A thrilling pleasantness, which send a glow Uncle, be merciful! I do not ask 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 I seemed to waver. this child's gentleness, For I would root out hope and fear, and plant Rest thee content. No harm shall happen thee. (Exit Alberto.) As hermits use through the long silent hours. 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 Its vigorous warmth, when the bleak blasts of fate 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, Sating the lust of slander; and my wife, My chaste Elfrida! I'll fly to save her. Oh distraction, no. Edwin. Stay, my dearest master; You rush on instant death. Athel. I mean it, slave, And wouldst thou hinder me? 'Tis duty to my king, and love to you, Athel. What! thou traitor!- Upon whose breast I cast this load of misery, Ye venerable fathers of this wood, Who oft have cooled beneath your arching shades To your spread umbrage, from yon sultry field, Το pay beneath your consecrated gloom A sacrifice to honor, and the ghosts Of those progenitors, who sternly frown Ed. See, thou Pilgrim, How horror shades his brow; how fixed his Heavens! what despair. Pil. Edwin, 'tis ever thus eye; With noble minds, if chance they slide to folly; Of their severe repentance. SELECTION IX. CASWALLON-FITZ-EDWARD.-Walker. Caswallon. Off-I have strength in this unwearied arm— (Recognizing his son.) Ha! is it thou? Fitz-Edward. Turn not away.-One word — Upon my knees I beg it. Cas. Let it be A brief one, then.-What wouldst thou? Fitz-Ed. Oh, my father! The tempest that my slighted speech foretold, Cas. And 'tis this To tell me this, that thou art here-to vaunt Fitz-Ed. No.-I come Second Voice. How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb : First Voice. The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave: There the rabbit at evening disports with his love, 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, |