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Be honoured with all rites of sepulture,
Before the land rejoice for victory.
For me, a mighty debt is yet unpaid

To grief and filial duty. To some house

Of holy solitude I will retire

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Three days after the battle-the dusk of the evening— the interior of a cave in a dreary forest- Philip lying asleep; the Lord of Maine bending over him. Lord of M. It is a blessed sleep! It will restore him

To his right mind! Oh that we might abide
In some deep wood, 'mong mountains far away;
Some wilderness, where foot of man ne'er trod;
Some desert island, in an unknown sea,
Where he might wear his life in holy peace,
And I be the true friend that tended on him!
Phil. [opening his eyes.] Where am I? and what
gentle sounds are these?

Lord of M. Sleep yet, my son! Thou know'st how I did watch

O'er thee a child; how sung to thee o' nights-
Recall that time, and sleep!

Phil.

I cannot sleep!-
My father, thou hast been a gracious sire,
And I have owed thee duties manifold;
Thou hast been good and kind; yet one more
kindness

Let Do me this day—my arm is weak and faint,

A season; and meantime confide to thee,
And such good men as thou, the nation's rule.
Not my own natural strength has borne me through
The great events and awful of this time.
Nature is weak, and now doth need repose:
But let one general thanksgiving ascend
To gracious Heaven, which has restored us peace,
Though at a price so great.

And from the duke 1 crave forgiveness, that I meet him not; The mournful duties of the time excuse me. [Count Nicholas goes out. Lord of M. They said my son had fled. I must away!

He is my son-the evil hour is dark;
And misery and remorse are cruel foes!
Where victory is, is not a place for me -

Strike thou my dagger in this wretched breast!

Lord of M. What askest thou? It is a sinner's thought!

Phil. Wilt see me dragged, a spectacle, a show? Wilt hear them sing their ballads in my face? Hark! hark! I hear their steps! Give me the dagger! Lord of M. Nay, 'tis no sound, but the low whispering wind!

Phil. I tell thee they are here! Withstand me

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Gast. Now shalt thou know me truly as I am: Now will I bring thy truest friends unto thee! [A band of soldiers rush in and seize Philip.

Phil. Ay now I know thee, thou accursed Judas! Gast. But I've a better price than Judas had A better price for a less worthy man!

lic resort adjacent to a great city. On its smooth roads were seen the equipages of the grandees, and equestrian companies of gentlemen and ladies, who, governing their high-bred and mettlesome horses with graceful ease, reminded the spectator rather of the pages of Ariosto than of a scene in real life. On seats under the old leafy trees, or on the bright green

Phil. My life's severest blow has been thy friend- turf, sat men, women, and children, in their holiday

ship!

Enter MOTHER SCHWARTZ, with a drawn dagger. Now will I have thy blood for my son's blood! Soldier. Off, woman, off! Alive he must be taken. Mother S. I'll have his blood! I will not break my oath! [She suddenly stabs him. There's that will send thee howling to my son! Soldier. Thou 'st robbed us of our price! take thy reward!

[He stabs her. Phil. My day is done! Let me lie down and die! Lord of M. Within my arms! the father's arms, my son!

Cast up thy thoughts to heaven! think not of man! Soldier. He's dead, he hears thee not! Give us the body!

Father. Ye shall not part me from this precious clay

Where'er ye bear it, thither will I follow!

ACHZIB, throwing off his disguise, entered the city in his own character. It was a city of mourning, which he had made so; but his evil nature saw in human misery, material rather of mirth than compassion. He would much rather have torn open the wounds of social life, than have seen them healing; but now was the calm after the storm, the reaction after excitement and emotion, and men coveted so much to be at rest, that not even Achzib could have agitated another tumult. He therefore adopted the spirit of the time, and railed against liberty as anarchy, against renovators as anarchs.

It was with malignant pleasure he saw how the holy cause of freedom was thrown back, by the outrages which ambition and the license of evil had

committed in her name: he saw how virtuous men and honest patriots, who had joined Philip against despotism, but abandoned him in his bloody and ambitious career, now came forth from their retirements, and rallying round the person of Ida, united heart and hand to re-establish the old order of things, disgusted with liberty, as with a lying priestess, and in despair of renovating social life or social policy: he saw the people sit down, willing to endure patiently whatever evil power might inflict upon them, provided they were protected from rapine and blood, and the pretences of ambition to make them again free; and satisfied that all here was as he could desire, he turned his steps to another scene of action.

It was on an evening, bright and balmy as one in Paradise, when Achzib strolled into the place of pub

attire, all beautiful as separate groups, but more beautiful as forming one great whole of human enjoyment.

There was a poet among them, but with feelings different to those of others;-their's was an individual happiness only, but his was a warm, broad philanthropy, forgetting self, embracing all, loving all,

and pouring out thanksgiving that man was enabled, both old and young, rich and poor, to go forth and rejoice.

Achzib approached, and took the vacant seat beside him. "Considering," said he, "the ill-condition of society, the tyranny of rulers, and the misery of the subordinate classes, there is no inconsiderable measure of human enjoyment even in a space narrow as this."

"Man's capacity for enjoyment," said the poet, "even under circumstances unfavourable to general happiness, is one of the most beautiful and beneficent ordinations of Providence. A balmy atmosphere and a fine sunset, common occurrences of nature as these are, contribute immensely to human felicity. Look around us-and of these hundreds, not one of whom but has his own peculiar cares and anxieties, disease or distress of mind, and yet what a universal sentiment of happiness pervades all! A sight like this awakens my spirit to a loftier worship and a more tender gratitude than ten homilies!"

"But," replied Achzib, "the enjoyment of these hundreds consists in exhibiting themselves or their magnificence on so fine an evening. How would the bright sunset exhilarate the heart of yonder Countess, except it shone on her jewelled attire? It is solely the love of self-display that brings out these gay and happy people."

"Shame on thee!" said the Poet, "thine is a cynical spirit. What is the gaze of the many to that young mother and her boy?"

"I grant they are a pretty sight," said Achzib; "the child is passingly fair, and the mother dotes on him."

"How beautiful," exclaimed the Poet, "is the love which a mother bears to her child! I mean not that yearning, trembling anxiety, with which she regards her grown-up offspring entering upon the cares and temptations of the world; but that hopeful, joyful, unselfish love, which a mother feels for her first-born. She is young; the world has aliurements for her, but a stronger impulse is on her heart; she is willing to spend and be spent, to watch and be weary; and the clasping of his little arms round her neck, and the pure out-gushing love of his innocent spirit, are her sufficient reward!"

"It is but the instinct of all animals," said Achzib. "Yes; but ennobled by a sublimer principle," re

plied the Poet. "The guardian angel of a child is a gentle Christian mother; she protects not its outward life only, but informs and purifies, and exalts that nobler existence which elevates man above the brute."

"I wonder," said Achzib, after a moment's pause, "whether an infidel mother ever took as much pains to instruct her child in unbelief as a Christian mother does in belief."

""Tis an unheard-of thing!" said the Poet. “A mother could not teach her little child to deny God! "T is a monstrous thought—an outrage to our nature but to conceive it."

"In what way," inquired Achzib, "would the af fection of a mother be made the mode of temptation? for every virtue has its appropriate temptation, and divines teach that the highest virtue consists in the resistance of evil!"

"Thine are strange speculations," said the Poet; "but the dearly beloved child is often a snare to a parent's heart; it has been an idol between the soul and God, and He has sometimes mercifully taken the child to keep the parent from sin."

“I have heard as much," said Achzib, and fell into a long silence.

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For they are not like flowers of Italy —
But they are such, dear mother, as grow here?
Ter. My boy, she will accept them! Gracious
Virgin,

She would receive a poorer gift than this;
She would accept the will without the gift,
For she doth know the heart! There on the shrine
Lay them, my boy, and pray if thou have need;
Fear not, for she is gracious, so is God!

Paol. [laying the flowers at the feet of the Virgin.]
I have no prayer, dear mother, save for thee,
And that is in my heart. I cannot speak it,
Thou didst weep so, when last I prayed for thee!
Ter. [kissing him.] It is enough, my boy, the
Holy Mother

Knoweth what is within thy inmost heart!

[She again bows herself before the Virgin, then taking the child's hand, goes out.

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He was Count Spazzi - young and rich, and proud,
Ambitious and determined. Fortune brought
Unto his knowledge fair Teresa Cogni,
The daughter of an exiled chief of Corinth;
Beautiful as her own land, and pure

As her own cloudless heavens. It is a tale
So long, so full of sorrow and of guile,
Of heart-ache and remorseless tyranny,
That now I may not stop to trace it out.
But she was forced to marry that stern man,
After her father's death had given her
Into his power. Enough, it was a marriage

Ter. Thou, that didst bear a pain that had no Where joy was not; but where the tyrant smiled

healing

An undivided misery,

Which unto kindred heart knew no appealing,
O, hear thou me!

I tell thee not mine own peculiar woe;

I tell thee not the want that makes me poor, For thou, dear Mother of God, all this dost know! But I beseech thy blessing, and thy aid; Assure me, where my nature is afraid, And where I murmur, strengthen to endure!

[She bows her head, kneeling in silence-as she prepares to leave the chapel, enter PAOLO, with a few snow-drops in his hand. Paol. Mother, in Italy I used to gather Sweet flowers; the fragrant lily, like a cup Chiselled in marble, and the rich, red rose, And carry them, an offering to Our Lady; Think'st thou she will accept such gifts as these,

Because his pride and will were gratified.
Next followed lawless years of heedless crime;
To those, the desperate strife between us two,
Wherein I made the vow which I have kept,
How, it now matters not. I watched him fall,
Impelled by my fierce hate, until at length
I saw him banished from his native land.
Meantime that gentle partner of his fall,
Bore, with a patience which was not of earth,
All evils of their cruel destiny.

But she was now a mother — and for him,
That docile boy, whose spirit was like hers,
Ever-enduring and so full of kindness,
What mother would not bear all misery
And yet repine not, blessed in the love
Of that confiding spirit! Thus it was.
And they three went forth, exiles from their land:
One with the curse of his own crimes upon him;

Two innocent as doves, and only cursed
In that their lives and fortunes were bound up
With that bad man's.

He is a hunter now;

And his precarious living earns with toil
And danger, amid natures like his own:
And here I might have left him to live out
The term of his existence, had I not
Seen how the silent virtues of the wife,
And the clear, innocent spirit of the boy,
Have gained ascendance o'er him; and besides,
Sure as I am of Spazzi, 't is for her,

My seventh victim, that I tread these wilds;
For will she not curse God, if from her sight
Is ta'en that precious child, and hate her husband,
By whom it shall appear the deed is done?
She will, she will I know this mother's heart!
And on the morrow, as a skilful hunter,
I shall present myself before her husband,
No more Count Spazzi, but the hunter Olaf.

[He goes farther into the forest.

SCENE III.

The following morning — the interior of the house in the forest-Teresa sitting near the fire-Paolo kneeling upon a footstool at her side.

Paol. And now, dear mother, tell me that old tale, About the little boy who prayed that Jesus Might come and play with him.

Ter.

I will, my love.

[She sings in a low recitative.

*Among green, pleasant meadows, All in a grove so wild,

Was set a marble image

Of the Virgin and the Child.

There oft, on summer evenings,

A lonely boy would rove,
To play beside the image
That sanctified the grove.

Oft sate his mother by him,
Among the shadows dim,
And told how the Lord Jesus
Was once a child, like him.

"And now from highest heaven

He doth look down each day,
And sees whate'er thou doest,
And hears what thou dost say!"

Thus spoke his tender mother:

And on an evening bright, When the red, round sun descended 'Mid clouds of crimson light,

Again the boy was playing,

And earnestly said he,

"Oh beautiful child Jesus,

Come down and play with me!

"I will find thee flowers the fairest, And weave for thee a crown;

I will get thee ripe, red strawberries, If thou wilt but come down! "Oh Holy, Holy Mother,

Put him down from off thy knee; For in these silent meadows

There are none to play with me!" Thus spoke the boy so lonely,

The while his mother heard,
But on his prayer she pondered,
And spoke to him no word.
That self-same night she dreamed
A lovely dream of joy;
She thought she saw young Jesus
There, playing with the boy.
"And for the fruits and flowers
Which thou hast brought to me,
Rich blessing shall be given

A thousand-fold to thee!
"For in the fields of heaven

Thou shalt roam with me at will, And of bright fruits, celestial, Shall have, dear child, thy fill!” Thus tenderly and kindly

The fair child Jesus spoke ; And full of careful musings, The anxious mother woke. And thus it was accomplished In a short month and a day, The lonely boy, so gentle,

Upon his death-bed lay.

And thus he spoke in dying: "Oh mother dear, I see That beautiful child Jesus

A-coming down to me!

"And in his hand he beareth

Bright flowers as white as snow, And red and juicy strawberries, — Dear mother, let me go?"

He died but that fond mother

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I had forgotten that! But, mother dear,
Thou couldst not be so wretched, wanting me,
As I, if thou wert not! It breaks my heart
Only to think of it; and I do pray,
Morning and night, that I may never lose thee!

Ter. My precious child, heaven is so very good,
I do believe it will not sunder us

Who are so dear, so needful to each other!
Paol. Let us not speak of parting! And, indeed,

• A free translation of one of Herder's beautiful legends. I will not be a hunter when a man ;

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My father goes unto the chase to-day,
And that strange hunter with him!
Ter.

Nay, my love,
In this wild storm they will not go to hunt.

Paol. I saw them even now. The sledge is ready,
With the horse harnessed to 't; and, mother dear,
We shall have such a long and quiet day, -
"T will be so happy! And oh, wilt thou tell me
About thy home at Corinth, and the time
When from the morning to the blessed eve
Thou sangest to the music of thy lute;
Or wander'dst out with kind and merry friends;
Or tendedst thy sweet flowers;-and tell me too
About the bright, bluc, restless sea at Corinth-
And sing me songs and hymns in thy Greek tongue,
And hear how I can sing them after thee-
Wilt thou, dear mother?

Ter.

Enter OLAF, muffled in his hunting dress.
Olaf. Where's the boy! I hunt to-day.
Ter. Not in this storm, my husband!
Olaf.
In this storm!
Where is the boy? I heard him here, just now.

Ter. Why, why the boy? What dost thou want
with him?

Olaf. He shall go out with me on this day's hunt.
Ter. Oh no! not so he must not go to-day!

Olaf. Why, 't is a puny, feeble-hearted thing,
Whom thou hast fondled with and fooled, till nought
Of a boy's spirit is within his heart!

But he shall go with me, and learn to dare
The perils of the forest!

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I pr'ythee what new fancy 's in thy head,
That thou canst not go with me?

Paol.

I besought My mother to sing me her Corinth songs; To tell me of the groves and of the flowers, And of that happy home that was more fair Than even was ours, in pleasant Italy; And she has promised that she will, my father. Olaf. Ha ha! is 't so ?--"T is even as I thought. I know wherefore these stories of the past! Yes, I will feed them, Mark me, Teresa, if thou school him thus, And then there will be nothing all the day I'll sunder ye!-Thou need'st not clasp thy hands; To take me from thy side! For on my life I'll do it!

I will indeed, my love!
But hark! thy birds are chirping for their meal,
Go, feed them, my sweet boy.

Paol.

Ter.

[He goes out.

Thou dear, dear child!

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Paol. [weeping.] Father, father,
Part me not from my mother, and indeed
I will go with you.

Ter. [aside to Olaf.] Pray thee, speak him kindly!
Olaf. Come, I'll be thy companion! I will teach
thee

To be a man;· -dry up these childish tears!

Ter. My sweet boy, do not weep! Go out this day
Thy mother prays it of thee, and bring back
A little ermine, we will make it tame;
It shall be thine, my Paolo, and shall love thee.

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