Mel. Away-begone! Hence--to thy tent! Aym. (attempting to rise.) Moraima -hath her spirit come To make death beautiful? Moraima !-speak. Mor. It was his voice!-Aymer! Aym, [She rushes to him, throwing aside her veil. I knew thou could'st not die!-Look on me still. Mel. approaching her.) Moraima!-hence! is this Mor. Away! away! There is no place but this for me on earth! Where should I go? There is no place but this! Mel. (to the guards.) Back, slaves, and look not on her! "Twas for this She droop'd to the earth. Aym. Moraima, fare thee well! Think on me!-I have loved thee! I take hence Mor. O! thou hast not known What woman's love is! Aymer, Aymer, stay! Rai. (turning from them.) And all the past Aym. (with a violent effort turning his head round.) Between us-peace, my brother!—In our deaths We shall be join'd once more! Rai. (holding the cross of the sword before him.) Aym. If thou hadst only told -But our hearts meet at last! Moraima! save my brother! Joy-there is joy in death! Look yet on this! [Presses the cross to his lips. Look on me! [He dies on RAIMER's arm. Mor. Speak-speak once more! And that thou answerest not? Have we not loved? Rai. So thou art gone, Aymer! I never thought to weep again- But now-farewell!--Thou wert the bravest knight Came o'er thee!-Aymer! Aymer!-thou wert still The most true-hearted brother!-there thou art Mor. (suddenly rising.) With his last, last breath The Christian-spare him! Mel. [Falling at her father's feet. Father, spare For thy sake spare him That slew thy father's son !-Shame to thy race! [To the Soldiers in the background. Soldiers! come nearer with your levell'd spears! Rai. (Turning and throwing himself on the weapons of the [Calling aloud to the Knights as he falls back Knights of France! Herman! De Foix! Du Mornay! be ye strong! Your hour will come! Must the old war-cry cease? [Half raising himself, and waving the Cross triumphantly. For the Cross-De Chatillon! (The Curtain falls.) [He dies. ANNOTATIONS ON "DE CHATILLON." "THE merits of the Siege of Valencia are more of a descriptive than of a strictly dramatic kind; and abounding as it does with fine passages of narrative beauty, and with striking scenes and situations, it is not only not adapted for representation, but on the contrary, the characters are developed by painting much more than by incident. Withal, it wants unity and entireness, and in several places is not only rhetorical but diffuse. "From the previous writings of the same author, and until the appearance of the Vespers of Palermo, it seemed to be the prevalent opinion of critics, that the genius of Mrs Hemans was not of a dramatic cast-that it expatiated too much in the developement of sentiment, too much in the luxuriancy of description, to be ever brought under the trammels essentially necessary for the success of scenic dialogue. "The merits of the Vespers are great, and have been acknowledged to be so, not only by the highest of contemporary literary authorities, but by the still more unequivocal testimony of theatrical applause. What has been, has been,' and we wish not to detract one iota from praise so fairly earned; but we must candidly confess, that before the perusal of De Chatillon (although that poem is probably not quite in the state in which it would have been submitted to the world by its writer,) we were somewhat infected with the prevailing opinion, that the most successful path of Mrs. Hemans did not lead her towards the drama. Our opinion on this subject is, however, now much altered; and we hesitate not to say, after minutely considering the characters of Raimer-so skilfully acted on, now by fraternal love, now by public duty-and of Aymer and Moraima, placed in situations where inclination is opposed to principle-that, by the cultivation of this species of composition, had health and prolonged years been the fate of the author of De Chatillon, that tragedy, noble as it is, which must now be placed at the head of her dramatic efforts, would in all probability have been even surpassed in excellence by ulterior efforts. "Mrs. Hemans had at length struck the proper keys. It is quite evident that she had succeeded in imbibing new and more severe ideas of this class of compositions. She had passed from the narrative into what has been conventionally termed the dramatic poemfrom the Historic Scenes, to Sebastian and the Siege of Valencia; but the Vespers of Palermo and De Chatillon can alone be said to be her legitimate dramas. The last, however, must be ranked first by many degrees of comparison. Without stripping her language of that richness and poetic beauty so characteristic of her genius, or condescending in a single passage to the mean baldness, so commonly mistaken by many modern writers for the stage as essentially necessary to the truth of dialogue, she has, in this attempt, preserved adherence to reality amid scenes allied with romance-brevity, and effect in situations strongly alluring to amplification; and, in her delineation of some of the strongest, as well as the finest emotions of the heart, there is exhibited a knowledge of nature's workings at once minute, faithful, and affecting."-MS. Critique by ▲. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. I GO, SWEET FRIENDS! I GO sweet friends! yet think of me When spring's young voice awakes the flowers For we have wandered far and free In those bright hours, the violet's hours. I go; but when you pause to hear, And oh! when music's voice is heard ANGEL VISITS. "No more of talk where God or angel guest ARE ye for ever to your skies departed? Milton. Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more? And ye-our faded earth beholds you not! But in the Olive-mount, by night appearing, 'Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done! Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering, Fraught with the breath of God, to aid his Son? -Haply of those that, on the moonlit plains, Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains. Yet one more task was yours! your heavenly dwelling Ye left, and by th' unseal'd sepulchral stone, In glorious raiment, sat; the weepers telling, That He they sought had triumph'd, and was gone! Now have ye left us for the brighter shore, Your presence lights the lonely groves no more. But may ye not, unseen, around us hover, With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet. Though the fresh glory of those days be over, When, 'midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met? * Ezekial, chap. x. Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high, Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave? IVY SONG. WRITTEN ON RECEIVING SOME IVY-LEAVES GATHERED FROM THE O! HOW Could Fancy crown with thee And bid thee at the banquet be Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound Where song's full notes once peal'd around, The Roman on his battle-plains, Around the victor's tent: Yet there, though fresh in glossy green, Where sleep the sons of ages flown, Where years are hastening to efface Thou in thy solitary grace, Wreath of the tomb! art there. O! many a temple, once sublime, Hath nought of beauty left by time, Save thy wild tapestry! And, rear'd 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine To wave where banners waved of yore, O'er towers that crest the noble Rhine, Along his rocky shore. High from the fields of air look down |