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,
Sir,

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-
Go to thy mother; on thy bended knee

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,
And I am creeping to the sleepy shade

Of feeble age-a flash before it dies,

And then my light goes out. Who, poor Josepha,
Will prop thee when I fall ?-Perchance some Moor
May woo thee for his harem :-oh! 'tis sickening.

Josepha. And let him woo, and learn to be despised.
No; we have many days for peace and love
In this fair clime; for here no prying slaves
Of dull morality will blame our choice:
Here, my Ripperda, will we taste all pleasures

That passionate souls may know-by shaded fountains
Will we dream out the day; and when the light breeze
Brushes the dews of eve, my soft guitar,

And answering voice, shall wake the well-known airs
Of sweet Castile; or haply, if thine ear

Delight in Moorish notes, the mellow flute
Shall breathe its wildness o'er our silent courts,
While dancing girls shall flit before thy vision;
Till thy Josepha lead thee to the couch

Of her unshackled love.

Of tenderness in this untunable frame.
My days of dalliance all are gone, Josepha;
Their dim remembrance palls upon my soul:
One master-passion preys upon me now-

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
Bow'd to my bidding-stoop I now to sway
These poor machines, most ignorant and abas'd,—
And all to copy their voluptuous joy?

I am sunk low enough-but great revenge
Let me behold thee nigh, then, if thou lead
To infamy, and death, and hell, march on.

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
Carve not thy name from Afric's bloody shores,
Wither this arm, perish this hateful trunk—
Impale me here, or hang me up to rot,
Mad Muley, for a most perfidious renegade.
Josepha. Come to your rest; to-morrow is a day
Of feverish trial.

Ripperda.

What are forms, Josepha ?
Have I not now abjur'd my early faith,
And sear'd my conscience o'er, to hear the tale
Of the impostor Arab, with sage looks

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
For my most damn'd conversion?

ENTER JERONYMO.

How now, why stay'd you?

Have you procur'd the gold? what say they of me?
Heard you the mountaineers whisper regrets

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,
And some with execrations.

Ripperda. Their pity and their curses move alike
Ripperda. I would wipe them from my brain,
But that I see the day when, down in the dust,
They will weep bitter drops of late repentance,
And grovel for my pardon :-where is Antonio ?-
But tell me not-he waits in the blighted courts
Of faithless Madrid, with a ready lie

And supple smile; he herds with my destroyers-
He creeps to that vain queen, and prostitutes
The form his father gave him, for that woman's
Deceitful favours-speak not the changeling's name-
Tell, tell me not that I have hatch'd a serpent

In mine own blood, and warm'd him in my bosom ;-
I charge you, tell it not.

Jeron.
Most gracious lord,
Vouchsafe me a mild hearing. Your poor son
Swift posted from Vienna, when the news
Reach'd him of your misfortunes; never sleep
Lighted upon him as he hurried through
The German forests; and, when on the sea,
For many days he brav'd the terrific storm,
With thoughts alone of that more fearful tempest
That hurl'd you from your pow'r: he found your prison,
Two days from your escape; and, when he hoped
To clasp his father, by a royal order

He was immur'd himself, and only freed
Within this week.

No more-you'll drive me mad. With my own boy
I had defied the world-curse on my rashness
To fly to these barbarians. But 'tis past.
Ripperda and true greatness are divorc❜d.
Perish all thoughts of what I might have been,
And come thou clouded future to my arms,
And I will hug thee, though thou taint my
Beyond all medicine. Where is Antonio?
Jeron. In Africa.

soul

Ripperda. Provoke me not

Jeron.

Ripperda. Thou liest, damn'd slave, thou liest-he dare

To see your son, your most afflicted son,
The champion of your honour,-the-

Ripperda.
I charge thee,
On thy soul's safety tell me nought but truth;
Came Don Antonio with thee to Mequinez?
Jeron. I do protest that I have spoken truth-
He voyaged with me in the pirate sloop,
And landed here this night.

Ripperda. Josepha, can'st thou look upon my son,
Child of my sainted wife? Can I look on him?
Can I endure that his pure eye should see
This impious caftan, these eternal records
Of all my foul disgrace? perhaps he will stand
To-morrow in the mosque, hear me deny

My Saviour and my God? oh madness, madness!
Josepha. I thought Ripperda's soul was like the oak
That turbulent tempests shake not. See the boy,
And like a pious father kiss his feet,

And tell him you have sinn'd-perchance he brings
From royal Philip his benign permission

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;
And if the Pope will give you absolution,
Your heretic heart may 'scape the purging fire,
Till famine hands you to the quiet tomb-
Admit the boy and beg his gracious blessing.-
Jeron. Sir, will you see him?
Ripperda.

Never, never more!

Tell him to fly this most accursed land,

To change his name, to blot from his escutcheon
His father's ensigns; tell him to learn to hate me—
Tell him—tell him.-I faint-bear, bear me in.

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