THE WITCH:

A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH

CENTURY.

CHARACTERS.

OLD SERVANT in the Family of Sir Francis Fairford. STRANGER.

Servant.-ONE summer night, Sir Francis, as it chanced,

Was pacing to and fro in the avenue

That westward fronts our house,

Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted

Three hundred years ago

By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name.
Being o'ertask'd in thought, he heeded not

The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate,
And begged an alms.

Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate
With angry chiding; but I can never think
(Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it)
That he could use a woman, an old woman,
With such discourtesy: but he refused her-
And better had he met a lion in his path
Than that old woman that night;

For she was one who practised the black arts,

And served the devil, being since burned for witchcraft.

She looked at him as one that meant to blast him:

And with a frightful noise,

("Twas partly like a woman's voice,

And partly like the hissing of a snake,)

She nothing said but this:

(Sir Francis told the words.)

"A mischief, mischief, mischief,

And a nine-times-killing curse,

By day and by night, to the caitiff wight,
Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door,
And shuts up the womb of his purse.”

And still she cried,

"A mischief,

And a nine-fold-withering curse:

For that shall come to thee that will undo thee,
Both all that thou fearest and worse.”

so saying, she departed,

Leaving Sir Francis like a man beneath

Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling;
So he described it.

Stranger.-A terrible curse!

What followed?

Servant.-Nothing immediate; but some two months after Loung Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick,

And none could tell what ailed him; for he lay,

And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off,

And he, that was full-fleshed, became as thin

As a two-months' babe that has been starved in the nursing. And sure, I think

He bore his death-wound like a little child;

With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy,

He strove to clothe his agony in smiles,

Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks,

Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling there,
And when they asked him his complaint, he laid
His hand upon his heart, to show the place
Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said,
And prick'd him with a pin-

And thereupon Sir Francis called to mind
The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway
And begged an alms.

Stranger. But did the witch confess?

Servant.-All this and more at her death.

Stranger. I do not love to credit tales of magic. Heaven's music, which is order, seems unstrung,

And this brave world

(The mystery of God,) unbeautified,

Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted.

DEDICATION.

DEAR MOXON,

TO THE PUBLISHER.

I do not know to whom a dedication of these trifles is mo properly duo than to yourself. You suggested the printing of them. You were desirous of exhibiting a specimen of the manner in which publications intrusted to your future care would appear. With more propriety, perhaps, the " Christmas," or some other of your own simple, unpretending compositions, might have served this purpose. But I forget-you have bid a long adieu to the muses. I had on my hands sundry copies of verses written for albums

"Those books kept by modern young ladies for show,

Of which their plain grandmothers nothing did know”—

or otherwise floating about in periodicals; which you have chosen in this manner to imbody. I feel little interest in their publication. They are simply-Advertisement Verses.

It is not for me nor you to allude in public to the kindness of our honoured friend, under whose auspices you are become a bookseller. May that fineminded veteran in verse enjoy life long enough to see his patronage justified! I venture to predict that your habits of industry and your cheerful spirit wil carry you through the world.

I am, dear Moxon,

Your friend and sincere well-wisher,
CHARLES LAMB.

Enfield, 1st June, 1830.

ALBUM VERSES,

WITH A FEW OTHERS.

IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY.

AN album is a garden, not for show

Planted, but use; where wholesome herbs should grow
A cabinet of curious porcelain, where

No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare.
A chapel, where mere ornamental things

Are pure as crowns of saints, or angels' wings.
A list of living friends; a holier room

For naines of some since mouldering in the tomb,
Whose blooming memories life's cold laws survive;
And, dead elsewhere, they here yet speak and live.
Such, and so tender, should an album be;

And, lady, such I wish this book to thee.

IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SER-
GEANT W

HAD I a power, lady, to my will,

You should not want handwritings. I would fill
Your leaves with autographs--resplendent names
Of knights and squires of old, and courtly dames,
Kings, emperors, popes. Next under these should stand
The hands of famous lawyers—a grave band-
Who, in their courts of law or equity,
Have best upheld freedom and property.
These should moot cases in your book, and vie
To show their reading and their sergeantry.