The Band in a most learned plea, Told her, if she would please to wed Old solemn truth, With books and morals, into bed, The Bob, he talked of management, He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirth, Of one, who labour'd all his life To make a mine of gold his own, And not spend sixpence when he'd done, When these two blades had done, d'ye see, It proved such sunshine weather WILLIAM CONGREVE. BORN 1669.-DIED 1729. FROM THE MOURNING BRIDE. Almeria meeting her husband Alphonso, whom she had imagined to be dead, now disguised as the captive Osmyn, at the tomb of his father Anselmo. Enter ALMERIA and LEOnora. Alm. It was a fancied noise, for all is hushed. Alm. It was thy fear, or else some transient wind Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle, We'll listen Leon. Hark! Alm. No, all is hushed, and still as death-'tis 1 dreadful! How reverend is the face of this tall pile, Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, And terror on my aching sight; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, Alm. It may my fears, but cannot add to that. Lead me o'er bones and skulls, and mouldering earth, Of human bodies; for I'll mix with them, "Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corpse, Yet Enter HELI. Heli. I wander through this maze of monuments, Yet cannot find him-Hark! sure 'tis the voice Of one complaining-There it sounds!-I'll follow it. [Exit. SCENE II.-Opening, discovers a place of Tombs: one Monument, fronting the view, greater than the rest. Enter ALMERIA and LEONora. Leon. Behold the sacred vault, within whose womb The poor remains of good Anselmo rest, Alm. Sure 'tis the friendly yawn of death for me; Shall rest; shews me the grave, where nature, weary And long oppressed with woes and bending cares, Oh, ecstacy of thought! Help me, Anselmo; OSMYN ascending from the tomb.. Osm. Who calls that wretched thing that was Alphonso? Alm. Angels, and all the host of heaven, support me! Osm. Whence is that voice, whose shrillness, from the grave, And growing to his father's shroud, roots up Alm. Mercy! Providence! Oh, speak, And from my eyes! Osm. Amazement and illusion! Rivet and nail me where I stand, ye powers, [Coming forward. That, motionless, I may be still deceived! Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve I'll catch it ere it Ha! it sinks, it falls; goes, and grasp her shade! 'Tis life! 'tis warm! 'tis she, 'tis she herself! Nor dead, nor shade, but breathing and alive! It is Almeria, it is my wife! |