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Selim. Rise, faithful Othman. Thus let me thank thy truth! Oth. O happy hour!

[Embraces him. [my hand?

Selim. Why dost thou tremble thus? Why grasp And why that ardent gaze! Thou canst not doubt me!

Oth. Ah, no! I see thy sire in every line.— How did my prince escape the murderer's hand? Selim. I wrench'd the dagger from him, and gave back

That death he meant to bring. The ruffian wore The tyrant's signet:-"Take this ring," he cried, "The sole return my dying hand can make thee For its accursed attempt: this pledge restored, Will prove thee slain! Safe may'st thou see Algiers, Unknown to all." This said, the assassin died.

Oth. But how to gain admittance thus unknown? Selim. Disguised as Selim's murderer I come : The accomplice of the deed: the ring restored, Gain'd credence to my words.

Oth. Yet ere thou camest, thy death was rumour'd here.

Selim. I spread the flattering tale, and sent it hither,

That babbling rumour, like a lying dream,
Might make belief more easy. Tell me, Othman,
And yet I tremble to approach the theme-
How fares my mother? does she still retain
Her native greatness?

Oth. Still in vain the tyrant

Tempts her to marriage, though with impious threats Of death or violation.

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Think not these tears unnerve me, valiant friends!
They have but harmonized my soul; and waked
All that is man within me, to disdain
Peril, or death.-What tidings from the city?

Sadi. All, all is ready. Our confederate friends
Burn with impatience, till the hour arrive.
Selim. What is the signal of the appointed
hour?

Sadi. The midnight watch gives signal of our meeting;

And when the second watch of night is rung,
The work of death begins.

Selim. Speed, speed, ye minutes!
Now let the rising whirlwind shake Algiers,
And justice guide the storm! Scarce two hours

hence

Sadi. Scarce more than one.

Selim. But is the city quiet?

Sadi. All, all is hush'd. Throughout the empty streets,

Nor voice, nor sound. As if the inhabitants,
Like the presaging herds, that seek the covert
Ere the loud thunder rolls, had inly felt
And shunn'd the impending uproar.

Oth. There is a solemn horror in the night, too, That pleases me: a general pause through nature: The winds are hush'd

Sadi. And as I pass'd the beach,

The lazy billow scarce could lash the shore:
No star peeps through the firmament of heaven-
Selim. And, lo! where eastward, o'er the sullen

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with glory,

We soon shall meet again. But, oh, remember,
Amid the tumult's rage, remember mercy!
Stain not a righteous cause with guiltless blood!
Warn our brave friends, that we unsheath the
sword,

Not to destroy, but save! nor let blind zeal,
Or wanton cruelty, e'er turn its edge
On age or innocence! or bid us strike
Where the most pitying angel in the skies,
That now looks on us from his blest abode,
Would wish that we should spare.

Oth. So may we prosper,

As mercy shall direct us!

Selim. Farewell, friends!
Sadi. Intrepid prince, farewell!

[Exeunt Oтн. and SADI.

SELIM'S SOLILOQUY BEFORE THE INSURRECTION.

Selim. Now sleep and silence Brood o'er the city.-The devoted sentinel Now takes his lonely stand; and idly dreams Of that to-morrow he shall never see! In this dread interval, O busy thought, From outward things descend into thyself! Search deep my heart! bring with thee awful conscience,

And firm resolve! that, in the approaching hour

Of blood and horror, I may stand unmoved;
Nor fear to strike where justice calls, nor dare
To strike where she forbids!_Why bear I, then,
This dark insidious dagger ?—'Tis the badge
Of vile assassins; of the coward hand
That dares not meet its foe.-Detested thought!
Yet as foul lust and murder, though on thrones
Triumphant, still retain their hell-born quality ;
So justice, groaning beneath countless wrongs,
Quits not her spotless and celestial nature ;
But, in the unhallow'd murderer's disguise,
Can sanctify this steel!

MICHAEL BRUCE.

[Born, 1746. Died, 1767.]

MICHAEL BRUCE was born in the parish of Kinneswood, in Kinross-shire, Scotland. His father was by trade a weaver, who out of his scanty earnings had the merit of affording his son an education at the grammar-school of Kinross, and at the university of Edinburgh. Michael was delicate from his childhood, but showed an early disposition for study, and a turn for poetry, which was encouraged by some of his neighbours lending him a few of the most popular English poets. The humblest individuals who have befriended genius deserve to be gratefully mentioned. The first encouragers to whom Bruce showed his poetical productions were a Mr. Arnot, a farmer on the banks of Lochleven, and one David Pearson, whose occupation is not described. In his sixteenth year he went to the university of Edinburgh, where, after the usual course of attendance, he entered on the study of divinity, intending, probably, to be a preacher in the Burgher sect of dissenters, to whom his parents belonged. Between the latter sessions, which he attended at college, he taught a small school at Gairney bridge, in the neighbourhood of his native place, and afterwards at Forest-Hill, near Allan, in Clackmannanshire. This is nearly the whole of his sad and short history. At the latter place he was seized with a deep consumption, the progress of which in his constitution

had always inclined him to melancholy. Under the toils of a day and evening school, and without the comforts that might have mitigated disease, he mentions his situation to a friend in a touching but resigned manner-"I had expected," he says, "to be happy here; but my sanguine hopes are the reason of my disappointment." He had cherished sanguine hopes of happiness, poor youth in his little village-school; but he seems to have been ill encouraged by his employers, and complains that he had no company, but what was worse than solitude. "I believe,” he adds, "if I had not a lively imagination I should fall into a state of stupidity or delirium." He was now composing his poem on Lochleven, in which he describes himself,

"Amid unfertile wilds, recording thus

The dear remembrance of his native fields,
To cheer the tedious night; while slow disease
Prey'd on his pining vitals, and the blasts
Of dark December shook his humble cot."

During the winter he quitted his school, and, returning to his father's house, lingered on for a few months till he expired, in his twenty-first year. During the spring he wrote an elegy on the prospect of his own dissolution, a most interesting relic of his amiable feelings and fortitude.

FROM THE ELEGY ON SPRING.

Now spring returns: but not to me returns The vernal joy my better years have known ; Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,

And all the joys of life with health are flown. Starting and shiv'ring in th' inconstant wind, Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined,

And count the silent moments as they pass:

The winged moments, whose unstaying speed
No art can stop, or in their course arrest;
Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
And lay me down in peace with them that rest.
Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate;
And morning dreams, as pocts tell, are true.
Led by pale ghosts, I enter death's dark gate,
And bid the realms of light and life adieu.

I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe;
I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore,
The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,
Which mortals visit, and return no more.

Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains! Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound, Where melancholy with still silence reigns,

And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.

There let me wander at the close of eve,

When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes; The world and all its busy follies leave,

And talk with wisdom where my Daphnis lies.

There let me sleep forgotten in the clay,

When death shall shut these weary aching eyes, Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,

Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise.

FROM "LOCHLEVEN."

Now sober Industry, illustrious power!
Hath raised the peaceful cottage, calm abode
Of innocence and joy; now, sweating, glides
The shining ploughshare; tames the stubborn soil;
Leads the long drain along th' unfertile marsh ;
Bids the bleak hill with vernal verdure bloom,
The haunt of flocks; and clothes the barren heath
With waving harvests, and the golden grain.

Fair from his hand, behold the village rise,
In rural pride, 'mong intermingled trees!
Above whose aged tops, the joyful swains
At even-tide, descending from the hill,

With eye enamour'd, mark the many wreaths
Of pillar'd smoke, high-curling to the clouds.
The street resounds with labour's various voice,
Who whistles at his work. Gay on the green,
Young blooming boys, and girls with golden hair,
Trip nimble-footed, wanton in their play,
The village hope. All in a rev'rend row,
Their grey-hair'd grandsires, sitting in the sun,
Before the gate, and leaning on the staff,
The well-remember'd stories of their youth
Recount, and shake their aged locks with joy.
How fair a prospect rises to the eye,
Where beauty vies in all her vernal forms,
For ever pleasant, and for ever new!
Swells the exulting thought, expands the soul,
Drowning each ruder care: a blooming train
Of bright ideas rushes on the mind.
Imagination rouses at the scene,
And backward, through the gloom of ages past,
Beholds Arcadia, like a rural queen,
Encircled with her swains and rosy nymphs,
The mazy dance conducting on the green.
Nor yield to old Arcadia's blissful vales
Thine, gentle Leven! green on either hand
Thy meadows spread, unbroken of the plough,
With beauty all their own. Thy fields rejoice
With all the riches of the golden year.
Fat on the plain, and mountain's sunny side,
Large droves of oxen, and the fleecy flocks
Feed undisturb'd, and fill the echoing air
With music grateful to the master's ear:
The traveller stops, and gazes round and round
O'er all the scenes, that animate his heart
With mirth and music. Even the mendicant,
Bowbent with age, that on the old gray stone,
Sole sitting, suns him in the public way,
Feels his heart leap, and to himself he sings.

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Or, at the purple dawn of day,
Tadmor's marble wastes survey*,
You, recluse, again I woo,
And again your steps pursue.

Plumed Conceit himself surveying,
Folly with her shadow playing,
Purse-proud, elbowing Insolence,
Bloated empiric, puff'd Pretence,
Noise that through a trumpet speaks
Laughter in loud peals that breaks,
Intrusion with a fopling's face,
(Ignorant of time and place,)
Sparks of fire Dissension blowing,
Ductile, court-bred Flattery, bowing,
Restraint's stiff neck, Grimace's leer,
Squint-eyed Censure's artful sneer,
Ambition's buskins, steep'd in blood,
Fly thy presence, Solitude.

Sage Reflection, bent with years,
Conscious Virtue void of fears,
Muffled Silence, wood-nymph shy,
Meditation's piercing eye,
Halcyon Peace on moss reclined,
Retrospect that scans the mind,
Rapt earth-gazing Reverie,
Blushing artless Modesty,

Health that snuffs the morning air,
Full-eyed Truth with bosom bare,
Inspiration, Nature's child,
Seek the solitary wild.

You, with the tragic muse retired,
The wise Euripides inspired,
You taught the sadly-pleasing air
That Athens saved from ruins bare.
You gave the Cean's tears to flow,
And unlock'd the springs of woe;
You penn'd what exiled Naso thought,
And pour'd the melancholy note.
With Petrarch o'er Vaucluse you stray'd,
When death snatch'd his long-loved maid;
You taught the rocks her loss to mourn,
Ye strew'd with flowers her virgin urn.

[* Johnson praised Grainger's Ode to Solitude, and repeated with great energy the exordium, observing, "This, Sir, is very noble."-CROKER'S Boswell, vol. iv. p. 50.

What makes the poetry in the image of the marble waste of Tadmor, in Grainger's "Ode to Solitude," so much admired by Johnson? Is it the marble or the waste, the artificial or the natural object? The waste is like all other wastes; but the marble of Palmyra makes the poetry of the passage as of the place.-LORD BYRON, Works, vol. vi. p. 359.

This was said by Byron in the great controversy these Specimens gave rise to between Lord Byron and Mr. Bowles the poet,-the Art and Nature squabble. Surely the poetry of the passage does not depend upon a single word:

'Tis not a lip or eye, we beauty call.

"In this fine Ode," says Percy, "are assembled some of the sublimest images in nature."- Reliques, vol. ii. p. 352.]

And late in Hagley you were seen,
With bloodshed eyes, and sombre mien,
Hymen his yellow vestment tore,
And Dirge a wreath of cypress wore.
But chief your own the solemn lay
That wept Narcissa young and gay,
Darkness clapp'd her sable wing,
While you touch'd the mournful string,
Anguish left the pathless wild,
Grim-faced Melancholy smiled,
Drowsy Midnight ceased to yawn,
The starry host put back the dawn,
Aside their harps even seraphs flung
To hear thy sweet Complaint, O Young!
When all nature's hush'd asleep,
Nor Love nor Guilt their vigils keep,
Soft you leave your cavern'd den,
And wander o'er the works of men ;
But when Phosphor brings the dawn
By her dappled coursers drawn,
Again you to the wild retreat
And the early huntsman meet,
Where as you pensive pace along,
You catch the distant shepherd's song,
Or brush from herbs the pearly dew,
Or the rising primrose view.
Devotion lends her heaven-plumed wings,
You mount, and nature with you sings.
But when mid-day fervours glow,
To upland airy shades you go,

Where never sunburnt woodman came,
Nor sportsman chased the timid game;
And there beneath an oak reclined,
With drowsy waterfalls behind,
You sink to rest.

Till the tuneful bird of night

From the neighbouring poplars' height
Wake you with her solemn strain,
And teach pleased Echo to complain.

With you roses brighter bloom,
Sweeter every sweet perfume,
Purer every fountain flows,
Stronger every wilding grows.
Let those toil for gold who please,
Or for fame renounce their ease.
What is fame? an empty bubble.
Gold a transient shining trouble.
Let them for their country bleed,
What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed ?
Man's not worth a moment's pain,
Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain.
Then let me, sequester'd fair,
To your sibyl grot repair;
On yon hanging cliff it stands,
Scoop'd by nature's salvage hands,
Bosom'd in the gloomy shade
Of cypress not with age decay'd.
Where the owl still-hooting sits,
Where the bat incessant flits,
There in loftier strains I'll sing
Whence the changing seasons spring,

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sioned by the stone. He was a zealous pupil of the Shaftesbury school; and published, besides his Poems, a Life of Socrates, Letters on Taste, and Epistles to the Great from Aristippus in retirement.

WAS of an ancient family in Nottinghamshire, | Fair, after a long and excruciating illness, occaand possessed the estate of Thurgarton Priory, where he exercised the active and useful duties of a magistrate. He resided, however, occasionally in London, and was a great promoter of the Society for the Encouragement of Arts and Manufactures. He died at his house in May

SONG*.

AWAY! let nought to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

What though no grants of royal donors

With pompous titles grace our blood, We'll shine in more substantial honours, And, to be noble, we'll be good.

Our name while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke;
And all the great ones, they shall wonder
How they respect such little folk.

What though, from Fortune's lavish bounty,
No mighty treasures we possess ;
We'll find, within our pittance, plenty,
And be content without excess.

Still shall each kind returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,

And that's the only life to live.

[*"This beautiful address to conjugal love," says Dr. Percy, "a subject too much neglected by the libertine Muses, was, I believe, first printed in a volume of miscellaneous poems, by several hands, published by D. Lewis, 1726, 8vo. It is there said, how truly I know not, to be a translation from the ancient British language."

That it was printed in 1726 is certain, which as Cooper was then only three years old, is fatal to his right. Aikin blames Percy for inserting it among his Reliques, “for the title," he says, "was only a poetic fiction, or rather a stroke of satire."

Cooper printed the poem in his Letters on Taste (1755) but did not print his claim, as Aikin and others have ignorantly done.]

Through youth and age, in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread ;
Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.
How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung!
To see them look their mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue!
And when with envy Time transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys;
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I'll go wooing in my boys.

SONG.

THE nymph that I loved was as cheerful as day,
And as sweet as the blossoming hawthorn in May,
Her temper was smooth as the down on the dove,
And her face was as fair as the mother's of love.

Though mild as the pleasantness zephyr that sheds,
And receives gentle odours from violet beds,
Yet warm in affection as Phoebus at noon,
And as chaste as the silver-white beams of the moon.

Her mind was unsullied as new-fallen snow,
Yet as lively as tints of young Iris's bow,
As firm as the rock, and as calm as the flood
Where the peace-loving halcyon deposits her brood.

The sweets that each virtue or grace had in store
She cull'd as the bee would the bloom of each
flower;

Which treasured for me, O! how happy was I,
For though hers to collect, it was mine to enjoy.

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