VENI CREATOR.

Refine and purge our earthly parts:
But, oh inflame and fire our hearts!
Our frailties help, our vice control,
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thine hand, and hold them down.

Chase from our minds the infernal foe,
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;
And, lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us in the way.

Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise all that we believe :
Give us Thyself, that we may see
The Father, and the Son, by Thee.
*Immortal honour, endless fame,
Attend the Almighty Father's name!
The Saviour Son be glorified,

Who for lost man's redemption died!
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to thee!

263

THOMAS OTWAY.

(1652-1685.)

THE history of the drama, after the extinction, in Shirley, of the spirit of the reigns of Elizabeth and James, presents no greater name than that of Otway. He had caught the genius of nature's pathos which the greater mind of Dryden had missed; and according to the expression of Sir W. Scott, "more tears have been shed for the sorrows of Belvidera and Monimia than for those of Juliet and Desdemona." When the acted drama was popular, this remark was just, but Otway's plays are now rarely performed, and little read compared with those of Shakespeare. Yet in "Venice Preserved," as Dryden remarked, "the passions are truly touched," and "nature is there, which is the greatest beauty." Otway's life was short, fitful, and unhappy. He was the son of an English clergyman, and born at Trotton in Sussex. Leaving the university of Oxford without a degree, he attempted to become a player in London. A few years afterwards he obtained a commission in the army in Flanders, but soon returned home. He was continually in the most wretched poverty, although several of his pieces were eminently successful on the stage. He is alleged by some to have died of voraciously eating a piece of bread after one of the lengthened fasts to which his circumstances often condemned him. His reputation rests on his two tragedies, "The Orphan," and "Venice Preserved." Both are disfigured by moral and literary improprieties: yet the intensity of interest awakened by the exhibition of natural emotions, justifies the high place they hold in English literature. He wrote a considerable quantity of occasional poetry, but its merit is very humble.

FROM "VENICE PRESERVED."

Act IV. Scene 2.

THE BETRAYED CONSPIRATORS, AND THE REVELATION OF JAFFIER'S TREACHERY.

Scene. The Senate House of Venice. The Duke and Senators; Pierre, Renault, and other conspirators, in chains. Guards, etc.

Pierre. You, my lords, and fathers,

(As you are pleased to call yourselves) of Venice;
If you sit here to guide the course of justice,
Why these disgraceful chains upon the limbs
That have so often labour'd in your service?
Are these the wreaths of triumph you bestow

On those that bring you conquest home and honours?
Duke. Go on; you shall be heard, sir.

Pierre. Are these the trophies I've deserved for fighting
Your battles with confederated powers?

When winds and seas conspired to overthrow you,

And brought the fleets of Spain to your own harbours;
When you, great Duke, shrunk trembling in your palace,—
Stepp'd not I forth, and taught your loose Venetians
The task of honour, and the way to greatness?

Raised you from your capitulating fears

To stipulate the terms of sued-for peace?

And this my recompense! If I'm a traitor,

Produce my charge; or show the wretch that's base
And brave enough to tell me, I'm a traitor!
Duke. Know you one Jaffier?

Pierre. Yes, and know his virtue.

His justice, truth, his general worth, and sufferings
From a hard father, taught me first to love him.
Duke. See him brought forth.

Enter Captain, and Jaffier in chains.

Pierre. My friend too bound! Nay, then

Our fate has conquer'd us, and we must fall.—

Why droops the man, whose welfare's so much mine

They're but one thing? These reverend tyrants, Jaffier,

Call us traitors. Art thou one, my brother?

Jaff. To thee I am the falsest, veriest slave,

That e'er betrayed a generous trusting friend,

And gave up honour to be sure of ruin.

All our fair hopes, which morning was t'have crowned,
Has this cursed tongue o'erthrown.

Pierre. So, then all's over :

Venice has lost her freedom, I my life.
No more!

FROM VENICE PRESERVED.

Duke. Say; will you make confession

Of your vile deeds, and trust the senate's mercy?

Pierre. Cursed be your senate, cursed your constitution! The curse of growing factions, and divisions

Still vex your councils, shake your public safety,

And make the robes of government you wear

Hateful to you, as these base chains to me!

Duke. Pardon, or death?

Pierre. Death! honourable death!

Ren. Death's the best thing we ask or you can give. No shameful bonds, but honourable death!

265

Duke. Break up the council. [To Officer.] Guard your prisoners, sir.

Take Pierre into your charge, apart from the rest. [To Captain. Jaffier, you're free, but these must wait for judgment.

[Exeunt Duke, Senators, Conspirators, and Officer. Pierre. Come, where's my dungeon? Lead me to my straw. It will not be the first time I've lodged hard,

To do your senate service.

Faff. Hold one moment.

Pierre. Who's he disputes the judgment of the senate? Presumptuous rebel !—on—

Jaff. By heaven you stir not!

[Strikes Jaffier.

[Exeunt Captain and Guard.

I must be heard; I must have leave to speak.

Thou hast disgraced me, Pierre, by a vile blow:
Had not a dagger done thee nobler justice?

But use me as thou wilt, thou canst not wrong me,
For I am fallen beneath the basest injuries;

Yet look upon me with an eye of mercy,

And, as there dwells a godlike nature in thee,

Listen with mildness to my supplications.

Pierre. What whining monk art thou? what holy cheat?

That would'st encroach upon my credulous ears,

And cant'st thus vilely? Hence! I know thee not!

Jaff. Not know me, Pierre !

Pierre. No, know thee not! What art thou?

Jaff. Jaffier, thy friend, thy once loved, valued friend!
Though now, deservedly, scorn'd and used most hardly.
Pierre. Thou, Jaffier! thou my once-loved, valued friend!
By heavens, thou liest; the man so called my friend,
Was generous, honest, faithful, just, and valiant;
Noble in mind, and in his person lovely;

Dear to my eyes and tender to my heart;

But thou, a wretched, base, false, worthless coward,
Poor, even in soul, loathsome in thy aspect :
All eyes must shun thee, and all hearts detest thee.
Pr'ythee avoid, no longer cling thus round me,
Like something baneful, that my nature's chilled at.

Jaff. I have not wronged thee; by these tears I have not.

THE

CLASS-BOOK OF POETRY.

PART II.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

(1664-1721.)

PRIOR was born in Abbot Street, one mile from Wimborne Minster, in Dorsetshire. He was educated by his uncle, Samuel Prior, who kept the Rummer Tavern at Charing Cross. He furnishes no intelligence himself respecting his origin. Shortly after leaving Westminster School, while residing with his uncle in London, he attracted the notice of the Earl of Dorset, who sent him to Cambridge. The publication, with Montague, of the "City Mouse and the Country Mouse," in ridicule of Dryden's "Hind and Panther," seems to have opened to the young poet the road of preferment. He obtained the secretaryship of the English Embassy in the congress at the Hague in 1691. From this period till the end of the reign of Queen Anne, he was employed by the government in high official situations. On the accession of the queen he had changed his politics; he became the intimate friend of Bolingbroke and Oxford, the chiefs of the Tory party. In 1712, at the conclusion of the Spanish Succession War, he acted under the English ambassador at the French