He led me to a bower of Paradise,

And held a cup of joy, which, he exclaimed,

Was mingled by himself;-i quaffed: 'twas nectar,
And thrilled within my heart-then, then, Florinda!-
FLOR. Let me implore you- (struggling.)

PES. Then within my arms methought I pressed thee. FLOR. Hold! this violence

PES. Nay, do not talk of violence:

You seemed a willing and a tender bride,
And rushed into my bosom !

FLOR. Count Pescara.

I must not hear this mockery! do not speak
Of what you should not think! this very day
Shall bind me, with an everlasting vow
To him!-ay, him! I do not fear to tell it,
To him my heart adores. "Tis not to me
You should unfold your horrid fancies.

PES. Mark me! there's oft a prophecy in dreams.

[Exit, R.

FLOR. (alone). Ha! this means something. Well I know


His voice doth sound like fate within my soul,
That answers back in faint and trembling echoes,
This horrid band of death, his fell commands,
The terrors of his eye, his looks of destiny,
All, all affright me! if I must be wretched,
O Heaven, don't let me know it; leave me still
The bliss of ignorance! What if Pescara,
Before Hemeya has adjured his creed,

Should treacherously seize him?

Would that the rite were done! (a distant symphony is heard.) What seraph music floats upon my soul?

Methinks it is the organ's solemn swell,

That from the churh's aisles ascends to heaven.

The holy rite proceeds! sweet sounds, awake!
Awake again upon my raptured soul!



[The author of the following lines is unknown. There is an exquisite pathos in both thought and expression, admirably suited for sweetly modulated and pathetic recital.]

Oh pale, pale face! Oh helpless hands!

Sweet eyes by fruitless watching wronged,

Yet turning ever toward the lands
Where War's red hosts are thronged.

She shudders when they tell the tale
Of some great battle lost and won!
Her sweet child-face grows old and pale,
Her heart falls like a stone!

She sees no conquering flag unfurled,
She hears no victory's brazen roar,
But a dear face,-which was her world,-
Perchance she'll kiss no more!

Ever there comes between her sight
And the glory that they rave about,
A boyish brow, and eyes whose light
Of splendor hath gone out.

The midnight glory of his hair,

Where late her fingers, like a flood
Of moonlight, wandered, lingering there,
Is stiff and dark-with blood!

She must not shriek, she must not moan,
She must not wring her quivering hands;
But, sitting dumb and white alone,

Be bound with viewless bands.

Because her suffering life enfolds
Another dearer, feebler life,

In death-strong grasp her heart she holds,
And stills its torturing strife.

Last eve, they say, a field was won,
Her eyes ask tidings of the fight;
But tell her of the dead alone

Who lay out in the night.

In mercy tell her that his name
Was not upon that fatal list;
That not among the heaps of slain
Dumb are the lips she's kissed.

Oh poor, pale child! Oh woman's heart!
Its weakness triumphed o'er by strength!

Love teaching pain discipline's art
And conquering at length!



From PAYNE'S Tragedy of BRUTUS.


BRUTUS, a Roman Consul,

TITUS, his Son,

COLLATINUS, a Roman Consul,

VALERIUS, a Roman Officer.

[This noble tragedy recals glimpses of the Eternal City in its grandest days. The plot of the piece is founded upon the infamous crime of Tarquin, the death of the virtuous Lucretia, the attempted flight of Titus with Tarquina, and the subsequent condemnation to death of the young soldier, by his patriotic father.

The tender resignation of Titus is in great contrast to the granitefirmness of the grand old Roman, and calls for a very different style of elocution.

COSTUMES of all the characters, should be very similar in formthe white Roman toga and mantle; except that Titus should have his dress somewhat richer in material, and of a bright color.]

SCENE.-An apartment in the house of BRUTUS.

Enter BRUTUS, R.

BRU. (alone). Like a lost, guilty wretch, I look around And start at every footstep, lest it bring

The fatal news of my poor son's conviction !—

Oh, Rome, thou little know'st-No more-It comes.


VAL. My friend, the Senate have to thee transferre The right of judgement on thy son's offence.

BRU. To me!

VAL. To thee alone?

BRU. What of the rest.

VAL. Their sentence is already passed.

E'en now, perhaps, the lictor's dreaded hand

Cuts off their forfeit lives.

BRU. Say'st thou, that the Senate have to me referred The fate of Titus?

VAL. Such is their sovereign will.

They think you merit this distinguished honor.
A father's grief deserves to be revered:

Rome will approve whatever you decree.

BRU. And is his guilt established beyond doubt?
VAL. Too clearly.

BRU. (with a burst of tears). Oh, ye gods! ye gods! (collect ing himself). Valerius!

VAL. What would'st thou, noble Roman?

BRU. Tis said thou hast pulled down thine house, Va


That stately pile that with such cost was reared.
VAL. I have; but what doth Brutus then infer?
BRU. It was a goodly structure: I remember
How fondly you surveyed its rising grandeur.—
With what a-fatherly-delight you summoned
Each grace and ornament, that might enrich
The-child-of your creation,-till it swelled
To an imperial size, and overpeered
The petty citizens, that humbly dwelt
Under its lofty walls, in huts and hovels,
Like emmets at the foot of tow'ring Etna:
Then, noble Roman, then with patriot zeal,
Dear as it was, and valued, you condemned
And levelled the proud pile; and, in return,
Were by your grateful countrymen sirnamed,
And shall to all posterity descend,--

VAL. Yes, Brutus, I conceive

The awful aim and drift of thy discourse-
But I conjure thee, pause! Thou art a father.
BRU. I am a Roman consul!--What, my friend,
Shall no one but Valerius love his country
Dearer than house, or property, or children?
Now, follow me ;-and, in the face of Heaven,
I'll mount the judgement seat: there, see if Brutus
Feel not for Rome as warmly as Poplicola.

Scene changes to

[Exeunt, R

Exterior of the Temple of Mars.-SENATORS, CITIZENS, COLLATINUS and LUCRETIUS, discovered. At L. of stage, a tribunal, with a Consular Chair upon it. *

* On a small stage, or in a school, it is not by any means necessary to have all the Senators, &c. visibly present. They can be addressed as if they were off at the side The tribunal to which Brutus ascends should be a very plain structure; as it would be abhorent to the mind of this austere Republican to ape the trappings of royalty.

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BRUTUS enters R., followed by VALERIUS—he bows as he passes, and ascends the Tribunal.

BRU. Romans, the blood which hath been shed this day Hath been shed wisely. Traitors, who conspire

Against mature societies, may urge

Their acts as bold and daring; and though villains,
Yet there are manly villains-But to stab
The cradled innocent, as these have done,-
To strike their country in the mother-pangs
Of struggling child-birth, and direct the dagger
To freedom's infant throat,-is a deed so black,
That my foiled tongue refuses it a name.
There criminal still left for judgment—
Let him approach.

[A pause

TITUS is brought in by the LICTORS, R., with their axes turned edgeways towards him.

Pris-on-er-(the voice of BRUTUS falters, and is choked, and he exclaims with violent emotion.

Romans, forgive this agony of grief—
My heart is bursting-Nature must have way-
I will perform all that a Roman should-

I cannot feel less than a father ought!

He becomes more calm. Gives a signal to the LICTORS to fall back, and advances from the Judgment-Seat to the front of the stage, on a line with his son.

Well, Titus, speak-how is it with thee now?

Tell me, my son, art thou prepared to die?

TIT. Father, I call the powers of heaven to witness Titus dares die, if so you have decreed.

The gods will have it so?

BRU. They will, my Titus:

Nor heav'n, nor earth, can have it otherwise.

It seems as if thy fate were pre-ordained

To fix the reeling spirits of the people,

And settle the loose liberty of Rome.

"Tis fixed;-oh, therefore, let not fancy cheat thee:

So fixed thy death, that 'tis not in the power

Of mortal man to save thee from the axe.

TIT. The axe!-Oh, heaven!--Then must I fall so base


What, shall I perish like a common felon!

BRU. How else do traitors suffer?-Nay, Titus, more—

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