AMONG the talented females who have distinguished themselves in the poetical world during the present day, Miss Mitford has justly obtained a conspicuous name. She is a daughter of Dr. Mitford, of Bertram House, near Reading. She was educated at Miss Rowdon's establishment, Brompton, and gave proofs of her poetical talent at a very early age. Her first work which she gave to the public, was a volume of Poems published in 1810. The popularity she acquired by this attempt encouraged her to persevere, and her next work, Christina, the Maid of the South Seas, a tale founded on the discovery of Pitcairn's Island, was published in the following year. This was succeeded by Watlington Hill, a descriptive poem, which appeared in 1812; and Narrative Poems on the Female Character in the various Relations of Life, which was published the same year. A considerable period then elapsed, during which she seemed to have retired from the literary work!; but it was that she might appear with greater lustre in the character of a dramatic writer, and her tragedies of Julian, Foscari, Rienzi, and Charles I., between 1823 and 1834, obtained for her a continually increasing reputation. They abound in tenderness of feeling and rich poetical description, so that they will always continue to obtain a distinguished rank as dramatic poems, however they may cease to captivate in representation.

FROM JULIAN.

Enter MELFI.

D'Alba (Aside). He's pale, he hath been hurt.

(Aloud) My liege,

Your vassals bid you welcome.

Melfi.

Noble Signors,

Good Leanti,

I greet you well. Thanks, D'Alba.

I joy to see those reverend locks. I never
Thought to behold a friendly face again.
And now I bring ye sorrow. Death hath been
Too busy; though the ripe and bearded ear
Escaped his sickle-but ye know the tale;
Ye welcomed me as King; and I am spared
The painful repetition.

Valore.

Sire, we know

From your own royal hand enough for joy
And sorrow: Death hath ta'en a goodly child
And spared a glorious man.

Melfi.

But how

My Lord,

What wouldst thou more? Before I enter'd here
Messina's general voice had hail'd her Sovereign.
Lacks but the ceremonial form. 'T were best
The accustom'd pageant were perform'd even now,
Whilst ye, Sicilian Barons, strength and grace

Of our Sicilian realm, are here to pledge
Solemn allegiance, Say I sooth, Count D'Alba ?
D'Alba. In sooth, my liege, I know not.

to me

One form is wanting.

Our bereaved state

Stands like a widow, one eye dropping tears

Seems

For her lost lord, the other turn'd with smiles
On her new bridegroom. But even she, the Dame
Of Ephesus, the buxom relict, famed

For quick dispatch o'er every widow'd mate,
Woman, or state-even she, before she wed,

Saw the good man entomb'd. The funeral first;
And then the Coronation.

What mean ye, Sirs? Stand off.

D'Alba. Cannot your Highness guess the murderer?
Melfi. Stand from about me, Lords! Dare ye to

front

A King? What, do ye doubt me; you, or you?
Dare ye to doubt me? Dare ye look a question
Into mine eyes? Take thy gaze off!
A King
Demands a modester regard. Now, Sirs,
What do ye seek? I tell ye, the fair boy
Fell underneath the assassin's sword; and I,
Wounded almost to death, am saved to prove
My subjects' faith, to punish, to reward,

To reign, I tell ye, nobles. Now, who questions?
Who glares upon me now? What are ye mute?
Leanti. Deign to receive our homage, Sire, and

pardon

The undesign'd offence. Your Highness knows
Count D'Alba's mood.

Melfi.

And he knows mine. Well! Well!

Be all these heats forgotten.

Julian.

FROM JULIAN.

Annabel, look forth

Upon this glorious world! Look once again
On our fair Sicily, lit by that sun

Whose level beams do cast a golden shine
On sea, and shore, and city, on the pride
Of bowery groves; on Etna's smouldering top ;-
Oh bright and glorious world! and thou of all
Created things most glorious, trick'd in light,
As the stars that live in heaven!

Annabel.

So sadly on me?

Jul.

Why dost thou gaze

The bright stars, how oft

They fall, or seem to fall!

He sinks, he sets in glory.

The sun-look! look!
Blessed orb,

Like thee-like thee-Dost thou remember once
We sat by the sea shore when all the heaven.
And all the ocean seem'd one glow of fire,

Red, purple, saffron, melted into one
Intense and ardent flame, the doubtful line
Where sea and sky should meet was lost in that
Continuous brightness; there we sate and talk'd
Of the mysterious union that bless'd orb

Wrought between earth and heaven, of life and death-
High mysteries!—and thou didst wish thyself

A spirit sailing in that flood of light

Straight to the Eternal Gates, didst pray to pass

Away in such a glory. Annabel!

Look out upon the burning sky, the sea

One lucid ruby - 't is the very hour!

Thou 'lt be a seraph at the Fount of Light
Before-

Ann. What, must I die? And wilt thou kill me?
Canst thou? Thou cam'st to save-

Jul.

I shall die with thee.

Ann.

To save thy honour!

Oh no! no! live! live!

If I must die-oh it is sweet to live,

To breathe, to move, to feel the throbbing blood
Beat in the veins,-to look on such an earth

And such a heaven,-to look on thee! Young life
Is very dear.

Jul.

Ann.

Would'st live for D'Alba?
No!

MISS MITFORD.

I had forgot. I'll die. Quick! Quick!

Jul.

One kiss!

Angel, dost thou forgive me?

Ann.

Jul.

Yes.

My sword!

Now!

I'm ready.

I cannot draw it.

Ann.

FROM RIENZI.

Claudia. Oh! mine old home!

Rienzi. What ails thee, lady-bird?
Cla. Mine own dear home!

Father, I love not this new state; these halls,

Where comfort dies in vastness; these trim maids,
Oh! mine old home!
Whose service wearies me.

My quiet pleasant chamber, with the myrtle

Woven round the casement; and the cedar by,
Shading the sun; my garden overgrown

With flowers and herbs, thick set as grass in fields;
My pretty snow-white doves; my kindest nurse,

And old Camillo-Oh! mine own dear home!

Rie. Why, simple child, thou hast thine old fond

nurse,

And good Camillo, and shalt have thy doves,

Thy myrtles, flowers, and cedars; a whole province
Laid in a garden, an' thou wilt. My Claudia,
Hast thou not learnt thy power? Ask orient gems,
Diamonds, and sapphires, in rich caskets, wrought
By cunning goldsmiths; sigh for rarest birds
Of farthest Ind, like winged flowers, to flit
Around thy stately bower; and at thy wish,
The precious toys shall wait thee.

Old Camillo !

Thou shalt have nobler servants,-emperors, kings,
Electors, princes! not a bachelor

In Christendom but would right proudly kneel

To my fair daughter.

Cla. Oh! mine own dear home!

Rie. Wilt have a list to choose from? Listen, sweet!

If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle,

And the white doves, were tell-tales, I would ask them,
Whose was the shadow on the sunny wall?

And if, at eventide they heard not oft

A tuneful mandoline, and then a voice,
Clear in its manly depth, whose tide of song
O'erwhelm'd the quivering instrument; and then
A world of whispers, mix'd with low response,
Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strains
Of nightingales.

Cla. Oh father! father!

Rie. Well!

Do'st love him, Claudia ?

Cla. Father!

Rie. Do'st thou love

Young Angelo? Yes?

Said'st thou yes? That heart

That throbbing heart of thine, keeps such a coil,
I cannot hear thy words. He is return'd

To Rome; he left thee on mine errand, dear one;
And now-Is there no casement myrtle-wreathed,
No cedar in our courts, to shade to-night
The lover's song?

Cla. Oh father! father!

Rie. Now,

Back to thy maidens, with a lighten'd heart,
Mine own beloved child. Thou shalt be first
In Rome, as thou art fairest; never princess
Brought to the proud Colonna such a dower
As thou. Young Angelo hath chosen his mate
From out an eagle's nest.

Cla. Alas! alas!

I tremble at the height. Whene'er I think
Of the hot barons, of the fickle people,
And the inconstancy of power, I tremble
For thee, dear father.

Rie. Tremble! Let them tremble.

I am their master, Claudia, whom they scorn'd,
Endured, protected.-Sweet, go dream of love.
I am their master, Claudia.

RIENZI'S INFLEXIBILITY.

Rie. Lords,

If ye could range before me all the peers,
Prelates, and potentates of Christendom,-
The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee,
And emperors crouching at my feet, to sue
For this great robber, still I should be blind