A thrilling pleasantness, which send a glow My throne again. Reign! Reign! I have forgot In some small woodland cottage, where green leaves 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, And for thy whole life long; a caged bird. Be wiser than the feathered fool that beats Thy heart can ask, save freedom, and that-never! For I would root out hope and fear, and plant Rest thee content. No harm shall happen thee. (Exit Alberto.) A caged bird? I've seen one prune himself, Merrily! Happy fool, it had forgot Blithe liberty! But man, though he should drag 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 O'er noble breasts. Athel. And but o'er noble breasts; Pil. Forbear, forbear; Think what a sea of deep perdition whelms And let the thought restrain thine impious hand. Athel. I was once Yes, I was once, I have his royal word for it, A man of such tried faith, such steady honor, First Voice. How ghastly the visage of death doth appear, Second Voice. How friendly the hand that faith is now lending, First Voice. There, in triumph, the death-knell is fitfully pealing, Second Voice. Hear the joy-speaking voice of some angel calling- 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 ; 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, Paspati. Thinkest thou it was God, who our green hills defended, Epaminondas. All bloody and pale, with his war-clothes around him, Cold and dead was my brother-at evening I found him, Paspati. And where is thy mother, boy? lives she to bless thee? Thou livest in the stranger-land, strangers caress thee, 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! Second Voice. How peaceful the grave! its quiet how deep: First Voice. There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead, 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 Second Voice. Oh, soft are the breezes that play round the tomb, 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? Where many an image of marble gleans, |