Ans. Ye come late.

The voice of human praise doth send no echo
Into the world of spirits.

Pro. (after a pause). Is this dust

[The music ceases.

I look on-Raimond!-'tis but sleep-a smile

On his pale cheek sits proudly. Raimond, wake!
Oh, God! and this was his triumphant day!

My son, my injured son!

Con. (starting). Art thou his father?

I know thee now.

Hence, with thy dark stern eye,

And thy cold heart!-Thou canst not wake him now!
Away! he will not answer but to me,

For none like me hath loved him! He is mine!

Ye shall not rend him from me.

Pro. Oh! he knew

Thy love, poor maid! Shrink from me now no more!
He knew thy heart-but who shall tell him now
The depth, th' intenseness, and the agony,
Of my suppress'd affection?—I have learn'd
All his high worth in time—to deck his grave!
Is there not power in the strong spirit's woe
To force an answer from the viewless world
Of the

departed?-Raimond!-speak! forgive!
Raimond! my victor, my deliverer, hear!
Why, what a world is this !-Truth ever bursts
On the dark soul too late: And glory crowns

Th' unconscious dead! And an hour comes to break
The mightiest hearts !-My son ! my son! is this
A day of triumph?-Ay, for thee alone!

He throws himself upon the body of RAIMOND.

[Curtain falls.

THE FOREST SANCTUARY.

Ihr Plätze aller meiner stillen freuden,
Euch lass' ich hinter mir auf immerdar!

So ist des Geistes ruf an mich
ergangen,
Mich treibt nicht eitles, irdisches verlangen.

Die Jungfrau von Orleans.

Long time against oppression have I fought,
And for the native liberty of faith
Have bled and suffer'd bonds.

Remorse, a Tragedy

THE following Poem is intended to describe the mental conflicts, as well as outward sufferings, of a Spaniard, who, flying from the religious persecutions of his own country, in the sixteenth century, takes refuge, with his child, in a North American forest. The story is supposed to be related by himself, amids the wilderness which has afforded him an asylum.

THE FOREST SANCTUARY.

1.

THE Voices of my home !--I hear them still!
They have been with me through the dreamy night-
The blessed household voices, wont to fill

My heart's clear depths with unalloy'd delight!

I hear them still, unchang'd:-though some from earth Are music parted, and the tones of mirth

Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more bright! Have died in others,-yet to me they come, Singing of boyhood back-the voices of my home!

II.

They call me through this hush of woods, reposing
In the grey stillness of the summer morn;

They wander by when heavy flowers are closing,

And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars are born ; Ev'n as a fount's remember'd gushings burst

On the parch'd traveller in his hour of thirst,

E'en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till worn
By quenchless longings, to my soul I say-

Oh! for the dove's swift wings, that I might flee away,