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The keen is loud, it comes again,
And oh, but the plumes of white were fair,
There is a voice that but one can hear,
The keen is loud, but that voice is low,
Now the grave is closed, and the mass is said,
The wreaths of virgin-white are laid,
By virgin hands, o'er the spotless maid;
"Oh! go not yet-not yet away,
Let us feel that life is near our clay,"
But the tramp and the voices of life are gone,
But who is he that lingereth yet?
Oh, who but Sir Turlough, the young and brave, Should bend him o'er that bridal grave,
And to his death-bound Eva rave?
"Weep not-weep not," said a lady fair: "Should youth and valour thus despair, And pour their vows to the empty air?"
There's charmèd music upon her tongue,
A laughing light, a tender grace,
"The maid for whom thy salt tears fall,
"My heart it strangely cleaves to thee, And now that thy plighted love is free, Give its unbroken pledge to me."
The charm is strong upon Turlough's eye,
"To thee," the charmèd chief replied,
Again the funeral voice came o'er
"If I to thy youthful heart am dear, One month from hence thou wilt meet me here, Where lay thy bridal Eva's bier."
He pressed her lips as the words were spoken, And his banshee's wail-now far and brokenMurmured "Death," as he gave the token.
"Adieu! adieu!" said this lady bright, And she slowly passed like a thing of light, Or a morning cloud, from Sir Turlough's sight.
Now Sir Turlough has death in every vein, And there's fear and grief o'er his wide domain, And gold for those who will calm his brain.
"Come, haste thee, leech, right swiftly ride, Sir Turlough the brave, Green Truagha's pride, Has pledged his love to the churchyard bride."
The leech groaned loud, "Come tell me this,
"The banshee's cry is loud and long,
"Then the fatal kiss is given;-the last Of Turlough's race and name is past, His doom is sealed, his die is cast."
"Leech, say not that thy skill is vain; Oh, calm the power of his frenzied brain, And half his lands thou shalt retain."
The leech has failed, and the hoary priest
The minstrels now are assembled all;
And there are trophy, banner, and plume;
The month is closed, and Green Truagha's pride,
Is married to Death-and, side by side,
SCENE FROM VENICE PRESERVED.
[Otway's career was one of those that are constantly pointed out as a warning to others, and instanced among the many records of the improvidence of men of genius. He was born at Trotting, Sussex, in 1651, and was educated at Winchester and Oxford. He made some ineffectual attempts to become an actor, and then commenced as a writer for the stage. In 1675 his first tragedy, "Alcibiades," was produced, followed in the next year by his "Don Carlos," which was very successful. He then served for a short time in a cavalry regiment in Flanders, but returned to resume his favourite occupation. His tragedy of "Venice Preserved" is a model for force and feeling, combined with the deep pathos that is always associated with scenes of domestic distress when touched by a master hand. He died at a public house in Towerhill, where he had secreted himself from his creditors, and in a literally starving condition, in 1685, being then only in his 34th year.]
CAPTAIN OF THE GUARDS.
THE DUKE OF VENICE.
SCENE II.-The DUKE OF VENICE, PRIULI, and other Senators, sitting.
Duke. Anthony, Priuli, senators of Venice,
Fathers, these tears were useless, these sad tears
Pri. Nay, we stand
Upon the very brink of gaping ruin.
[A noise without. Capt. Room, room, make room for some prisoners. [Without.
Duke. Give 'em entrance.
Enter JAFFIER, and CAPTAIN OF THE GUARDS.
Well, who are you?
Would every man, that hears me,
Duke. 'Tis rumour'd, that a plot has been contriv'd
Jaf. Think not that I to save my life came hither; I know its value better; but in pity
To all those wretches whose unhappy dooms