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Into invisibility, while forth

The Saviour of the world walk'd, and stood Before the sepulchre, and view'd the clouds Impurpled glorious by the rising sun.

THE evening of that day, which saw the Lord
Rise from the chambers of the dead, was come.
His faithful followers, assembled, sang

A hymn, low-breathed; a hymn of sorrow, blent
With hope; when, in the midst, sudden he stood;
The awe-struck circle backward shrink; he looks
Around with a benignant smile of love,
And says, Peace be unto you: Faith and joy
Spread o'er each face, amazed; as when the moon,
Pavilion'd in dark clouds, mildly comes forth,
Silvering a circlet in the fleecy ranks.


LISTEN that voice! upon the hill of Mars,
Rolling in bolder thunders than e'er peal'd
From lips that shook the Macedonian throne;
Behold his dauntless outstretch'd arm, his face
Illumed of heaven :-he knoweth not the fear
Of man, of principalities, of powers.

The stoic's moveless frown; the vacant stare
Of Epicurus' herd; the scowl and gnash malign
Of superstition, stopping both her ears;

The Areopagite tribunal dread,

From whence the doom of Socrates was utter'd ;—
This hostile throng dismays him not: he seems
As if no worldly object could inspire

A terror in his soul; as if the vision,

Which, when he journey'd to Damascus, shone
From heaven, still swam before his eyes,
Outdazzling all things earthly; as if the voice,
That spake from out th' effulgence, ever rang
Within his ear, inspiring him with words,
Burning, majestic, lofty, as his theme,―
The resurrection, and the life to come.


THE judge ascended to the judgment-seat;
Amid a gleam of spears th' apostle stood.
Dauntless he forward came, and look'd around,
And raised his voice, at first in accents low,
Yet clear; a whisper spread among the throng:-
So when the thunder mutters, still the breeze
Is heard, at times, to sigh; but when the peal
Tremendous, louder rolls, a silence dead
Succeeds each pause,-moveless the aspen
Thus fix'd and motionless, the listening band
Of soldiers forward lean'd, as from the man
Inspired of God, truth's awful thunders roll'd.
No more he feels, upon his high-raised arm,
The ponderous chain, than does the playful child
The bracelet, form'd of many a flowery link.
Heedless of self, forgetful that his life
Is now to be defended by his words,
He only thinks of doing good to them
Who seek his life; and while he reasons high

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Of justice, temperance, and the life to come,
The judge shrinks trembling at the prisoner's voice.


Who healeth all thy diseases: who redeemeth thy life from destruction: who crowneth thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies.-PSALM Ciii. 3, 4.

THESE eyes, that were half-closed in death, Now dare the noontide blaze;

My voice, that scarce could speak my wants, Now hymns Jehovah's praise.

How pleasant to my feet unused, To tread the daisied ground! How sweet to my unwonted ear

The streamlet's lulling sound.

How soft the first breath of the breeze
That on my temples play'd!
How sweet the woodland evening song,
Full floating down the glade!

But sweeter far the lark that soars Through morning's blushing ray; For then unseen, unheard, I join

His lonely heavenward lay.

And sweeter still that infant voice,
With all its artless charms ;-
'Twas such as he that Jesus took,
And cherish'd in his arms.

O Lord my God! all these delights
I to thy mercy owe;

For thou hast raised me from the couch
Of sickness, pain, and wo.

"Twas thou that from the whelming wave My sinking soul redeem'd; 'Twas thou that o'er destruction's storm A calming radiance beam'd.



YON setting sun, that slowly disappears,
Gleams a memento of departed years:

Ay, many a year is gone, and many a friend,
Since here I saw the autumn sun descend.
Ah! one is gone, whose hand was lock'd in mine,
In this, that traces now the sorrowing line:
And now alone I scan the mouldering tombs,
Alone I wander through the vaulted glooms,
And list, as if the echoes might retain
One lingering cadence of her varied strain.
Alas! I heard that melting voice decay,
Heard seraph tones in whispers die away;
I mark'd the tear presageful fill her eye,
And quivering speak,-I am resign'd to die.
Ye stars that through the fretted windows shed
A glimmering beam athwart the mighty dead,
Say to what sphere her sainted spirit flew,
That thither I may turn my longing view,
And wish, and hope, some tedious seasons o'er,
To join a long lost friend, to part no more.

THE WILD DUCK AND HER BROOD. How calm that little lake! no breath of wind Sighs through the reeds; a clear abyss it seems, Held in the concave of th' inverted sky,In which is seen the rook's dull flagging wing Move o'er the silvery clouds. How peaceful sails Yon little fleet, the wild duck and her brood! Fearl of harm, they row their easy way; The water-lily neath the plumy prows, Dips, reappearing in their dimpled track. Yet, e'en amid that scene of peace, the noise Of war, unequal, dastard war, intrudes. Yon revel rout of men, and boys, and dogs, Boisterous approach; the spaniel dashes in; Quick he descries the prey; and faster swims, And eager barks; the harmless flock dismay'd, Hasten to gain the thickest grove of reeds. All but the parent pair; they, floating, wait To lure the foe, and lead him from their young; But soon themselves are forced to seek the shore. Vain then the buoyant wing; the leaden storm Arrests their flight; they, fluttering, bleeding, fall, And tinge the troubled bosom of the lake.

FROM Snowy plains, and icy sprays,
From moonless nights, and sunless days,
Welcome, poor bird! I'll cherish thee;
I love thee, for thou trustest me.
Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest!
Fondly I'll war thee in my breast:-
How quick thy little heart is beating!
As if its brother flutterer greeting.
Thou need'st not dread a captive's doom;
No: freely flutter round my room;
Perch on my lute's remaining string,
And sweetly of sweet summer sing.
That note, that summer note, I know;
It wakes at once, and soothes my wo;
I see those woods, I see that stream,
I see,-ah, still prolong the dream!
Still with thy song those scenes renew,
Though through my tears they reach my view.

No more now, at my lonely meal,
While thou art by, alone I'll feel;
For soon, devoid of all distrust,
Thou'lt nibbling share my humble crust;
Or on my finger, pert and spruce,
Thou'lt learn to sip the sparkling juice;
And when (our short collation o'er)
Some favourite volume I explore,
Be't work of poet or of sage,
Safe thou shalt hop across the page;
Uncheck'd, shall flit o'er Virgil's groves,
Or flutter 'mid Tibullus' loves.
Thus, heedless of the raving blast,
Thou'lt dwell with me till winter's past;
And when the primrose tells 'tis spring,
And when the thrush begins to sing,
Soon as I hear the woodland song,
Freed, thou shalt join the vocal throng.


WINTER was o'er, and spring-flowers deck'd the glade;

The blackbird's note among the wild woods rung: Ah, short-lived note! the songster now is laid

Beneath the bush on which so sweet he sung.

Thy jetty plumes, by ruthless falcon rent,
Are now all soil'd among the mouldering clay;
A primrosed turf is all thy monument,
And for thy dirge the redbreast lends his lay.

TO A REDBREAST, THAT FLEW IN AT MY And thought he yet could toil, but sunk


Into the arms of death, the poor man's friend!

THE POOR MAN'S FUNERAL. YON motley, sable-suited throng, that wait Around the poor man's door, announce a tale Of wo; the husband, parent, is no more. Contending with disease, he labour'd long, By penury compell'd; yielding at last, He laid him down to die; but, lingering on From day to day, he from his sick-bed saw, Heart-broken quite, his children's looks of want Veil'd in a clouded smile; alas! he heard The elder lispingly attempt to still

The younger's plaint,-languid he raised his head,

The coffin is borne out; the humble pomp Moves slowly on; the orphan mourner's hand (Poor helpless child!) just reaches to the pall. And now they pass into the field of graves, And now around the narrow house they stand, And view the plain black board sink from the sight. Hollow the mansion of the dead resounds,

As falls each spadeful of the bone-mix'd mould.
The turf is spread; uncover'd is each head,-
A last farewell: all turn their several ways.
Wo's me! those tear-dimm'd eyes, that sobbing

Poor child! thou thinkest of the kindly hand
That wont to lead thee home: No more that hand
Shall aid thy feeble gait, or gentle stroke
Thy sun-bleach'd head and downy cheek.
But go, a mother waits thy homeward steps;
In vain her eyes dwell on the sacred page,-
Her thoughts are in the grave; 'tis thou alone,
Her first-born child, canst rouse that statue gaze
Of wo profound. Haste to the widow'd arms;
Look with thy father's look, speak with his voice,
And melt a heart that else will break with grief.


FALGAR. UPON the high, yet gently rolling wave, The floating tomb that heaves above the brave, Soft sighs the gale, that late tremendous roar'd, Whelming the wretched remnants of the sword. And now the cannon's peaceful thunder calls The victor bands to mount their wooden walls, And from the ramparts, while their comrades fell, The mingled strain of joy and grief to swell:

Fast they ascend, from stem to stern they spread,
And crowd the engines, whence the lightnings sped:
The white-robed priest his upraised hands extends:
Hush'd is each voice, attention leaning bends;
Then from each prow the grand hosannas rise,
Float o'er the deep, and hover to the skies.
Heaven fills each heart; yet home will oft intrude,
And tears of love celestial joys exclude.
The wounded man, who hears the soaring strain,
Lifts his pale visage, and forgets his pain;
While parting spirits, mingling with the lay,
On hallelujahs wing their heavenward way.


TWICE has the sun commenced his annual round,
Since first thy footsteps totter'd o'er the ground,
Since first thy tongue was tuned to bless mine ear,
By faltering out the name to fathers dear.
O! nature's language, with her looks combined,
More precious far than periods thrice refined!
O! sportive looks of love, devoid of guile,
I prize you more than beauty's magic smile:
Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm
I gaze with bliss, unmingled with alarm.

Ah, no! full oft a boding horror flies
Athwart my fancy, uttering fateful cries.
Almighty Power! his harmless life defend,
And if we part, 'gainst me the mandate send.
And yet a wish will rise,-would I might live,
Till added years his memory firmness give!
For, O! it would a joy in death impart,
To think I still survived within his heart;
To think he'll cast, midway the vale of years,
A retrospective look, bedimm'd with tears;
And tell, regretful, how I look'd and spoke;
What walks I loved; where grew my favourite oak;
How gently I would lead him by the hand;
How gently use the accent of command;

What lore I taught him, roaming wood and wild,
And how the man descended to the child;
How well I loved with him, on Sabbath morn,
To hear the anthem of the vocal thorn;
To teach religion, unallied to strife,
And trace to him the way, the truth, the life.

But far and farther still my view I bend,—
And now I see a child thy steps attend ;-
To yonder churchyard wall thou takest thy way,
While round thee, pleased, thou seest the infant play;
Then lifting him, while tears suffuse thine eyes,
Pointing, thou tell'st him, There thy grandsire lies.

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JOANNA BAILLIE, sister of the celebrated Dr. | passions. Her plays, however, have not the tranMatthew Baillie, was born at Bothwell, in Scotland, scendent dramatic merit which has been claimed about the year 1765. We have been unable to for them by some of her admirers. She is by no collect any particulars of her life, but she is well means a Shakspeare. One of her most recent pubknown to the public as one of the most successful lications is, A View of the general Tenor of the New female writers of the present age. Her most Testament, regarding the Nature and Dignity of celebrated production is her Plays of the Passions; Jesus Christ. She is also the author of The Family a series in which each passion is made the subject Legend, a tragedy; Metrical Legends, or Exalted of a tragedy and a comedy. These procured her Characters; two dramas, entitled, respectively,— great reputation, particularly her tragedies, which The Martyr, and The Bride; and a volume of evince strong conceptions of character, vivid dramas, very recently published. imagery, and a masterly delineation of the various









a general in the emperor's service. Her public thanks to the good patron saint,
his friend.

Who from his sick-bed hath restored her father,
Thou wouldst not have her go with empty hands?
She loves magnificence-

his minister.

Two officers of Basil's troops.
an old soldier very much maimed

in the wars.

a little boy, favourite to Victoria. WOMEN. VICTORIA, daughter to the Duke of Mantua. COUNTESS OF ALBINI, friend and governess to Victoria. ISABELLA, a lady attending upon Victoria. Officers, soldiers, and attendants, masks, dancers, &c. The scene is in Mantua and its environs. Time supposed to be the sixteenth century, when Charles the Fifth defeated Francis the First, at the battle of Pavia.

Old Man. Bears she such offerings to St. Francis'

So rich, so marvellous rich, as rumour says?
-Twill drain the treasury!





Cit. Since she, in all this splendid pomp, returns

(Discovering among the crowd old Geoffry,) Ha! art thou here, old remnant of the wars? Thou art not come to see this courtly show, Which sets the young agape?

What, must I tell it thee?
As o'er my evening fire I musing sat,
Some few days since, my mind's eye backward turn'd
Upon the various changes I have pass'd-
How in my youth, with gay attire allured,
And all the grand accoutrements of war,

I left my peaceful home: Then my first battles,
When clashing arms and sights of blood were new:
Then all the after chances of the war:
Ay, and that field, a well-fought field it was,

Enter a CITIZEN.
First Man. Well, friend, what tidings of the When with an arm (I speak not of it oft)
grand procession?

Which now (pointing to his empty sleeve) thou
seest is no arm of mine,

Cit. I left it passing by the northern gate.
Second Man. I've waited long, I'm glad it comes

at last.

In a straight pass I stopp'd a thousand foes,
And turn'd my flying comrades to the charge;
Young Man. And does the princess look so won- For which good service, in his tented court,
drous fair
As fame reports?

Cit. She is the fairest lady of the train,-
Yet all the fairest beauties of the court
Are in her train.

My prince bestow'd a mark of favour on me;
Whilst his fair consort, seated by his side,
The fairest lady e'er mine eyes beheld,
Gave me what more than all besides I prized-
Methinks I see her still-a gracious smile-
2 c2

Geof. I come not for the show; and yet, methinks,
It were a better jest upon me still,
If thou didst truly know mine errand here.
Cit. I prithee say.

'Twas a heart-kindling smile,-a smile of praise-
Well, musing thus on all my fortunes past,
A neighbour drew the latchet of my door,
And full of news from town, in many words
Big with rich names, told of this grand procession;
E'en as he spoke a fancy seized my soul
To see the princess pass, if in her looks

I yet might trace some semblance of her mother.
This is the simple truth; laugh as thou wilt.
I came not for the show.

Enter an OFFICER.

Officer to Geof. Make way that the procession
may have room:

Stand you aside, and let this man have place.
(Pushing Geof. and endeavouring to put another
in his place.)

Geof. But that thou art the prince's officer,
I'd give thee back thy push with better blows.
Officer. What, wilt thou not give place? the
prince is near:

I will complain to him, and have thee caged.
Geof. Yes, do complain, I pray; and when thou

Say that the private of the tenth brigade,
Who saved his army on the Danube's bank,
And since that time a private hath remain❜d,
Dares, as a citizen, his right maintain
Against thy insolence. Go tell him this,
And ask him then what dungeon of his tower
He'll have me thrust into.

Cit. to Officer. This is old Geoffry of the tenth

Offi. I knew him not: you should have told me sooner. [EXIT, looking much ashamed.

(Music is heard again, and nearer. Geoffry walks up and down with a military triumphant step.) Cit. What moves thee thus ?

Geof. I've march'd to this same tune in glorious

My very limbs catch motion from the sound,
As they were young again.
Sec. Cit

Sec. Cit. The brave Count Basil is upon his march,
To join the emperor with some chosen troops,
And as an ally doth through Mantua pass.

Geof. I've heard a good report of this young soldier.
Sec. Cit. 'Tis said he disciplines his men severely,
And over-much the old commander is,
Which seems ungracious in so young a man.

But here they come. Enter Count BASIL, officers and soldiers in procession, with colours flying, and martial music. When they have marched halfway over the stage, an officer of the duke's enters from the opposite side, and speaks to BASIL, upon which he gives a sign with his hand, and the martial music ceases; soft music is heard at a little distance, and VICTORIA, with a long procession of ladies, enters from the opposite side. General, &c. pay obeisance to her, as she passes; she stops to return it, and then goes off with her train. After which, the military procession moves on, and exeunt.

Cit. to Geof. What think'st thou of the princess?
She is fair,
But not so fair as her good mother was. [EXEUNT.


Enter COUNT ROSINBERG, VALTOMER, and FREDERICK.VALTOMER enters by the opposite side of the stage, and meets them.

Valt. O what a jolly town for way-worn soldiers!
Rich steaming pots, and smell of dainty fare,
From every house salutes you as you pass:
Light feats and juggler's tricks attract the eye;
Music and merriment in every street;
Whilst pretty damsels, in their best attire,
Trip on in wanton groups, then look behind,
To spy the fools a gazing after them.

Martial music heard at a distance.

Cit. Hark, this is music of a warlike kind.
Enter Second CITIZEN.

To Sec. Cit. What sounds are these, good friend, 'Faith, Rosinberg, I would thou didst command us.
Thou art his kinsman, of a rank as noble,
Some years his elder too-How has it been
That he should be preferr'd? I see not why.

which this way bear?

Ros. Ah! but I see it, and allow it well;
He is too much my pride to wake my envy.

Fred. Nay, count, it is thy foolish admiration
Which raises him to such superior height;
And truly thou hast so infected us,

That at times have felt me awed before him,
I knew not why. 'Tis cursed folly this.

Geof. I know he loves not ease and revelry;
He makes them soldiers at no dearer rate
Than he himself hath paid. What, dost thou think, Thou art as brave, of as good parts as he.
That e'en the very meanest simple craft
Cannot without due diligence be learn'd,
And yet the noble art of soldiership
May be attain'd by loitering in the sun?
Some men are born to feast, and not to fight;
Whose sluggish minds, e'en fair honour's field,

Ros. Our talents of a different nature are;
Mine for the daily intercourse of life,
And his for higher things.

Fred. Well, praise him as thou wilt; I see it not;
I'm sure I am as brave a man as he.

Ros. Yes, brave thou art, but 'tis subaltern bravery,

Still on their dinner turn

Let such pot-boiling varlets stay at home,
And wield a flesh-hook rather than a sword.
In times of easy service, true it is,

An easy, careless chief all soldiers love;
But O! how gladly in the day of battle
Would they their jolly bottle-chief desert,
And follow such a leader as Count Basil!
So gathering herds, at pressing danger's call,
Confess the master decr.

And doth respect thyself. Thou'lt bleed as well,
Give and receive as deep a wound as he.
When Basil fights he wields a thousand swords;
For 'tis their trust in his unshaken mind,
O'erwatching all the changes of the field,
Calm and inventive midst the battle's storm,
Which makes his soldiers bold.-

Fred. But short will be the season of our ease,
For Basil is of flinty matter made,
And cannot be allured-

There have been those, in early manhood slain,
Whose great heroic souls have yet inspired

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