And let her prophecy be soon fulfill'd;

Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more.

Silence, and Darkness! solemn sisters! twins From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought To reason, and on reason build resolve, (That column of true majesty in man,)

Assist me: I will thank you in the grave—

The grave, your kingdom; there this frame shall fall A victim sacred to your dreary shrine.

But what are ye?—

Thou who didst put to flight

Primæval silence, when the morning stars,

Exulting, shouted on the rising ball;

soul;

O thou, whose word from solid darkness struck
That spark, the sun; strike wisdom from
my
My soul, which flies to thee, her trust, her treasure,
As misers to their gold, while others rest.

Through this opaque of nature, and of soul,
This double night, transmit one pitying ray,
To lighten and to cheer. Oh, lead my mind;
(A mind that fain would wander from its woe;)
Lead it through various scenes of life and death;
And from each scene the noblest truths inspire.
Nor less inspire my conduct, than my song;
Teach my best reason, reason; my best will
Teach rectitude; and fix my firm resolve
Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear;
Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, pour'd
On this devoted head, be pour'd in vain.
The bell strikes

But from its loss.

Is wise in man.

one. We take no note of time, To give it then a tongue

As if an angel spoke,

I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,

It is the knell of my departed hours:

Where are they? With the years beyond the flood.

It is the signal that demands dispatch;

How much is to be done! My hopes and fears
Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge

Look down-On what? A fathomless abyss;
A dread eternity! how surely mine!
And can eternity belong to me,

Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,
How complicate, how wonderful, is man!
How passing wonder He, who made him such!
Who centred in our make such strange extremes,
From diff'rent natures marvellously mix'd!
Connection exquisite of distant worlds!
Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain!
Midway from nothing to the Deity!
A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorb'd!
Though sullied, and dishonor'd, still divine!
Dim miniature of greatness absolute!
An heir of glory! a frail child of dust!
Helpless immortal! insect infinite!
A worm! a god!-I tremble at myself,
And in myself am lost! at home a stranger,
Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast,
And wond'ring at her own: How reason reels!
Oh, what a miracle to man is man.

Triumphantly distress'd! what joy, what dread!
Alternately transported, and alarm'd!
What can preserve my life! or what destroy!
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave;
Legions of angels can't confine me there.

'Tis påst conjecture; all things rise in proof;
While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spread,
What though my soul fantastic measures trod
O'er fairy fields; or mourn'd along the gloom
Of pathless woods; or, down the craggy steep
Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool;
Or scaled the cliff; or danced on hollow winds,
With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain!
Her ceasless flight, though devious, speaks her nature
Of subtler essence than the trodden clod;
Active, aerial, tow'ring, unconfined,

Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall.
Ev'n silent night proclaims my soul immortal:
Ev'n silent night proclaims eternal day.

For human weal, Heav'n husbands all events;
Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain.
Why then their loss deplore, that are not lost?
Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around,
In infidel distress? Are angels there?

Slumbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire?

They live! they greatly live a life on earth
Unkindled, unconceived; and from an eye
Of tenderness let heav'nly pity fall

On me, more justly number'd with the dead.
This is the desert, this the solitude:
How populous, how vital, is the grave!
This is creation's melancholy vault,
The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom;
The land of apparitions, empty shades!
All, all on earth, is shadow; all beyond
Is substance; the reverse is folly's creed:
How solid all, where change shall be no more!

128.-DEPOSITION OF KING RICHARD II.

A FRENCH knight or gentleman, whose name has not been preIserved, has left a most interesting account of the sudden and tragical downfall of one of the unhappiest of English sovereigns. Like many of his countrymen, he was attracted to England by Richard's marriage with a princess of France. He came over to London in the spring of the year 1399, and remained in close at tendance on King Richard about seven months, and until that fallen sovereign was brought to London as a prisoner by Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster. Then, returning to his own coun

that he

had seen of the behavior and sufferings of Richard. His manuscript, which formerly belonged to Charles of Anjou, Earl of Maine and Mortain, is now among the treasures preserved in the library of the British Museum. Metrical histories were common at the time of its production. It is written for the greater part in French verse or rhyme. Considered as a poem, its merits are small, but as a narrative of facts, it is exceedingly valuable, and the facts themselves are of the most moving and interesting sort. It offers an original circumstantial account of the fall of Richard II.; it bears sufficient internal evidence of its authenticity; and it has been considered as the best document of that kind, relative to the above fact, which has been transmitted to us. Its value has been well appreciated by many English writers. Among our old annalists both Holinshed and Stow made great use of it, and from Holinshed, Shakspeare drew many of the materials which he wove into his grand and pathetic historical play. In more modern times, Tyrrel, Rapin, Turner, Lingard, and other historians, have made great use of this French metrical history, quoting it as an authoritative documeut of an otherwise very obscure part of English history. But the manuscript itself was never published in a perfect form until the year 1824, when the Rev. John Webb enriched the twentieth volume of the Archæologia with it, together with an admirable English translation in prose, and copious explanatory notes. From this translation, which, with the foot notes, occupies two hundred and forty pages of a quarto volume, we will select a few passages, which relate more immediately and personally to the ill-fated Richard.

Richard's expedition to Ireland, in the summer of 1399, opened the way into England to the exiled Henry Bolingbroke. Our French knight accompanied the king to Ireland, and wrote an account of the short but difficult campaign in that country. He was with Richard at Dublin when the fatal news was brought to him that Bolingbroke had landed on the English coast, that the Archbishop of Canterbury had publicly preached a sermon in his favor, and that the great body of the nobility, as well ecclesiastic as lay, had joined him. He describes how the king's face turned pale thereat, and how many of the nobles with him treacherously detained him in Ireland for many weeks, with the view of facilitat

ing the progress of Bolingbroke. He heartily sympathizes with Richard, and still more heartily curses his rivals and the nobility and people of England, like one that has forgotten or that has never known the enormous faults and errors of the sovereign. Yet he honestly confesses that his partiality is owing in good part to Richard's fondness for Frenchmen. He says,

"I sincerely loved him, because he heartily loved the French; and besides, he was humble, generous, gentle, and courteous in all his doings. . . . . He gave most largely, and his gifts were profitable. Bold he was, and courageous as a lion. Right well and beautifully did he also make ballads, songs, roundels, and lays. Though he was but a layman, so gracious were all his deeds, that never, I think, shall that man issue from his country in whom God hath implanted so much worth as was in him."

At last Richard reached Milford Haven. But before he landed, a great army which had gathered in Wales for his service was either disbanded or won over to Bolingbroke. In his great fear he disguised himself like a poor Franciscan friar, and set out at midnight from his host attended by only a few persons, of whom our French:nan was one. He travelled hard all night, and reached Conway by break of day. There Le learned that his enemies had reported him to be dead, and that well-nigh all was already lost. He uttered many pious ejaculations; but he knew not what course to take. At length he resolved to send the Duke of Exeter and the Earl of Surrey to tell Henry of Bolingbroke that he was doing much amiss, but that he, the rightful King of England, would pardon him and reinstate him in all his honors and lands, if he would but desist. Henry, who was at Chester, made Exeter and Surrey his prisoners. Upon receiving this intelligence, the king, who had continued all sorrowful at Conway," with his intimate friends "all sad and distressed," went straight to Beaumaris. There was a strong castle there that could not have been taken in ten years, if it had only been victualled and furnished with a sufficient and faithful garrison. But there were provisions in none of the king's castles in these parts, and there was fidelity and affection to him in no place whatsoever. Not being able to stay at Beaumaris he went to Caernarvon Castle, which he found totally unfurnished.