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Child. Oh! green

is the turf where my brothers play,
Through the long bright hours of the summer-day
They find the red cup-moss where they climb,
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme,
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know-
Stranger! kind stranger! oh! let me go.

Stranger.
Content thee, boy! in my bower to dwell,
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well;
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,
Harps which the wandering breezes tune ;
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird,
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard.

Child.
Oh! my mother sings at the twilight's fall,
A song

of the hills far more sweet than all;
She sings it under our pwn green tree,
To the babe half-slumbering on her knee ;
I dreamt last night of that music low-
Stranger! kind stranger! oh! let me go.

Stranger.
Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest,
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more,
Nor hear her song at the cabin door.
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye.

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Child. Is my mother

gone

from her home away ?-
But I know that my brothers are there at play.
I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell,
Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well,
Or they lanch their boats where the bright streams flow,-
Stranger! kind stranger! oh! let me go.

Stranger.
Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now,
They sport no more on the mountain's brow,
They have left the fern by the spring's green side,
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried.

Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot,
For thy cabin-home is a lonely spot.

Child.
from the sunny

Are they gone,

all
gone

hill ?
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still ;
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free,
And the heath is bent by the singing bee,
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow,-
Stranger! kind stranger! oh! let me go.

SELECTION V.

RAIMOND—PROCIDA.-Hemans.

Procida. And dost thou still refuse to share the glory Of this our daring enterprise ?

Raimond. Oh, father!
I too, have dreamt of glory, and the word
Hath to my soul been as a trumpet's voice,
Making my nature sleepless. But the deeds
Whereby 'twas won, the high exploits, whose tale
Bids the heart burn, were of another cast
Than such as thou requirest.

Proc. Every deed
Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim
The freedom of our country; and the sword
Alike is honored in the patriot's hand,
Searching, ʼmidst warrior hosts the heart which gave
Oppression birth ; or flashing through the gloom
Of the still chamber, o'er its troubled couch,
At dead of night.

Rai. (Turning away.) There is no path but one
For noble natures.

Proc. Wouldst thou ask the man Who to the earth hath dashed a nation's chains, Rent as with heaven's own lightning, by what means The glorious end was won ?-Go, swell the acclaim! Bid the deliverer, hail! and if his path To that most bright and sovereign destiny Hath led o'er trampled thousands, be it called A stern necessity, and not a crime!

Rai. Father! my soul yet kindles at the thought Of noblor lessons, in my boyhood learned

.

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E'en from thy voice. The high remembrances
Of other days are stirring in the heart
Where thou didst plant them; and they speak of men
Who needed no vain sophistry to gild
Acts, that would bear heaven's light.—And such be mine!
Oh, father! is it yet too late to draw
The praise and blessings of all valiant hearts
On our most righteous cause?

Proc. What wouldst thou do?

Rai. I would go forth, and rouse the indignant land
To

generous combat. Why should freedom strike
Mantled with darkness ?-Is there not more strength
E’en in the waving of her single arm
Than hosts can wield against her ?-I would rouse
That spirit, whose fire doth press resistless on
To its proud sphere, the stormy field of fight!

Proc. Aye! and give time and warning to the foe
To gather all his might !—It is too late.
There is a work to be this eve begun,
When rings the vesper bell! and, long before
To-morrow's sun hath reached the noonday heaven,
His throne of burning glory, every sound
Of the provençal tongue within our walls,
As by one thunderstroke—you are pale, my son-
Shall be for ever silenced.

Rai. What! such sounds
As falter on the lip of infancy
In its imperfect utterance ? or are breathed
By the fond mother, as she lulls her babe ?
Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air
Poured by the timid maid ?-Must all alike
Be stilled in death; and wouldst thou tell my heart
There is no crime in this?

Proc. Since thou dost feel
Such horror of our purpose, in thy power
Are means that might avert it.

Rai. Speak! oh speak!

Proc. How would those rescued thousands bless thy name Shouldst thou betray us!

Rai. Father! I can bear-
Aye, proudly woo—the keenest questioning
Of thy soul-gifted eye; which almost seems
To claim a part of heaven's dread royalty,
The power that searches thought !

Proc. (After a pause.) Thou hast a brow
Clear as the day—and yet I doubt thee, Raimond !
I doubt thee!-See thou waver not-take heed!
Time lifts the veil from all things! (Exit.)

Rai. Oh! bitter day,
When, at the crushing of our glorious world,
We start and find men thus !-Yet be it so!
Is not my soul still powerful, in itself
To realize its dreams ?-Aye, shrinking not
From the pure eye of heaven, my brow may well
Undaunted meet my father's.—But away!

SELECTION VI.

MORDENT--LENOX.

-Holcraft.
Mordent. We are now in private.
Lenox. I am glad we are.

Mor. And now, sir, 1 insist on a clear and explicit answer. Where may I find Joanna ?

Len. Nay, sir, where may I find Joanna ?
Mor. Mr. Lenox, I will not be trifled with; where is she?

Len. Nor will I be trifled with, Mr. Mordent: I say where is she? The contrivance was your own. I know you. The moment you set your eyes on her, you began your treacherous plots to secure her affections; and, when you found I would not resign mine at your persuasion, you put them in practice, while you treacherously pretended to secure her to me. I tell you, I know you.

Mor. This will not serve, sir; it is all evasion.

Len. Ay, sir, it is evasion! cunning, cruel, base evasion! and I affirm she is in your possession.

Mor. Mr. Lenox, I am at this moment a determined and desperate man, and must be answered. Where is she? Len. Sir, I am as determined and desperate as yourself

, and I say where is she? For

you

alone can tell.
Mor. 'Tis false!
Len. False ?
Mor. Ay, false!

Len. (Going up to him.) He is the falsest of the false that dares whisper such a word.

Mor. Hark ye, sir! I understand your meaning, and came purposely provided. (Draws a pair of pistols.) Take your choice; they are loaded.

Len. Oh! with all my heart! Come, sir!
Mor. (Approaching sternly.) Nigher !
Len. Às nigh as you please.
Mor. (Placing himself.) Foot to foot!
Len. (Both presenting.) Muzzle to muzzle!
Mor. Why don't you fire ?
Len. Why don't you unlock your pistol ?
Mor. (After unlocking it.) There!

Len. Why do you turn it out of the line ? (Pause.) I see your intention. Mordent, you are tired of life and want me to murder you. Hang it, man, that is not treating your friend like a friend. Kill me if you will, but don't make me your assassin.

Mor. Nay, kill me, or tell me where I may find the wretched Joanna.

Len. Fiends seize me, if I can tell you! I know not where, or what is become of her.

Mor. Your behavior tells me you are sincere; and to convince you at once that I am no less so, know-she is my daughter.

Lcn. Your daughter !—I'll seek the world through with you to find her. Forgive me!

Mor. Would I could forgive myself!

Len. But it seems, then, she has escaped, and is perhaps in safety.

Mor. Oh! that she were! Let us retire.

SELECTION VII.

ALBERTO-THEODORE.-Anonymous.

Alberto. Enter and fear not, trembler. Thou shalt live. Theodore. Ay, that I feared.

Alb. Dost hear me, boy? I say,
That thou shalt live.

Theo. I feared so.
Alb. Wouldst thou die ?

Theo. If it pleased heaven, most willingly. I know
That I'm a prisoner. I shall never walk
In the sun's blessed light, or feel the touch
Of the fresh air, or hear the summer brook
All idly babbling to the moon, or taste
The morning breath of flowers. The thousand charms
Which make in our Sicilian isle mere life.

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