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Mel.

Hence--to thy tent! Away-begone!

Aym. (attempting to rise.) Moraima !hath her spirit come To make death beautiful ? Moraima !-speak. Mor. It was his voice !-Aymer!

[She rushes to him, throwing aside her veil. Ayr

Thou livest-thou livest!
I knew thou could'st not die!-Look on me still.
Thou livest -and makest this world so full of joy-
But I depart!

Mel. (approaching her.) Moraima!-hence! is this
A place for thee?
Mor.

Away! away!
There is no place but this for me on earth!
Where should I go? There is no place but this !
My soul is bound to it!
Mel. (to the guards.) Back, slaves, and look not on her!

[They retreat to the buckground.

'Twas for this She droop'd to the earth. Aym.

Moraima, fare thee well!
Think on me! I have loved thee! I take hence
That deep love with my soul! for well I know
It must be deathlesz!
Mor.

O! thou hast not known
What woman's love is! Aymer, Aymer, stay!
If I could die for thee! My heart is grown
So strong in its despair!

Rai. (turning from them.) And all the past
Forgotten !-our young days !-His last thoughts hers!
The Infidel's !
Aym. (with a violent effort turning his head round.)

Thou art no murderer! Peace
Between us-peace, my brother !-In our deaths
We shall be join'd once more!
Rai. (holding the cross of the sword before him.)

LO
Aym. If thou hadst only told me that she lived !
-But our hearts meet at last! [Presses the cross to his lips,
Moraima! save my brother! Look on me!
Joy—there is joy in death! [He dies on RAIMER'S arm.

Mor. Speak-speak once more :
Aymer! how is it that I call on thee,
And that thou answerest not? Have we not loved ?
Death! death and this is-death!
Rai.

So thou art gone,
Aymer! I never thought to weep again-
But now-farewell !-- Thou wert the bravest knight
That e'er laid lance in rest-and thou didst wear
The noblest form that ever woman's eye
Dwelt on with love; and till that fatal dream
Came o'er thee !--Aymer! Aymer!-thou wert still

yet on this !

The most true-hearted brother there thou art
Whose breast was once my shield !-I never thought
That foes should see me weep! but there thou art,
Aymer, my brother!-

Mor. (suddenly rising.) With his last, last breath
He bade me s:ave his brother! [Falling at her father's feet.

Father, spare
The Christian-spare him!
Mel.

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!
Yet nearer ;-Gird him in !--my boy's young blood
Is on his sword.—Christian, abjure thy faith,
Or die—thine hour is come!
Rai. (Turning and throwing himself on the weapons of the
Soldiers.) Thou hast mine answer, Infidel!
(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!

(He dies. (The Curtain falls.)

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 inuch 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 Dc 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, ihat 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 terined 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 lier 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 A.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

I GO, SWEET FRIENDS!

I GO sweet friends! yet think of me

When spring's young voice awakes the flower
For we have wandered far and free

In those bright hours, the violet's hours.
I go; but when you pause to hear,

From distant hills, the Sabbath-bell
On summer-winds float silvery clear,

Think on me then I loved it well!
Forget me not around your hearth,

When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze,
For dear hath been its evening mirth

To me, sweet friends, in other days.
And oh! when music's voice is heard

To melt in strains of parting woe,
When hearts to love and grief are stirr'd,
Think of me then!-I go, I go!

ANGEL VISITS.

“No more of talk where God or angel guest
With man, as with his friend, familiar used
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast."

Milton.
ARE ye for ever to your skies departed ?

Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more?
Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendor darted

Through Eden's fresh and flowering shades of yore!
Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot,
And ye-our faded earth beholds you not!
Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken,

Man wander'd from his Paradise away;
Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken,

Came down, high guests ! in many a later day,
And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak,
'Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke.
From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending

Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper's eye,
That saw your hosts ascending and descending

On those bright steps between the earth and sky:
Trembling be woke, and bow'd o'er glory's trace,
And worshipp'd awe-struck in that fearful place.
By Chebar’s* brook ye pass’d, such radiance wearing

As mortal vision might but ill endure;
Along the stream the living chariot bearing,

With its high crystal arch, intensely pure ! And the dread rushing of your wings that hour, Was like the noise of waters in their power, 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, Wasted good tidings unto Syrian swains. Yet one more task was yours! your heavenly dwelling

Ye left, and by th' unseald 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, ʼmidst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met ?

* Ezekial, chap. X.

Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high,
When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony?
Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining,

Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave ?
When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning,

Lead on the march of death, serenely brave? Dreams !-but a deeper thought our souls may fill

One, One is near-a spirit holier still !

IVY SONG.

WRITTEN ON RECEIVING SOME IVY-LEAVES GATHERED FROM TILE

RUINED CASTLE OF RHEINFELS, ON THE RHINE.

0! How could Fancy crown with thee

In ancient days the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be

Companion of the vine?
Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound

Of revelry hath long been o'er,
Where song's full notes once peal'd around,

But now are heard no more.
The Roman on his battle-plains,

Where kings before his eagles bent,
Entwined thee with exulting strains

Around the victor's tent:
Yet there, though fresh in glossy, green,

Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene

Around the victor's grave.
Where sleep the sons of ages flown,

The bards and heroes of the past;
Where, through the halls of glory gone,

Murmurs the wintry blast;
Where years are hastening to efface

Each record of the grand and fair;
Thou in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb! art there.
O! many a temple, once sublime,

Beneath a blue Italian sky,
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

Those eyries of a vanish'd race

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