FROM THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. Of its strong current urged it forth to-day, Thoas. If thy speech is true, And I have something in me which responds By ponderous gloom encircled,-thou hast shown Whose waters soon shall cover me,-I've stain'd Ismene. If that just deed, Which thus disturbs thy fancy, were a crime, Thoas. Ismene. Hold! Parricide-forbear! 513 Thoas. Ismene. Thou! Dost doubt my word? Is there no witness in thy mantling blood 1 The Hero-king of Athens and the founder of her constitution. Which tells thee whence 'twas drawn? Is nature silent? If, from the mists of infancy, no form Of her who, sunk in poverty, forgot Its ills in tending thee, and made the hopes Which glimmer'd in thy smiles her comfort,-gleams Whom from her bosom they had rent? That child Thoas. Would the solid earth Ismene. Moulded from mine, to strike the oppressor dead. Dost confess Thoas. Ismene. Confess!—I glory in it !— Thy arm hath done the purpose of my will; For which I bless it. Now I am thy suitor. Victorious hero! Pay me for those cares Long past, which man ne'er guesses at ;-for years Of daily, silent suffering, which young soldiers Have not a word to body forth; for all, By filling for a moment these fond arms, Which held thee first. Thoas. [Shrinking from her.] I cannot. I will kneel And pray them trample out the wretched life Ismene. Ha! Beware, unfeeling man : I had opposed, had crush'd all human loves, Rushing in crowds from memory's thousand cells, FROM ION. Act II. Scene I. ION TO ADRASTUS. Think upon the time When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul Touched the calm lake, and wreathed its images As if about to melt in golden light Shapes of one heavenly vision; and thy heart, Grew bountiful to all! LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. (L. E. L.) (1802-1838.) PREVIOUSLY to the year 1824, when her "Improvisatrice" appeared, Miss Landon, under the signature L. E. L. had acquired considerable celebrity by her fugitive pieces in the Literary Gazette. Between 1825 and 1829, her "Troubadour," "Golden Violet," and "Venetian Bracelet," contributed to enhance her reputation; and during these and the subsequent years she produced several novels, and multitudes of contributions in prose and verse to the annuals and other periodicals. In 1838 she married Mr. George Maclean, governor of Cape Coast Castle, in Guinea. Shortly after her arrival in Africa, she was, one morning, found dead in her room, having, it was supposed, swallowed poison in mistake for a medicine for the cure of a spasmodic affection. Her tragical fate excited universal commiseration and regret. Miss Landon's poetry, melancholy, delicate, and sentimental, has been remarked as forming a singular contrast to the external manners of its authoress, which wore so lively, buoyant, and unconstrained a character, setting at nought many of the small conventional decorums of society, as to subject her name to cruel and unjust calumny. Her writing was advancing in the more valuable qualities of composition, when her genius was so suddenly quenched. Miss Landon was the daughter of an army agent in London; losing her father in early life, her generous kindness devoted much of the emoluments of her pen to the support of her relatives. THE TROUBADOUR. HE raised the golden cup from the board, Ladye, to-night I pledge thy name, To-morrow thou shalt pledge mine; Ever the smile of beauty should light, The victor's blood-red wine. There are some flowers of brightest bloom Give me those roses, they shall be For ere their colour is wholly gone, Or the breath of their sweetness fled, The warrior rode forth in the morning light The maiden stood on her highest tower, All day she watch'd the distant clouds A crucifix upon her neck, And on her lips a prayer. The sun went down, and twilight came And then afar she saw a band Wind down the vale their way. They came like victors, for high o'er their ranks Were their crimson colours borne ; And a stranger pennon droop'd beneath, But that was bow'd and torn. But she saw no white steed first in the ranks, No rider that spurred before ; THE DESERTER. But the evening shadows were closing fast, She turn'd from her watch on the lonely tower In haste to reach the hall, And as she sprang down the winding stair, A hundred harps their welcome rung, The ladye entered the hall, and saw 517 THE DESERTER. The muffled drum is rolling, and the low Notes of the death-march float upon the wind, And stately steps are pacing round that square With slow and measured tread; but every brow Is darken'd with emotion, and stern eyes, That look'd unshrinking on the face of death, When met in battle, are now moist with tears. The silent ring is form'd, and, in the midst Can this be the same, Stands the deserter ! The young, the gallant Edward? and are these The laurels promised in his early dreams? These fetter'd hands, this doom of open shame? Alas! for young and passionate spirits! Soon He had madly join'd False lights will dazzle. The rebel banner! Oh! 'twas pride to link His fate with Erin's patriot few, to fight For liberty or the grave! But he was now A prisoner; yet there he stood as firm As though his feet were not upon the tomb : His cheek was pale as marble, and as cold; But his lips trembled not, and his dark eyes But when they bared his breast Glanced proudly round. For the death shot, and took a portrait thence, He clench'd his hands, and gasp'd, and one deep sob Of agony burst from him, and he hid His face awhile, his mother's look was there. He could not steel his soul when he recall'd The bitterness of her despair. It pass'd That moment of wild anguish; he knelt down ; Young, proud, and brave, nerved in deep energy; |