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Tyke. Brandy! brandy!

Ld. A. Compose yourself-follow me-(Crosses L.) -you want sleep.

Tyke. Sleep! ha! ha! under the sod I may.

[Points down, and groans heavily. Exit, following LORD AVONdale, l.

Inside of Cottage.-Table, and a candle burning on it.— OLD MAN seated R., looking on a purse.-TYKE sitting, L.

O. Man. Pray, sir, who is that generous youth? Tyke. Why, he's a kind of a foreman like to Lord Avondale, my friend.

O. Man. Are you the friend of that worthy noble

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Tyke. Yes; between ourselves-I have him under my thumb; but I say that out of confidence—you understand. That's a smartish purse you've got there; but, I tell you what, I don't think it's very safe, just


O. Man. Indeed, sir! You alarm me!

Tyke. I tell you what—I'll take care of this for you. (Takes the purse.)

O. Man. Well, sir, you are very kind. You live at

the castle?

Tyke. Yes, yes !

O. Man. Then, perhaps, you could aid a petition I have presented to his lordship-my name is

Tyke. Well, well, let's hear your name.

O. Man. Robert Tyke.

Tyke. Eh!-what-speak!-no, don't!
O. Man. Robert Tyke!

Tyke. (Trembling violently, rushes to the table, brings down the candle, looks at the OLD MAN, dashes candle and purse on the ground, and tears his hair in agony.) 0, villain-villain !

O. Man. What's the matter?
Tyke. Don't you know me?

O. Man. No, sir.

Tyke. I'm glad on't-I'm glad on't-Ruin my own father!

O. Man. Ah! did I hear rightly? Father!-what! Oh! let me see-let me see! (TYKE, with a countenance strongly impressed with shame and sorrow, turns round.) Ah! it's my son-my long-lost, dear profligate boy! Heaven be thanked!-Heaven be thanked!

Tyke. (Groaning, strikes his breast.) Oh! burst, burst, and ease me! Eh!-but he's alive-father's alive! ha! ha! (Laughs hysterically.)

O. Man. You terrify me! Robert, Robert, hear me. Take my forgiveness-take my blessing!


What!-forgive-bless-such a rogue as

(Bursts into a flood of tears.)

O. Man. Be composed.

Tyke. Let me cry; it does me good, father-it does me good.

O. Man. Oh! if there be holy water, it surely is the sinner's tears.

Tyke. But he's alive. (Rushes into his arms.)

O. Man. Ay! alive to comfort and pardon thee, my poor prodigal, and Heaven will pardon thee!

Tyke. No, don't say that, father, because it can't.
O. Man. It is all-merciful.

Tyke. Yes, I know it is. I know it would if it could, but not me! No, no!

O. Man. Kneel down, and ask its mercy.

Tyke. I dare not, father-I dare not! Oh, if I durst but just thank it for thy life!

O. Man. Angels will sing for joy.

Tyke. What!-may I, think you? May I-may I? [By degrees he tremblingly falls on his knees, and clasps his hands with energetic devotion.

Scene Closes.




ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep

That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time!

I saw the last of human mould,
That shall creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!

The sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!

Some had expired in fight,-the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some!

Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm pass'd by-

Saying, We are twins in death, proud sun,

Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis mercy bids thee go;

For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth

His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,

The vassals of his will;

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day:
For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal'd not a passion or a pang
Entail'd on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.

Even I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sunless agonies,
Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.

The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,—
The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him
Who gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim,
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recall'd to breath,
Who captive led captivity,

Who robb'd the grave of victory,—
And took the sting from death!

Go, sun, while mercy

holds me up

On nature's awful waste,

To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste-
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,
On earth's sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his immortality,
Or shake his trust in God!


PAPA was deep in weekly bills,
Mamma was doing Fanny's frills,
Her gentle face full

Of woe; said she, "I do declare
He can't go back in such a pair-
They're too disgraceful!"

"Confound it!" quoth papa. Perhaps
The ban was deeper, but the lapse
Of time has drowned it;

Besides, 'tis badness to suppose
A worse, when goodness only knows
He meant Confound it.

The butcher's book-that unctuous diary—
Had made my parent's temper fiery,
And bubble over;

So quite in spite he flung it down,
And spilt the ink, and spoilt his own
Fine table-cover

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