WE conclude this series of extracts, more especially fitted to awaken serious reflection, with a "Half-Hour" from one who was once,—and who, to a great extent, still is,—the most popular poet in our language. To be the most popu. lar poet, it is not necessary that he should be the highest; but still, there cannot be an enduring popularity without merit of the highest order. Truly, and in the spirit of a generous criticism, does Professor Wilson say, (and he, in his mature wisdom, is always generous,)—" Thomson, a great poet, poured his genius over a subject of universal interest; and the 'Seasons,' from that hour to this, then, now, and for ever,-have been, are, and will be, loved and admired by all the world."]

These, as they change, Almighty Father, these
Are but the varied God. The rolling year
Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring
Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love.
Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm ;
Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles,
And every sense and every heart is joy.
Then comes Thy glory in the Summer months,
With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year:
And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks,
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,
By brooks and groves in hollow-whispering gales,
Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.