SIR EUSTACE GREY.(')

"Veris miscens falsa."

SENECA, in Herc. furente. (2)

(1) [This poem was composed at Muston, in the winter of 1804-5, during a great snow-storm (see Vol. I., Life, antè, p. 184.) For the Author's account of his design in the piece, see preface, antè, p. 2.]

(2) ["With truth mingling the false."- HEYWOOD, 1581.]

SIR EUSTACE GREY.

SCENE-A MAD-HOUSE.

PERSONS.-VISITOR, PHYSICIAN, AND PATIENT.

VISITOR.

I'LL know no more;-the heart is torn
By views of wo, we cannot heal;
Long shall I see these things forlorn,
And oft again their griefs shall feel,
As each upon the mind shall steal;
That wan projector's mystic style,
That lumpish idiot leering by,
That peevish idler's ceaseless wile,
And that poor maiden's half-form'd smile,
While struggling for the full-drawn sigh!-
I'll know no more.

-Yes, turn again;

Then speed to happier scenes thy way,

When thou hast view'd, what yet remain,

The ruins of Sir Eustace Grey,

The sport of madness, misery's prey:

But he will no historian need,

His cares, his crimes, will he display,
And show (as one from frenzy freed)
The proud lost mind, the rash-done deed.

That cell to him is Greyling Hall:

:

Approach; he'll bid thee welcome there;

Will sometimes for his servant call,

And sometimes point the vacant chair;
He can, with free and easy air,

Appear attentive and polite;
Can veil his woes in manners fair,

And pity with respect excite.

PATIENT.

Who comes?-Approach!-'tis kindly done:-
My learn'd physician, and a friend,
Their pleasures quit, to visit one

Who cannot to their ease attend, (1)
Nor joys bestow, nor comforts lend,
As when I lived so blest, so well,
And dreamt not I must soon contend
With those malignant powers of hell.

PHYSICIAN.

"Less warmth, Sir Eustace, or we go."

--

(1) [Original MS. : —

Who comes?-Approach! - 't is kindly done

The worthy doctor, and a friend.

'Tis more than kind to visit one

Who has not now to spare or spend,

As when I lived so blest, so well!]

PATIENT.

See! I am calm as infant-love,

A very child, but one of wo,

Whom you should pity, not reprove: But men at ease, who never strove With passions wild, will calmly show, How soon we may their ills remove, And masters of their madness grow.

Some twenty years, I think, are gone, (Time flies, I know not how, away,) The sun upon no happier shone,

Nor prouder man, than Eustace Grey. Ask where you would, and all would say, The man admired and praised of all, By rich and poor, by grave and gay, Was the young lord of Greyling Hall.

Yes! I had youth and rosy health;

Was nobly form'd, as man might be; For sickness, then, of all my wealth, I never gave a single fee:

The ladies fair, the maidens free,

Were all accustom'd then to say, Who would a handsome figure see Should look upon Sir Eustace Grey.

He had a frank and pleasant look,
A cheerful eye and accent bland;
His very speech and manner spoke
The generous heart, the open hand;
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