CHARLES THE FIRST'S FAREWELL. W. G. WILLS. [See p. 386.] King. Oh, my loved solace on my thorny road, To thee do I consign my memory! Oh, banish not my name from off thy lips [QUEEN presses to him. Oh! keep my place in it for ever green, Or proudest record 'mong the tombs of kings. Bell [Soldiers enter, drawing up on either side of door. [Mournfully.] REMEMBER! (By permission of the Author.) SPEECH OF LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS. OVER THE DEAD BODY OF LUCRETIA. JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. [Mr. Payne was an American by birth, long settled in England. He wrote Brutus," a Tragedy, and several other successful dramatic pieces; among them " Clari, the Maid of Milan," in which occurs the ever popular song of Home, sweet home." Born 1793; died 1852.j . THUS, thus, my friends, fast as our breaking hearts The mask necessity has made me wear! King, do I call him!-When the monster, Tarquin, Would you know why I have summon'd you together? The mould in which each female face was form'd- By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild, Say, would ye seek instruction? Would ye ask And swell the general sound-Revenge! Revenge! WILFRID DENVER'S DREAM-"THE SILVER KING." Denver. Stay. I fell asleep. Jaikes, you don't know what a murderer's sleep is? It is the waking time of conscience! It is the whipping post she ties him to while she lashes and stings and maddens his poor helpless guilty soul! Sleep? It is a bed of spikes and horrors! It is a precipice for him to roll over, sheer upon the jags and forks of memory! It is a torchlight procession of devils raking out every infernal sewer and cranny of his brain! It is ten thousand mirrors dangling round him to picture and repicture to him nothing but himself! Sleep! Oh Ĝod there is no hell but sleep! Jaikes. Master Will! My poor Master Will. Denver. That's what my sleep has been these four years past. I fell asleep and I dreamed that we were over in Nevada, and we were seated on a throne, she and I, and all the people came to offer us their homage and loving obedience. And it was in a great hall of justice, and a man was brought before me charged with a crime; and just as I opened my mouth to pronounce sentence upon him, Geoffrey Ware came up out of his grave with his eyes staring, staring, staring, as they stared on me on that night, and as they will stare at me till my dying day; and he said "Come down! Come down you whited sepulchre! How dare you sit in that place to judge men ?" And he leapt up in his grave-clothes to the throne where I was, and seized me by the throat and dragged me down, and we struggled and fought like wild beasts. We seemed to be fighting for years, and at last I mastered him, and held him down and throttled him, and rammed him tight into his grave again, and kept him there and wouldn't let him stir, and then I saw a hand coming out of the sky, a long bony hand with no flesh on it, and nails like eagle's claws, and it came slowly out of the sky reaching for miles it seemed: slowly, slowly, it reached down to the very place where I was and it fastened in my heart, and it took me and set me in the justice hall in the prisoners' dock, and when I looked at my judge it was Geoffrey Ware! And I cried out for mercy, but there was none! And the hand gripped me again as a hawk grips a wren, and set me on the gallows, and I felt the plank fall from under my feet, and I dropped, dropped, dropped,—and I awoke! Jaikes. For mercy's sake, Master Will, no more. Denver. Then I knew that the dream was sent for a message to tell me that though I should fly to the uttermost ends of the earth, as high as the stars are above, or as deep as the deepest sea bed is below, there is no hiding-place for me, no rest, no hope, no shelter, no escape! (By permission of Mr. Wilson Barrett.) RECITATIONS. 66 THE LIFEBOAT. GEORGE R. SIMS. [Mr. Sims is essentially a poet for the people. From the commencement of his career he has identified himself with the masses, their lives, sufferings, and recreations. His works, "How the Poor Live," "The Social Kaleidoscope," Rogues and Vagabonds," and "The Ring o' Bells," are typical of a style of writing which has endeared him to the great body of the nation. His "Dagonet Ballads" are very popular with reciters. His plays, comprise "The Lights o' London," ""The Romany Rye," "The Last Chance," "In the Ranks," and "The Harbour Lights," the two last-named written in conjunction with another dramatist.] BEEN out in the lifeboat often? Ay, ay, sir, often enough! When it's rougher than this? Lor' bless you! this ain't what we calls rough! It's when there's a gale a-blowing, and the waves run in and break On the shore with a roar like thunder and the white cliffs seem to shake; When the sea is a hell of waters and the bravest holds his breath As he hears the cry for the lifeboat-his summons may be to death That's when we call it rough, sir; but, if we can't get her afloat, There's always enough brave fellows ready to man the boat. You've heard of the Royal Helen, the ship as was wrecked last year? Yon be the rock she struck on-the boat as went out be here; Was the only time as ever we'd a bother to get the men. But most on us here is married, and the wives that night was skeered. Our women ain't chicken-hearted when it comes to savin' lives, But death that night looked certain—and our wives be only wives; Their lot ain't bright at the best, sir, but here, when a man lies dead, 'Tain't only the husband missin', it's the children's daily bread; So our women began to whimper and beg o' the chaps to stay I only heerd on it after, for that night I was kept away. I was up at my cottage, yonder, where the wife lay nigh her end, She'd been ailin' all the winter, and nothin' 'ud make her mend. The doctor had given her up, sir, and I knelt by her side and prayed, With my eyes as red as a babby's, that death's hand might yet be stayed, I heerd the wild wind howlin' and I looked on the wasted form, And thought of the awful shipwreck, as had come in the ragin' storm; The wreck of my little homestead-the wreck of my dear old wife, Who sailed with me forty years, sir, o'er the troublous waves of life. And I looked at the eyes so sunken, as had been my harbour lights, To tell of the sweet home haven in the wildest, darkest nights. She knew she was sinkin' quickly-she knew as her end was nigh, From the day as I told his mother, her dear face never smiled. I had my work to think of; but she had her grief to nurse, worse. And the night as the Royal Helen went down on yonder sands, She moved in her doze a little, when her eyes were opened wide, And she seemed to be seekin' somethin', as she looked from side to side, Then half to herself she whispered, good-bye? "where's Jack, to say It's hard not to see my darlin', and kiss him afore I die!" I was stoopin' to kiss and soothe her, while the tears ran down my cheek, And my lips were shaped to whisper the words I couldn't speak, When the door of the room burst open, and my mates were there outside With the news that the boat was launchin'. their leader cried. "You're wanted!" "You've never refused to go, John; you'll put these cowards right, There's a dozen of lives may be, John, as lie in our hands to-night!" |