Page:Miscellaneous Plays 1.pdf/328

308

Will they? Where is my little Georgian maid, Whose grandsire, tho' a brave and sov'reign prince, Was piece-meal torn by a ferocious mob?

She told a wonderful surcharged tale, Perhaps to move your pity: heed it not.

Ah! whereunto do all these turmoils tend— The wild contention of these fearful times? Each day comes bearing on its weight of ills, With a to-morrow shadow'd at its back More fearful than itself.A dark progression— And the dark end of all, what will it be?

Let not such gloomy thoughts your mind o'ercast; Our noble emperor has on his side The dark and potent powers.

What is thy meaning?

A rarely-gifted man, come from afar, Who sees strange visions rise before his sight Of things to come, hath solemnly pronounc'd it,