Countess. True; true. And I expect my powerful kinsman, The. And for my father's sake, perhaps Countess. Thy father!-aye, indeed-thy father! Theodore, I have a boon to ask of thee. Conrade has told me thou wilt to the wars; The. How can poor Theodore, This wondrous bounty! Not for the wide world, Yet I have dared to love-Oh, pardon me! What is that proud word rank? What hath it been, From air, and sunshine, and the song of birds, And the sweet scent of flowers? And must it now Enter Frederick. Fred. Thank Heaven, she's found!-I have sought you Every where, madam. I have that to tell Which may not brook delay. Countess. Return'd? Is the Count Lindorf Fred. My gracious lady, he is dead. Fred. Even so. Last night Count Lindorf died. Countess. No, no, he lives! the real Count Lindorf lives! My son! my son! my own, my very son! Thou, for whose sake I have endured to live In prison and in sorrow-thou art mine, My Theodore! In the face of all the world I will proclaim thee rightful Count of Lindorf. The. Mother! I do not ask if this be real, My heart has always claim'd thee. Yes; I am Thy son, thy very son. Ber. What then is she? Countess. Countess. And the poor Bertha My daughter, still my daughter. The. Bertha, my sister! No; thy wife. Will that Please thee as well? And our dear Conrade's child. Con. My own sweet child. Countess. My son, thy speaking eyes Demand my story. Briefly let me tell A grief which eighteen years have left as fresh Born to lead all hearts captive. Such he was As thou art now. Look at the features, Frederick- Countess. I loved him—we were in our bridal year Oh, how I loved him! So did all the world, Except his envious brother. They went forth Together, at the break of day, to hunt Here in this very forest; and at eve, One-only one-return'd. Mine-Mine-O God! The agony, the frightful agony. When he at last was brought !-O God! The. My mother ! Countess. Some tale was told of direful accident- Hath well aveng'd us! But, ere yet the flush Of bold triumphant guilt had paled to fear And grief and horror had brought on my pains- Con. Pay it to my Bertha. The. She is herself that debt! What was the life Of fifty, such as I, compared to Bertha ? A paltry boon, scarce worth my thanks, dear father! She is the treasure! Ber. I must go tend my fawn. Countess. She Cease, flatterer, cease! My son, I long You will find To see you in your castle. Fred. The Baron Zutphen there to greet you, madam. He came to proffer succour and protection Welcome his brave young kinsman. Not a heart, Of this discovery. Countess. Theodore, my son, How proud I am of that unwonted word! Let us go meet the Baron. Bertha, Conrade, Daughter and friend, come with me; this kind cousin Must see how rich I am. My own dear son ! [Exeunt. EPITAPHS. THE HERE is a humble, unpretending kind of poetry, limited in its subject-the production alike of the learned and the ignorant, the high and low, the rich and poor-which, alike interesting to all, has failed to obtain much regard from those to whom it addresses instruction: I mean Epitaphs. The living naturally wish to shun all intercourse with the dead; and though the latter, in many a warning line, lift up their voice, and call aloud from the ground, we heed not the posthumous counsel, but tread over the gravel, or the green sod, which covers our ancestor's dust, without even whistling to keep our courage up. In the course of a long and busy life, I have read many epitaphs in various parts of England; and though many of these are the avowed productions of men of learning and genius, yet by far the greatest number, like the songs of the peasantry, are the production of humble and nameless persons. I have not failed to observe, that the inscriptions which spoke the plainest sense, expressed the happiest sentiments, contained the richest poetry, and gave the most original and vivid portraiture of past beauty or worth, were generally the works of obscure persons, whose names are unknown to literature; and who, probably both before and after, sought no intercourse with the muse. I shall only transcribe now a few of these epitaphs, which seem not generally known, and confine myself rather to the curious than the beautiful. The following very simple and affecting epitaph expresses more in few words than we usually observe in this kind of composition: Nineteen years a maiden, One year a wife, And so I lost my life. The brevity of the following is of a different nature, and approaches too close to the epigrammatic: Life is uncertain, death is sure; Sin is the wound, and Christ the cure. An inscription in Kingston churchyard, Surrey, seems to be composed on the judicious precept of Butler: For brevity is very good, Where we are, or are not understood. It is as follows: Live well, die never, Die well, and live for ever. Many wretched conceits, middling jokes, obscure compliments, as well as innumerable lines, are cut in stone. The following, on a child, will be found at Brighton: He tasted of life's bitter cup, Refused to drink the potion up; But turn'd his little head aside, Disgusted with the taste, and died.. Those who die at peace with the world, and leave rich legacies to their relations, commonly come in for a very reasonable share of good qualities in their epitaphs. There is some bitterness contained in two lines on a tombstone at Pentonville: Death takes the good-too good on earth to stay, And leaves the bad-too bad to take away. An inscription at Islington is in better taste and gentler feeling. It is on a child some months old; and, brief as it is, contains a fine sentiment: Here virtue sleeps-restrain the pious tear! He waits that judgment which he cannot fear. seem of the same opinion; and we hope all the tailors of the district lay the virtues of their righteous brother to heart, and seek to practise them in their lives: The merry people of Cheshire mingle no gall in their remembrance of their benefactors. We have, ourselves, always loved the calling of a tailor, and thought, with the old Scottish poet, that he is more than man, rather than less. The inhabitants of Cheshire He left the world, and faintly cried, Amen. There is some conceit in this plain epitaph at Southampton, but it will be forgiven for the sake of the commencing line : A plain rough man, but without guile or pride, Goodness his aim, and honesty his guide; Could all the pomps of this vain world despise, And only after death desired to rise. One on a young man at Chichester He lived one hundred and five, An hundred to five You live not so long. The following ludicrous addition was made by the officers in garrison when they restored the decayed monu ment: An honest soldier never is forgot, An old fisherman of Kent is thus remembered in the church-yard of Hythe : His net old fisher George long drew, Nor fish or fisherman escapes Death's all-enclosing net. I like the unassuming epitaph of John and Martha Wright;-it says much in small space : Plain in their form, but rich they were in mind: Religious, quiet, honest, meek, and kind. Nor do I dislike the lines on Sophia Bovil, a child of two years old: Rest soft thy dust, wait the Almighty's will, Here fast asleep, full six feet deep, It was almost one of the last acts of Horne Tooke to cause a vault to be made in his garden, surmounted by a slab of black marble, for which he wrote the following inscription, and caused it to be engraved with directions that his executors should fill up the blank : John Horne Tooke, stone was removed from the garden, the old inscription effaced and its place supplied by an epitaph from another hand. In the church-yard of Bayswater, mid-way down the ground on the left ed by nettles and rank grass, unnoticed, hand, leaning against the wall, obscurand perhaps unknown, stands a rude memorial of common rough stone, indebted to no gifted and cunning hand for beauty of form, and to no elegant mind for the inscription with which it is covered. It is the tomb-stone of Laurence Sterne. Perhaps his countrymen who are so patriotic, so witty, in their remembrances, so fond of numwhen the wine is good, so affectionate bering Sterne among those steady lights which contribute to the fixed splendour of Ireland, may reflect, while they laugh and wonder, and weep over his dead, and have the grace to propose to pages, that he sleeps among the vulgar honour themselves by erecting a monument to his memory. That the noble, the wealthy, the witty, and the gay, left the interment of Sterne and the erection of his grave-stone, to mechanics and strangers, is a reproach that can never be removed. Near this place lies the body of The Reverend Laurence Sterne, A. M. Died Sept. 13, 1768, aged 53 years. This monumental stone was erected to the memory of the deceased by two brother Masons; for although he did not live to be a member of their society, yet all his incomparable performances evidently prove him to have acted by rule and square. They rejoice in this opportunity of perpetuating his high and irreproachable character to after ages. late proprietor, now occupier of this spot, What did it boot him, ridiculed, abused, born in 1736, died in Contented and grateful. His singular request to be buried in his own garden was not complied with : he was interred at Ealing; the tomb By fools insulted, and by prudes accused; &c. &c. Cumberland, Aug. 1821. W. & s. |