A thrilling pleasantness, which send a glow
Through the poorest serf that tills the happy soil-
I am shut out from all. This is my tomb.
Uncle, be merciful! I do not ask

My throne again. Reign! Reign! I have forgot
That I was once a king. But let me bide

In some small woodland cottage, where green leaves
May wave around me, and cool breezes kiss
My brow. Keep me not in a dungeon, uncle,
Of this dark gloomy chamber. Let me dwell
In some wild forest. I'll not breathe a word
That might be dangerous. No! not to the birds,
My songsters, or the fawns, my playmates, uncle.
Thou ne'er shalt hear of me again.

Alb. Boy! boy! Cling not about me thus.

Theo. Thou wilt have mercy;

Thy heart is softening.

All. "Tis too late. To reign,

And he at liberty! I am a child

Myself, that, won by this child's gentleness,
I seemed to waver. Boy, thy fate is fixed!
Thyself hast said it.
Thou'rt a prisoner,

And for thy whole life long; a caged bird.

Be wiser than the feathered fool that beats
His wings against the wire. Thou shalt have all

Thy heart can ask, save freedom, and that-never!
I tell thee so in love, and not in hate;

For I would root out hope and fear, and plant
Patience in thy young soul.

Rest thee content. No harm shall happen thee.

(Exit Alberto.)
Theo. Content! Oh mockery of grief! content!
Was't not enough to take away my crown,
To mew me up here in a living tomb,
Cut off from human ties; but my jailer
Must bid me be content! Would I were dead!
Forgive me, heaven, for my impatience!
I will take better thoughts. "Tis but to fancy
This room a quiet hermitage, and pray
As hermits use through the long silent hours.
I shall be innocent. Sure he's a friend
That shuts me out from sin. Did he not call me

A caged bird? I've seen one prune himself,
And hop from perch to perch, and chirp and sing

Merrily! Happy fool, it had forgot

Blithe liberty! But man, though he should drag
A captive's heavy chain, even till he starts

To hear his own sad voice, cannot forget

He wants that blessed gift.

SELECTION VIII.

ATHELWOLD-EDWIN-PILGRIM.-Mason.

Athelwold.

Banish me! No. I'll die. For why should life

Remain a lonely lodger in that breast

Which honor leaves deserted?

Idle breath! Thou canst not fill such vacancy. Begone. This sword shall free

Pilgrim. Oh shame to fortitude!

Shame to that manly passion, which inspires
Its vigorous warmth, when the bleak blasts of fate
Would chill the soul. Oh call fair ready virtue
Quick to thy aid, for she is ever near thee;
Is ever prompt to shed her sevenfold shield

O'er noble breasts.

Athel. And but o'er noble breasts;
Not o'er the breast which livid infamy
Indelibly hath spotted. Oh shame, shame!
Sword, rid me of the thought.

Pil. Forbear, forbear;

Think what a sea of deep perdition whelms
The wretch's trembling soul, who lanches forth.
Unlicensed to eternity. Think, think;

And let the thought restrain thine impious hand.
The race of man is one vast marshaled ariny,
Summoned to pass the spacious realms of time,
Their leader the Almighty. In that march-
Ah! who may quit his post? when high in air
The chosen archangel rides, whose right hand wields
The imperial standard of heaven's providence,
Which, dreadly sweeping through the vaulted sky,
O'ershadows all creation.

Athel. I was once

Yes, I was once, I have his royal word for it,

A man of such tried faith, such steady honor,
As mocked all doubt and scruple.-What a change!
Now must that unstained, virgin character,
Be doomed to gross and hourly prostitution,

First Voice.

How ghastly the visage of death doth appear,
How frightful the thought of the shroud and the bier,
And the blood-crested worm how vile!

Second Voice.

How friendly the hand that faith is now lending,
How benignant her look o'er the pillow while bending,
How sweet, how assuring her smile!

First Voice.

There, in triumph, the death-knell is fitfully pealing,
While the shivering chill to the cold heart is stealing,
And the life-current warms-no-never-

Second Voice.

Hear the joy-speaking voice of some angel calling-
As the visions of heaven, on the rapt soul are falling,
And hope-is fruition for ever.

SELECTION II.

THE GREEK ORPHAN. PASPATI EPAMINONDAS.- -Colton.

Paspati.

Child of the brave! hear the echo of glory,

That breaks from the hills of our country now free; And the voice of our fathers-immortal in story, Which speaks in the lessons of heroes to thee.

Epaminondas.

The sound of the battle I heard on the mountain ;
The foemen I saw,-Oh, my father was there!
I saw his red blood as it gushed like a fountain:
But what is the echo of glory!—and where?

Paspati.

"Tis the sound of the war-song we learned from our mother The war-song of heroes who bled to be free :

"Tis the echo we heard on the hills, with our brothers, That speaks as the voice of the thunder to thee.

Epaminondas.

'Tis the great and good God who talks in the thunder,
Who breathes in the sweet and soft voices of spring;
He hath broken the yoke of the Turkman asunder,
And taught us his praises, in boyhood to sing.

Paspati.

Thinkest thou it was God, who our green hills defended,
And nerved to the battle the heroes who bled?
Ah! red were our fields ere the battle was ended,
Ah! white are our plains with the bones of the dead.

Epaminondas.

All bloody and pale, with his war-clothes around him,
My father I saw, in his pillared halls laid;

Cold and dead was my brother-at evening I found him,
But the God of good children ne'er made me afraid.

Paspati.

And where is thy mother, boy? lives she to bless thee?
Where is thy bower of the jessamin wild?

Thou livest in the stranger-land, strangers caress thee,
Where is the home of thy boyhood, fair child?

Epaminondas.

Oh! my mother is dead-three long summers have ended Since her kind and last kiss on my cheek she impressedAn orphan she left me-alone, unbefriended,

But the God of the orphan-the Greek orphan blessed,For here, in the stranger-land green hills are round me,Home, father, and mother, and brothers have found me!

SELECTION III.

THE CHURCHYARD. FIRST VOICE-SECOND VOICE.-. -Karamsin.

First Voice.

How frightful the grave! how deserted and drear!
With the howls of the storm-wind-the creaks of the bier.
And the white bones all clattering together!

Second Voice.

How peaceful the grave! its quiet how deep:
Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep,
And flowerets perfume it with ether.

First Voice.

There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead,
And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed,
And snakes in its nettle-weeds hiss.

Second Voice.

How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb : No tempests are there :-but the nightingales come And sing their sweet chorus of bliss.

First Voice.

The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave: 'Tis the vulture's abode :-'tis the wolf's dreary cave, Where they tear up the earth with their fangs. Second Voice.

There the rabbit at evening disports with his love, Or rests on the sod;—while the turtles above, Repose on the bough that o'erhangs.

First Voice.

There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath
And lothsome decay fill the dwelling of death;
And trees are all barren and bare!

Second Voice.

Oh, soft are the breezes that play round the tomb,
And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume,
With lilies and jessamin fair.

First Voice.

The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears, Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears, He is lanched on the wreck-covered river!

Second Voice.

The traveler, outworn with life's pilgrimage dreary, Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary, And sweetly reposes for ever.

SELECTION IV.

STRANGER-CHILD.-Hemans.

Stranger.

Why wouldst thou leave me, oh! gentle child?
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild,
A straw-roofed cabin with lowly wall—
Mine is a fair and a pillared hall,

Where many an image of marble gleans,
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams.