To His Grace the

DUKE of Dorset .

M Y Verse is Satire; D ORSET , lend your ear,
And patronize a Muse you cannot fear ;
To Poets sacred is a D ORSET 's name,
Their wonted passport thro' the gates of Fame;
It bribes the partial reader into praise,
And throws a Glory round the shelter'd lays;
The dazzled Judgment fewer faults can fee,
And gives applause to B — e , or to Me.
But you decline the mistress we pursue;
Others are fond of Fame , but Fame of You.

THE Church is fill'd; so great the faith
That City in its Bishop hath;
And now the Congregation
Are waiting there in trembling prayer
And terrible expectation.

Emmelia and her sisterhood
Have taken there their seat;
And Choristers, and Monks, and Priests
And Psalmists there, and Exorcists,
Are station'd in order meet.

In sackcloth clad, with ashes strown
Upon his whiter hair,

Public must be the sinner's shame,
As heinous his offence;
So Basil said, when he ordain'd
His form of penitence.

And never had such dismay been felt
Through that astonish'd town,
As when, at morn, the Crier went
Proclaiming up and down, —

" The miserable sinner, Eleimon,
Who for love hath sold himself to the Demon,
His guilt before God and man declares;
And beseeches all good Christians

When weariness would let her
No longer pray and weep,
And midnight long was past,
Then Cyra fell asleep.

Into that wretched sleep she sunk
Which only sorrow knows,
Wherein the exhausted body rests,
But the heart hath no repose.

Of her Father she was dreaming,
Still aware that he was dead,
When, in the visions of the night,
He stood beside her bed.

Crown'd and in robes of light he came,
She saw he had found grace;
And yet there seem'd to be
A trouble in his face.

The eye and look were still the same

Twelve years have held their quiet course
Since Cyra's nuptial day;
How happily, how rapidly,
Those years have past away!

Bless'd in her husband she hath been;
He loved her as sincerely,
(Most sinful and unhappy man!)
As he had bought her dearly.

She hath been fruitful as a vine,
And in her children bless'd;
Sorrow hath not come near her yet,
Nor fears to shake, nor cares to fret,
Nor grief to wound the breast.

From house to house, from street to street,
The rapid rumor flies;
Incredulous ears it found, and hands
Are lifted in surprise;
And tongues through all the astonish'd town
Are busier now than eyes.
" So sudden and so strange a change!
A Freedman, too, the choice!
The shame, — the scandal, — and for what?
A vision and a voice!
" Had she not chosen the strait gate, —
The narrow way, — the holy state, —
The Sanctuary's abode?
Would Heaven call back its votary
To the broad and beaten road?
" To carnal wishes would it turn

Look at yon silent dwelling now!
A heavenly sight is there,
Where Cyra in her Chamber kneels
Before the Cross in prayer.

She is not loath to leave the world;
For she hath been taught with joy
To think that prayer and praise thenceforth
Will be her life's employ.

And thus her mind hath she inclined,
Her pleasure being still
(An only child, and motherless)
To do her Father's will.

The moonlight falls upon her face,
Upraised in fervor meek,
While peaceful tears of piety
Are stealing down her cheek.

Shunning human sight, like a thief in the night,
Eleimon made no delay,
But went unto a Pagan's tomb
Beside the public way.
Enclosed with barren elms it stood,
There planted when the dead
Within the last abode of man
Had been deposited.
And thrice ten years those barren trees,
Enjoying light and air,
Had grown and flourish'd, while the dead
In darkness moulder'd there.
Long had they overtopp'd the tomb;
And closed was now that upper room
Where friends were wont to pour,
Upon the honor'd dust below,

A youth hath enter'd the Sorcerer's door,
But he dares not lift his eye,
For his knees fail, and his flesh quakes,
And his heart beats audibly.

" Look up, young man! " the Sorcerer said;
" Lay open thy wishes to me!
Or art thou too modest to tell thy tale?
If so, I can tell it thee.

" Thy name is Eleimon;
Proterius's freedman thou art;
And on Cyra, thy Master's daughter,
Thou hast madly fix'd thy heart.

" But fearing (as thou well mayest fear!)
The high-born Maid to woo,
Thou hast tried what secret prayers, and vows,

Rosy as a waking bride
By her royal lover's side,
Flows the Sorgia's haunted tide
Through the laurel grove, —
Through the grove which Petrarch gave,
All that can escape the grave —
Fame, and song, and love.

He had left a feverish bed
For the wild flowers at his head,
And the dews the green leaves shed
O'er his charmed sleep:
From his hand had dropp'd the scroll
To which Virgil left his soul
Through long years to keep.

Passion on that cheek had wrought,
Its own paleness had it brought;