My lips e'er ask'd.—Speak to me once, my boy,
My pride, my hope!—And is it with thee thus ?
Look on me yet!—Oh! must this woe be borne?
Raim. Off with this weight of chains! it is not

meet

For a crown'd conqueror!— Hark! the trumpet's voice!

[A sound of triumphant music is heard gradu-
ally approaching.

Is't not a thrilling call?-What drowsy spell
Benumbs me thus ?-Hence! I am free again !
Now swell your festal strains-the field is won!
Sing me to glorious dreams.

Ans.

There fled a noble spirit!

Con.

Disturb him not!

Ans.

[He dies.

The strife is past.

Hush! he sleeps

Alas! this is no sleep

From which the eye doth radiantly unclose:
Bow down thy soul, for earthly hope is o'er!

[The music continues approaching. GUIDO
enters with Citizens and Soldiers.

Gui. The shrines are deck'd, the festive torches blaze

Where is our brave deliverer?-We are come
To crown Palermo's victor!

Ans.

Ye come too late.

The voice of human praise doth send no echo
Into the world of spirits.

[The music ceases.

Pro. (after a pause.) Is this dust

I look on-Raimond ?—'tis but sleep—a smile
On his pale cheek sits proudly. Raimond, wake!

Oh, God! and this was his triumphant day!
My son, my injured son!

Con. (starting.)

Art thou his father?

I know thee now.-Hence! with thy dark stern

eye,

And thy cold heart! Thou canst not wake him

now!

Away! he will not answer but to me,

For none like me hath loved him! He is mine!
Ye shall not rend him from me.

Pro.

Oh! he knew

Thy love, poor maid!-Shrink from me now no more !

He knew thy heart-but who shall tell him now
The depth, th' intenseness, and the agony,
Of my suppress'd affection?—I have learn'd
All his high worth in time to deck his grave!
Is there not power in the strong spirit's woe
To force an answer from the viewless world
Of the departed?-Raimond!-Speak! forgive!
Raimond! my victor, my deliverer, hear!

-Why, what a world is this !-Truth ever bursts
On the dark soul too late: and glory crowns
Th' unconscious dead! An hour comes to break
The mightiest hearts!-My son! my son! is this
A day of triumph!-Ay, for thee alone!

[He throws himself upon the body of RAIMOND.

[Curtain falls.

ΑΝΝΟΤΑΤΙΟΝ

ON

"THE VESPERS OF PALERMO."

"The Vespers of Palermo was the earliest of the dramatic productions of our author. The period in which the scene is laid, is sufficiently known from the title of the play. The whole is full of life and action. The same high strain of moral propriety marks this piece as all others of her writings. The hero is an enthusiast for glory, for liberty, and for virtue: and on his courage, his forbearance, the integrity of his love, making the firmness of his patriotism appear doubtful, rests the interest of the plot. It is worthy of remark, that some of its best parts have already found their way into an excellent selection of pieces for schools, and thus contribute to give lessons of morality to those who are most susceptible of the interest of tragedy.

"It may not be so generally remembered, that the same historical event was made the subject of a French tragedy, about the same time that the English one was written, and by a poet now of very great popularity in France. We hesitate not to give the preference to Mrs Hemans, for invention and interest, accurate delineation of character, and adherence to probability. Both the tragedies are written in a style of finished elegance."-PROFESSOR NORTON in North American Review, 1827.

SONGS OF THE CID.

The following ballads are not translations from the Spanish, but are founded upon some of the "wild and wonderful " traditions preserved in the romances of that language, and the ancient poem of the Cid.

THE CID'S DEPARTURE INTO EXILE.

WITH Sixty knights in his gallant train,
Went forth the Campeador of Spain;
For wild sierras and plains afar,
He left the lands of his own Bivar.1

To march o'er field, and to watch in tent,
From his home in good Castile he went;
To the wasting siege and the battle's van,
-For the noble Cid was a banish'd man!

Through his olive-woods the morn-breeze play'd,
And his native streams wild music made,
And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay,
When for march and combat he took his way.

With a thoughtful spirit his way he took,
And he turn'd his steed for a parting look,
For a parting look at his own fair towers;
-Oh! the Exile's heart hath

weary

hours!

The pennons were spread, and the band array'd,
But the Cid at the threshold a moment stay'd;
It was but a moment-the halls were lone,
And the gates of his dwelling all open thrown.

There was not a steed in the empty stall,
Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall,
Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door,
Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor.

Then a dim tear swell'd to the warrior's eye,
As the voice of his native groves went by;
And he said " My foemen their wish have won—
Now the will of God be in all things done!"

But the trumpet blew, with its note of cheer,
And the winds of the morning swept off the tear,
And the fields of his glory lay distant far,
-He is

gone from the towers of his own Bivar!

THE CID'S DEATHBED.

It was an hour of grief and fear

Within Valencia's walls,

When the blue Spring-heaven lay still and clear

Above her marble halls.