Raff. There,-now I toil no more. While I am gone,
Do thou enrich this pannel with some tale.
Let it be gaunt, and wild, dim as a dream:
"Twill well oppose mine own.

Julio.
I'll do 't. Farewell!
Raff. I shall be with thee ere the sun's awake.
Be busy, and farewell!

Julio.

[Raff. exit.
I'll do 't, I'll do' t.
-Now, shall I paint a devil?-Ah, ha!-or drag
Misshapen Chaos from his dark abysm,
And stretch him, like a giant, in the sun?-
Or shall I tear the blue from South to North ?-
Or paint a comet plunging through the wind?-
-This "Triumph" of our friend's is wanton soft;
But there's high matter in the sea-nymph's story
Which might become a painter's pencil well.
He should have drawn the Cyclop,-as he sate
Uplifted like a crag, and piped his songs

Of Galatea to the watery shores.

Some say that Orpheus-like he charm'd dull stones,
Made ocean murmur, and the airy winds

Took captive; but 'tis known he sigh'd, and sang
The deathful ditties which belong to love;

And call'd on Galatea :-She the while

Lay mute, and closed-if e'er she heard his strains-
Her soul against his passion. Day by day

He sang. and like the mateless lark call'd forth
The dawn, and underneath the burning noon

Held mournful celebration, and at eve

Fatigued by sorrow and strange song,-he wept!
-I cannot fill this pannel as he bids.

[The Prince of Centers.]

Prince. So where is Raffaelle?

Julio.

Prince.
Julio.

Prince.

Julio.

(Sketching.)

Gone.

Gone whither ?-Gone?

Ay, marry? Cupid called him, and he went.
You'll find him by the two great lemon-trees
Which sleep beside the fountain in his garden.

H'as brought his brown girl there for summer talking.

'Sdeath! what art thou doing, sirrah?
Um as my master bade me. I have tried-

(painte.)

Prince. Tried! ay, and fail'd. Get thou to Raffaelle, fellow.
Bid him sketch for thee each particular,

The scene, the groups, the-all. I will not have
My palace painted by a meaner hand.

Bid him come here (if it must be) with his-girl,
And paint with Cupid's colours.

SCENE II.

[Exeunt.]

Will surely come, and every trooping star
Be present at his post in the dark sky,
And not a wind that woos the laurel leaves
Will dare be absent: But he-false, oh false !
Mark, wenches, if ye love-but do not love :
Yet, if ye do, fetter your lovers fast;

Bind 'em in chains, for love will fail like ice
In summer sunbeams: Trust no smiles, no oaths:
Bury your hearts beneath demurest frowns;
And tremble not, nor sigh if you'd be safe.
-Sing me a song, my child: I am not well.

1st. Attend. Hark! hark! Fornar.

Raff.

Fornar.
Raff.

Fornar. Raff.

Fornar.

Raff.

Fornar.

Raff

2d. Attend. Fornar.

2d. Attend. begins to sing.]

He's here. Mother of love, he's here.
Come! come away! I'll fly him like a deer.
Now if he finds me-Ah! thou faithless one,
[RAFFAELLE enters.]

Art come at last? I will not look on thee.
Then I must punish thee. (kisses her.) Look up!
Thou false one!

Did I not hear the nightingale in the thorn,

Just as I entered?-Why, what gloom is here?-
No welcome ?-none?-Ladies! who make our nights
Starry as heaven when no cloud 's upon it,
Shine and smile sweetly as ye love us.
What is this sullen sorrow, which so dulls

Shame!

Your brightness? Let rain fall, if rain must be,

And straight grow clear again. Look up, sweet heart!
Ha, ha, ha, ha! What seest thou now I look ?

A world of mischief in those night-black eyes,
And peril on thy mouth.

Now, art thou not
A most false lover?-Thou didst promise me
Thou would'st come long before the sun went down ;
And lo! he is departing.

The great sun

Falls from his fiery strength!-This purple light,
Traveller of the late sky, will soon-how soon!-
Pass to another world. I love this light;
'Tis the old age of day, methinks, or haply
The infancy of night: pleasant it is.

Shall we be dreaming?-Hark! The nightingale,
Queen of all music, to her listening heart

Speaks and the woods are still. Sorrow and joy,
Pleasure that pines to death and amorous pain

Fill (till it faints) her song.-What sweet noise was 't
Came up the garden as I enter'd it?

The sweetest noise on earth, a woman's tongue;
A string which hath no discord.

Come! a soft song! a song!

Let me hear it.

What shall it be?

Sing any thing, good girl. Beauty is beauty
Whether it vie with the swan's-down or the rose.
Sing!-yet not sadly, for the time is mournful,
Nor yet too gaily, that were out of tune:
But sing whatever tempts thee.

2d. Attend. sings.

Raff.

Fornar.

Raff.

Fornar.

Raff.

Fornar.
Raff.

Fornar.
Raff.

Fornar.

Raff.

SONG.

1.

O summer river!

Why dost thou prolong
Through cold nights forever
Thy sweet forest song?

2.

Thou hast some rich hours,
Wherein thou may'st pine
Underneath the flowers
Which shall ne'er be thine.
3.

Through them may'st thou run
Where green branches quiver;
But when day is done,

Sleep, sweet summer river!

This music falls on me like slumber,

And crowns me now the toilsome day is over,
With sweets that shame the laurel.

Many thanks!
I think Marcella's voice grows sweeter daily.
She'll meet pale Philomel in her haunt, and try
Whose tongue is fleetest. Where was 't she did learn?
Beside a river, when she was a girl,

Mocking its music, as the cuckoo's tongue
Is mimick'd oft by wandering urchin boys.
Sometimes she cast her voice upon the winds,
And then strove with the waters; till, at last,

She sings as you have heard. Thanks, girls' now leave us.
[Attend. exeunt.]

How soft a prelude are sweet songs to love!
I should be humble, but those sounds have crept
Into my blood and stirred it. After music
What should be heard but kisses? Take thy due.
Tush! Tush!

Come nearer to me,-near.

Mad Jove

Ne'er loved white Leda with such amorous heat,
Nor Dis (forsaking his Tartarean halls)
Pale Proserpine, as I do rage for thee.

Come nearer, thou wild witch! nearer, I say.
Be to me as the green is to the leaf,

Crimson to roses, juice to the fresh plant,
My life, my strength, my beauty-

I am here.
I love thee-dost thou hear?-I languish for thee.
Oh! I have left sweet praises for thee,-gold,-
Scarlet ambition, and the crown'd delight
Which waits upon great men who dare aud do.
Near, near, I have left-ha, ha !—a Triton winding
His brawny arms around a shapeless nymph,
God Cupid without eyes, fish without tails,

And Galatea naked as the dawn.

What is it that I see in those black eyes
Beyond all others?

Love! 'Tis love for thee !

But, what didst paint to-day?

A team of dolphins,

A brace of Tritons and a crooked shell,
And some thoughts else,-which I forget. These things

Fornar.

Raff.

Julio.

Raff.

Julio. Raff.

Julio.

Raff.

Shine well enough for men below the moon:
But I have taken horse for Venus' chamber,
Where I must sleep to-night.-Our patron prince
Will wax most wroth when he doth learn my flight.
No matter; he must cool.

But thou hast left
Thy friend-thy pupil-him-what is his name?
Thy uncouth-clever scholar?

Julio Pippi.

Troth, he's as rough as winter. Here he is!
[JULIO ROMANO enters.]

Why, what has brought thee here?

Oh! princely frowns,

A vulgar word or two, a Roman oath.
-Rather than toil for these same well-fed dogs
With a gold badge and a line which runs to Adam,
I'll visit a wolf, and starve. Your lord, your prince
Disdains my pencil, Sir-commands me stop.

I'll paint bime with a flaming robe in Hell,
And give him a dog-fish's head.

Heed him not, Julio.
If he contemn thy labour, he's a fool;
And so no more of him. Thou shalt paint for me.
I will. Shall 't be an earthquake?-or a storm?
Neither yet something which will suit thee well.
Dost love a marvel?

Do I?-By the Gods,
Who dreamt upon Greek clouds Olympus-high,

I love a quaint, wild, wonder-stirring tale.

Let it be Goth or Roman, what care I,

So that each line be stuff'd with witchery.

Then this will suit thee. Now, mark well the story.
-'Tis said that in some land, I think in Spain,
(Rising upon you like an awful dream)

A wondrous image stands. 'Tis broad and gaunt,
Tall as a giant, with stormy front

And snaky hair, and large eyes all of stone;
And arm'd-or so it seems-from head to heel
With a crook'd falchion and enormous casque
And mighty links of mail which once were brass,
And spurs of marble, and marmoreal limbs,
All bent like one who staggers. Full at the East
It glares like a defiance, lowering, bold,
And scorns still lurks about its steadfast eye,
And on its brow a lordly courage sits.

This statue, as 'tis told, was once a king,

A fierce idolater, who cursed the moon

And hated heaven, yet own'd some hellish sway :-
A strange religion this, and yet it was so.

Well, he was born a king, as I have said,
And reign'd o'er armed millions without law :
He sold brave men for beggar gold, and stain'd
The innocent youth of virtue: He robbed altars ;
Ate, like Apicius; drank, like Afric sands,
Rivers of wine; then fell to frenzy.-At last
Swarming Rebellious (like the Atlantic stirred
To madness by the bellowing of great storms)
Rose up, and lash'd to wrath by horrid wrongs,

Julio.

Raff.

Hunted the tyrant from his brazen throne-
Hunted him like a wolf from cave to cave,
Through rocks and mountains and deep perilous glens,
Day after day,-night after night,-until
His soul burst out in curses.-On one dull dawn,
Which shew'd him lurking to relentless foes,
He flung some terrible reproach at Heaven;
Laugh'd at its God, 'tis said, and cursed the Sun;
Whereat the broad eye of the Day unclosed,
And stared him into stone!-

Oh! this is brave.
I'll strain my wit but I will do this for thee.
Farewell!

[Julio exit.

Farewell!-Now, sweet, to Venus's chamber! [Exeunt

MR. PLUNKET AND HIS INFORMATIONS.

NOTWITHSTANDING the authority of Cardinal de Retz, as to the ease with which affairs of state are directed, we are often presented with proofs, that some who superintend the direction of important offices, however simple their duties, are inadequate to the task. This may arise from various causes besides want of capacity for situations, which, in most European countries, leave little more to do than to copy forms and imitate the examples of predecessors, whether such forms and examples be adopted to the present time or not. Let political chances produce a concatenation of novel circumstances around him, and what becomes of the individual whom the world had lately deemed a constellation in the official hemisphere? He is at a nonplus immediatelythe mask is removed, and a mere common-place countenance is discovered to have been beneath it. He who looked a skilful equestrian in the management of his jog-trot hack-let him be placed upon a barb or hunter that has blood enough to curvet and prance a little, and he is speedily in the mire. The rara avis of our day is the public man whose sway, prompted by the ambition of honest fame arising from the success of well-directed efforts for the public good, finds testimony, under all circumstances, of the correctness of his views and the success of his exertions. But all men are not men of genius:-still it is reasonable to expect that those, from whose habits scarcely a greater exertion of intellect is required in public duties, than the shopkeeper or artizan displays in his daily avocations, shall be equally adequate to their business, especially if far greater things have been expected from them on the ground of past promise. Men of genius and talent may err as well as others-they may be great only in the pursuit of one absorbing object, and common-place in most besides; but they will never fail in matters intimately connected with what first fixed upon them the eyes of the world. In regard to official situations, men often accept them, when foreign to their natural habits, in consequence of not having virtue to resist the temptation of place, at the expense of past fame. Others are pushed or drop into offices through the casualties of life, to the fulfilment of which they can only pretend-honour is in a manner forced upon them. But it is a rare thing indeed when one, who has been looked up to in a particular character for a series of years-whose principles, talents, and judgment, have been highly estimated-who is elevated to an office, to which, from his former career,