we can promise you an inexhaustible supply of every sort of poetry;-for all our writers agree that they do not know what is come to the booksellers. Since "The Martyr of Antioch" appeared, they blow their fingers by instinct, when a poem is named, as if some one of the fraternity had thrust his digitals into the kitchen fire. Hoping the honour of your orders, which we shall be proud to execute with all punctuality and dispatch, We remain, Your humble Servants to command, Leadenhall-street, April 21, 1823. PAPERSTAIN and Co. RIPPERDA. Ripperda's Palace, in Mequinez. RIPPERDA and JOSEPHA, sitting on a couch. Ripperda. My poor Josepha-leave me to my fate- Bewail thy fault, marry some honest man, Or seek a convent's safety and oblivion. Josepha. No: I will follow thee to death, Ripperda Abjure my kindred, and all holy vows Breath'd from my cradle. I have wed thy fame, And I will yet pursue it, though it lead me To reprobation. Thy friends are my friends, Thy country my country, thy Gods my Gods! Ripperda. Wretched enthusiast! thou art very young, Of feeble age-a flash before it dies, And then my light goes out. Who, poor Josepha, Josepha. And let him woo, and learn to be despised. That passionate souls may know-by shaded fountains And answering voice, shall wake the well-known airs Delight in Moorish notes, the mellow flute Of her unshackled love. Of tenderness in this untunable frame. Hate, thickening hate.-(Ripperda rises.)-I have no place for love. Josepha, (following Ripperda.) O, now you're growing wild-prithee be gentle. Ripperda. Am I come here to herd with these barbarians ; Have I foresworn all memory of glory, Real, substantial glory, when high minds I am sunk low enough-but great revenge Josepha. Soft, soft-this frenzy shakes you. Ripperda. Let me once grapple with thy power in arms, Perfidious Philip, weak, drivelling tyrant, I make no vows-but if this Moorish blade Ripperda. What are forms, Josepha ? And mean prostrations; think you I shall shrink At the old Mufti's beard? or feel a qualm When the believers' shouts shall rend the air ENTER JERONYMO. How now, why stay'd you? Have you procur'd the gold? what say they of me? For the great duke? or know they where I am And curse the apostate?—say on-say on. Jeron. My lord, I have the gold. None, that I learn, Know you are here: some speak of you with tears, Ripperda. Their pity and their curses move alike And supple smile; he herds with my destroyers- In mine own blood, and warm'd him in my bosom ;- Jeron. He was immur'd himself, and only freed No more-you'll drive me mad. With my own boy soul Ripperda. Provoke me not Jeron. Ripperda. Thou liest, damn'd slave, thou liest-he dare To see your son, your most afflicted son, Ripperda. Ripperda. Josepha, can'st thou look upon my son, My Saviour and my God? oh madness, madness! And tell him you have sinn'd-perchance he brings To rot in Spain on a mechanic's fare; Or, perhaps, to till your confiscated lands As the court steward. Oh! 'tis a glorious chance; Never, never more! Tell him to fly this most accursed land, To change his name, to blot from his escutcheon THE BURIAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST. "AND now, good Master Mason, you may to your work. Hereabout I think be the spot;-and by the time that you have removed the earth I will again attend you." The personage from whom these orders proceeded was Mr. Thomas Herbert. There was an air of calm melancholy in his demeanour; but, like many other men under circumstances of affliction, the exercise of a little self-importance imparted an alacrity to his movements which would have befitted a less solemn occasion. It was his duty to prepare, for the remains of the unhappy Charles, a secure and honourable resting place. The suspicions of the Parliamentary Commissioners allowed little time for previous arrangement;-and therefore the plain hearse which bore the mangled corpse, attended by a few faithful followers, had passed into the Castle of Windsor, before the grave was chosen, in the Chapel of St. George, where it was to rest for ever from persecution. "Young man," said Herbert to the page who attended him, "we must lay our dear master in a royal tomb. Though the dogs have hunted him to the death, we will give him a resting place in no common earth. This is the sepulchre of Edward the Fourth. It was wont to be hung with pearls, and rubies, and other seemly ornaments ;-but the disinterested reformers have left nothing but the plain monument of steel. It is of curious workmanship, boy." "I marvel," quoth one of the labourers, "what all this fuss is about where they shall lay him! As the Parliament have cut off his head, it can argufy little where they bestow his trunk. This ground is plaguy hard, and he who last put a spade in it has been boxed up himself, with all his great grand-children long enew I warrant ye." 66 Varlet," replied the master, "cease your profane talking. There are those will bury the king who can pay for the digging." Have you come to the crown of the vault?" "Rot it, no-neither crown nor side. I think we may finish the job to-morrow, if they will put him here. How long may King Edward have been dead, master?" The more patient tradesman exhorted his labourers to persevere; but their efforts were still unsuccessful. Herbert grew cold and weary, and after many vain directions took another stroll round the solitary chapel. At the entrance he encountered the worthy Bishop Juxon, and they together walked into the choir. "Ten years ago, ere the troubles began," said the good Bishop, in a voice that implied something between a reverie and an address to Herbert, "ten years ago, I saw our poor dead master sit in that stall, in all the glory and power of a king. His nobles were around him, and the banners of royal and princely houses waved above them, and the loud organ sounded a jubilate, and the people looked on in awe and reverence. And now we are seeking to consign him to a hasty grave-and the place of splendour is desolate and plundered of its ornaments—and the nobles are proscribed or they are traitors -and their banners are torn down and their escutcheons defaced -and the night bird comes in at the broken lattice to make her nest in their abandoned seats-and the glory of the church and of the land has passed away." "I have some old notions about the church," replied Herbert, "but they might have corrected her errors without stripping her of her decent reverence |