("Dans ta haute demeure.")
     {Bk. III. ix., 1881.}

     In thine abode so high
       Where yet one scarce can breathe,
     Dear child, most tenderly
       A soft song thou dost wreathe.

     Thou singest, little girl—
       Thy sire, the King is he:
     Around thee glories whirl,
       But all things sigh in thee.

     Thy thought may seek not wings
       Of speech; dear love's forbidden;
     Thy smiles, those heavenly things,
       Being faintly born, are chidden.

     Thou feel'st, poor little Bride,
       A hand unknown and chill
     Clasp thine from out the wide
       Deep shade so deathly still.

     Thy sad heart, wingless, weak,
       Is sunk in this black shade
     So deep, thy small hands seek,
       Vainly, the pulse God made.

     Thou art yet but highness, thou
       That shaft be majesty:
     Though still on thy fair brow
       Some faint dawn-flush may be,

     Child, unto armies dear,
       Even now we mark heaven's light
     Dimmed with the fume and fear
       And glory of battle-might.

     Thy godfather is he,
       Earth's Pope,—he hails thee, child!
     Passing, armed men you see
       Like unarmed women, mild.

     As saint all worship thee;
       Thyself even hast the strong
     Thrill of divinity
       Mingled with thy small song.

     Each grand old warrior
       Guards thee, submissive, proud;
     Mute thunders at thy door
       Sleep, that shall wake most loud.

     Around thee foams the wild
       Bright sea, the lot of kings.
     Happier wert thou, my child,
       I' the woods a bird that sings!

     NELSON R. TYERMAN.

     {Footnote 1: Marie, daughter of King Louis Philippe, afterwards Princess
     of Würtemburg.}

     ("J'aime à me figure.")
     {Bk. III. vii. and viii.}

     I love to look, as evening fails,
     On vestals streaming in their veils,
     Within the fane past altar rails,
         Green palms in hand.
     My darkest moods will always clear
     When I can fancy children near,
     With rosy lips a-laughing—dear,
         Light-dancing band!

     Enchanting vision, too, displayed,
     That of a sweet and radiant maid,
     Who knows not why she is afraid,—
         Love's yet unseen!
     Another—rarest 'mong the rare—
     To see the gaze of chosen fair
     Return prolonged and wistful stare
         Of eager een.

     But—dream o'er all to stir my soul,
     And shine the brightest on the roll,
     Is when a land of tyrant's toll
         By sword is rid.
     I say not dagger—with the sword
     When Right enchampions the horde,
     All in broad day—so that the bard
     May sing the victor with the starred
         Bayard and Cid!

     ("Jamais elle ne raille.")
     {Bk. III. xiii.}

         Where your brood seven lie,
         Float in calm heavenly,
         Life passing evenly,
     Waterfowl, waterfowl! often I dream
             For a rest
             Like your nest,
           Skirting the stream.

         Shine the sun tearfully
         Ere the clouds clear fully,
         Still you skim cheerfully,
     Swallow, oh! swallow swift! often I sigh
             For a home
             Where you roam
           Nearing the sky!

         Guileless of pondering;
         Swallow-eyes wandering;
         Seeking no fonder ring
     Than the rose-garland Love gives thee apart!
             Grant me soon—
             Blessed boon!
           Home in thy heart!

     ("Jersey dort dans les flots.")
     {Bk. III. xiv., Oct. 8, 1854.}

     Dear Jersey! jewel jubilant and green,
       'Midst surge that splits steel ships, but sings to thee!
     Thou fav'rest Frenchmen, though from England seen,
       Oft tearful to that mistress "North Countree";
     Returned the third time safely here to be,
     I bless my bold Gibraltar of the Free.

     Yon lighthouse stands forth like a fervent friend,
       One who our tempest buffets back with zest,
     And with twin-steeple, eke our helmsman's end,
       Forms arms that beckon us upon thy breast;
     Rose-posied pillow, crystallized with spray,
     Where pools pellucid mirror sunny ray.

     A frigate fretting yonder smoothest sky,
       Like pauseless petrel poising o'er a wreck,
     Strikes bright athwart the dearly dazzled eye,
       Until it lessens to scarce certain speck,
     'Neath Venus, sparkling on the agate-sprinkled beach,
       For fisher's sailing-signal, just and true,
       Until Aurora frights her from the view.

     In summer, steamer-smoke spreads as thy veil,
       And mists in winter sudden screen thy sight,
     When at thy feet the galley-breakers wail
       And toss their tops high o'er the lofty flight
     Of horrid storm-worn steps with shark-like bite,
     That only ope to swallow up in spite.

     L'ENVOY.

     But penitent in calm, thou givest a balm,
       To many a man who's felt thy rage,
     And many a sea-bird—thanks be heard!—
       Thou shieldest—sea-bird—exiled bard and sage.

     ("Il est un peu tard.")
     {Bk. III. xxx., Oct. 30, 1854.}

     Late it is to look so proud,
       Daisy queen! come is the gloom
     Of the winter-burdened cloud!—
       "But, in winter, most I bloom!"

     Star of even! sunk the sun!
       Lost for e'er the ruddy line;
     And the earth is veiled in dun,—
       "Nay, in darkness, best I shine!"

     O, my soul! art 'bove alarm,
       Quaffing thus the cup of gall—
     Canst thou face the grave with calm?—
       "Yes, the Christians smile at all."

     ("Si je pouvais voir, O patrie!")
     {Bk. III. xxxvii.}

     Would I could see you, native land,
     Where lilacs and the almond stand
     Behind fields flowering to the strand—
                 But no!

     Can I—oh, father, mother, crave
     Another final blessing save
     To rest my head upon your grave?—
                 But no!

     In the one pit where ye repose,
     Would I could tell of France's woes,
     My brethren, who fell facing foes—
                 But no!

     Would I had—oh, my dove of light,
     After whose flight came ceaseless night,
     One plume to clasp so purely white.—
                 But no!

     Far from ye all—oh, dead, bewailed!
     The fog-bell deafens me empaled
     Upon this rock—I feel enjailed—
                 Though free.

     Like one who watches at the gate
     Lest some shall 'scape the doomèd strait.
     I watch! the tyrant, howe'er late,
                 Must fall!

     ("Vous voilà dans la froide Angleterre.")
     {Bk. III. xlvii., Jersey, Sept. 19, 1854.}

     You may doubt I find comfort in England
       But, there, 'tis a refuge from dangers!
     Where a Cromwell dictated to Milton,
       Republicans ne'er can be strangers!

     {Oct. 9, 1830.}

     When with gigantic hand he placed,
     For throne, on vassal Europe based,
       That column's lofty height—
     Pillar, in whose dread majesty,
     In double immortality,
       Glory and bronze unite!
     Aye, when he built it that, some day,
     Discord or war their course might stay,
       Or here might break their car;
     And in our streets to put to shame
     Pigmies that bear the hero's name
       Of Greek and Roman war.
     It was a glorious sight; the world
     His hosts had trod, with flags unfurled,
       In veteran array;
     Kings fled before him, forced to yield,
     He, conqueror on each battlefield,
       Their cannon bore away.
     Then, with his victors back he came;
     All France with booty teemed, her name
       Was writ on sculptured stone;
     And Paris cried with joy, as when
     The parent bird comes home again
       To th' eaglets left alone.
     Into the furnace flame, so fast,
     Were heaps of war-won metal cast,
       The future monument!
     His thought had formed the giant mould,
     And piles of brass in the fire he rolled,
       From hostile cannon rent.
     When to the battlefield he came,
     He grasped the guns spite tongues of flame,
       And bore the spoil away.
     This bronze to France's Rome he brought,
     And to the founder said, "Is aught
       Wanting for our array?"
     And when, beneath a radiant sun,
     That man, his noble purpose done,
       With calm and tranquil mien,
     Disclosed to view this glorious fane,
     And did with peaceful hand contain
       The warlike eagle's sheen.
     Round thee, when hundred thousands placed,
     As some great Roman's triumph graced,
       The little Romans all;
     We boys hung on the procession's flanks,
     Seeking some father in thy ranks,
       And loud thy praise did call.
     Who that surveyed thee, when that day
     Thou deemed that future glory ray
       Would here be ever bright;
     Feared that, ere long, all France thy grave
     From pettifoggers vain would crave
       Beneath that column's height?

     Author of "Critical Essays."

     ("Je suis la Charité.")
     {February, 1837.}

     "Lo! I am Charity," she cries,
       "Who waketh up before the day;
     While yet asleep all nature lies,
       God bids me rise and go my way."

     How fair her glorious features shine,
       Whereon the hand of God hath set
     An angel's attributes divine,
       With all a woman's sweetness met.

     Above the old man's couch of woe
       She bows her forehead, pure and even.
     There's nothing fairer here below,
       There's nothing grander up in heaven,

     Than when caressingly she stands
       (The cold hearts wakening 'gain their beat),
     And holds within her holy hands
       The little children's naked feet.

     To every den of want and toil
       She goes, and leaves the poorest fed;
     Leaves wine and bread, and genial oil,
       And hopes that blossom in her tread,

     And fire, too, beautiful bright fire,
       That mocks the glowing dawn begun,
     Where, having set the blind old sire,
       He dreams he's sitting in the sun.

     Then, over all the earth she runs,
       And seeks, in the cold mists of life,
     Those poor forsaken little ones
       Who droop and weary in the strife.

     Ah, most her heart is stirred for them,
       Whose foreheads, wrapped in mists obscure,
     Still wear a triple diadem—
       The young, the innocent, the poor.

     And they are better far than we,
       And she bestows a worthier meed;
     For, with the loaf of charity,
       She gives the kiss that children need.

     She gives, and while they wondering eat
       The tear-steeped bread by love supplied,
     She stretches round them in the street
       Her arm that passers push aside.

     If, with raised head and step alert,
       She sees the rich man stalking by,
     She touches his embroidered skirt,
       And gently shows them where they lie.

     She begs for them of careless crowd,
       Of earnest brows and narrow hearts,
     That when it hears her cry aloud,
       Turns like the ebb-tide and departs.

     O miserable he who sings
       Some strain impure, whose numbers fall
     Along the cruel wind that brings
       Death to some child beneath his wall.

     O strange and sad and fatal thing,
       When, in the rich man's gorgeous hall,
     The huge fire on the hearth doth fling
       A light on some great festival,

     To see the drunkard smile in state,
       In purple wrapt, with myrtle crowned,
     While Jesus lieth at the gate
       With only rags to wrap him round.

     Dublin University Magazine

     ("Vous qui ne savez pas combien l'enfance est belle.")

     Sweet sister, if you knew, like me,
     The charms of guileless infancy,
     No more you'd envy riper years,
     Or smiles, more bitter than your tears.

     But childhood passes in an hour,
     As perfume from a faded flower;
     The joyous voice of early glee
     Flies, like the Halcyon, o'er the sea.

     Enjoy your morn of early Spring;
     Soon time maturer thoughts must bring;
     Those hours, like flowers that interclimb,
     Should not be withered ere their time.

     Too soon you'll weep, as we do now,
     O'er faithless friend, or broken vow,
     And hopeless sorrows, which our pride
     In pleasure's whirl would vainly hide.

     Laugh on! unconscious of thy doom,
     All innocence and opening bloom;
     Laugh on! while yet thine azure eye
     Mirrors the peace that reigns on high.

     MRS. B. SOMERS.

     ("Un Ange vit un jour.")
     {LA PITIÉ SUPREME VIII., 1881.}

     When an angel of kindness
       Saw, doomed to the dark,
     Men framed in his likeness,
       He sought for a spark—
     Stray gem of God's glory
           That shines so serene—
       And, falling like lark,
     To brighten our story,
           Pure Pity was seen.

     Sitting in a porchway cool,
       Fades the ruddy sunlight fast,
     Twilight hastens on to rule—
       Working hours are wellnigh past

     Shadows shoot across the lands;
       But one sower lingers still,
     Old, in rags, he patient stands,—
       Looking on, I feel a thrill.

     Black and high his silhouette
       Dominates the furrows deep!
     Now to sow the task is set,
       Soon shall come a time to reap.

     Marches he along the plain,
       To and fro, and scatters wide
     From his hands the precious grain;
       Moody, I, to see him stride.

     Darkness deepens. Gone the light.
       Now his gestures to mine eyes
     Are august; and strange—his height
       Seems to touch the starry skies.

     TORU DUTT.

     ("A quoi bon entendre les oiseaux?")
     {RUY BLAS, Act II.}

     Oh, why not be happy this bright summer day,
     'Mid perfume of roses and newly-mown hay?
     Great Nature is smiling—the birds in the air
     Sing love-lays together, and all is most fair.
               Then why not be happy
                 This bright summer day,
               'Mid perfume of roses
                 And newly-mown hay?

     The streamlets they wander through meadows so fleet,
     Their music enticing fond lovers to meet;
     The violets are blooming and nestling their heads
     In richest profusion on moss-coated beds.
               Then why not be happy
                 This bright summer day,
               When Nature is fairest
                 And all is so gay?

     LEOPOLD WRAY.

     {Footnote 1: Music composed by Elizabeth Philip.}

     {Inscription under a Statue of the Virgin and Child, at Guernsey.—The
     poet sees in the emblem a modern Atlas, i.e., Freedom supporting the
     World.}

     ("Le peuple est petit.")

     Weak is the People—but will grow beyond all other—
     Within thy holy arms, thou fruitful victor-mother!
     O Liberty, whose conquering flag is never furled—
     Thou bearest Him in whom is centred all the World.

     ("Quand tu chantes.")

     When the voice of thy lute at the eve
             Charmeth the ear,
     In the hour of enchantment believe
             What I murmur near.
     That the tune can the Age of Gold
             With its magic restore.
     Play on, play on, my fair one,
             Play on for evermore.

     When thy laugh like the song of the dawn
             Riseth so gay
     That the shadows of Night are withdrawn
             And melt away,
     I remember my years of care
             And misgiving no more.
     Laugh on, laugh on, my fair one,
             Laugh on for evermore.

     When thy sleep like the moonlight above
             Lulling the sea,
     Doth enwind thee in visions of love,
             Perchance, of me!
     I can watch so in dream that enthralled me,
             Never before!
     Sleep on, sleep on, my fair one!
             Sleep on for evermore.

     HENRY F. CHORLEY.

     ("Les feuilles qui gisaient.")

     The leaves that in the lonely walks were spread,
     Starting from off the ground beneath the tread,
             Coursed o'er the garden-plain;
     Thus, sometimes, 'mid the soul's deep sorrowings,
     Our soul a moment mounts on wounded wings,
             Then, swiftly, falls again.

     Where are the hapless shipmen?—disappeared,
       Gone down, where witness none, save Night, hath been,
     Ye deep, deep waves, of kneeling mothers feared,
       What dismal tales know ye of things unseen?
       Tales that ye tell your whispering selves between
         The while in clouds to the flood-tide ye pour;
       And this it is that gives you, as I ween,
         Those mournful voices, mournful evermore,
         When ye come in at eve to us who dwell on shore.

     ("Phoebus, n'est-il sur la terre?")
     {OPERA OF "ESMERALDA," ACT IV., 1836.}

     Phoebus, is there not this side the grave,
                 Power to save
     Those who're loving? Magic balm
     That will restore to me my former calm?
     Is there nothing tearful eye
     Can e'er dry, or hush the sigh?
     I pray Heaven day and night,
     As I lay me down in fright,
     To retake my life, or give
     All again for which I'd live!
     Phoebus, hasten from the shining sphere
                 To me here!
     Hither hasten, bring me Death; then Love
     May let our spirits rise, ever-linked, above!

     ("Mon âme à ton coeur s'est donnée.")
     {ANGELO, Act II., May, 1835.}

     My soul unto thy heart is given,
       In mystic fold do they entwine,
     So bound in one that, were they riven,
       Apart my soul would life resign.
     Thou art my song and I the lyre;
     Thou art the breeze and I the brier;
     The altar I, and thou the fire;
       Mine the deep love, the beauty thine!
     As fleets away the rapid hour
       While weeping—may
       My sorrowing lay
     Touch thee, sweet flower.

     ERNEST OSWALD COE.

     A FLEETING GLIMPSE OF A VILLAGE.

     ("Tout vit! et se pose avec grâce.")

     How graceful the picture! the life, the repose!
       The sunbeam that plays on the porchstone wide;
     And the shadow that fleets o'er the stream that flows,
       And the soft blue sky with the hill's green side.

     Fraser's Magazine.

     ("Un soldat au dur visage.")
     {CROMWELL, ACT I.}

     "Hold, little blue-eyed page!"
       So cried the watchers surly,
     Stern to his pretty rage
       And golden hair so curly—
     "Methinks your satin cloak
       Masks something bulky under;
     I take this as no joke—
       Oh, thief with stolen plunder!"

     "I am of high repute,
       And famed among the truthful:
     This silver-handled lute
       Is meet for one still youthful
     Who goes to keep a tryst
       With her who is his dearest.
     I charge you to desist;
       My cause is of the clearest."

     But guardsmen are so sharp,
       Their eyes are as the lynx's:
     "That's neither lute nor harp—
       Your mark is not the minxes.
     Your loving we dispute—
       That string of steel so cruel
     For music does not suit—
       You go to fight a duel!"

     ("Aveugle comme Homère.")
     {Improvised at the Café de Paris.}

     Blind, as was Homer; as Belisarius, blind,
       But one weak child to guide his vision dim.
     The hand which dealt him bread, in pity kind—
       He'll never see; God sees it, though, for him.

     H.L.C., "London Society."

     It was a humble church, with arches low,
       The church we entered there,
     Where many a weary soul since long ago
       Had past with plaint or prayer.

     Mournful and still it was at day's decline,
       The day we entered there;
     As in a loveless heart, at the lone shrine,
       The fires extinguished were.

     Scarcely was heard to float some gentlest sound,
       Scarcely some low breathed word,
     As in a forest fallen asleep, is found
       Just one belated bird.

     A STORM SIMILE.

     ("Oh, regardez le ciel!")
     {June, 1828.}

     See, where on high the moving masses, piled
     By the wind, break in groups grotesque and wild,
           Present strange shapes to view;
     Oft flares a pallid flash from out their shrouds,
     As though some air-born giant 'mid the clouds
           Sudden his falchion drew.

     ("Vous, sire, écoutez-moi.")
     {LE ROI S'AMUSE, Act I.}

     M. ST. VALLIER (an aged nobleman, from whom King Francis I.
     decoyed his daughter, the famous beauty, Diana of
     Poitiers).

     A king should listen when his subjects speak:
     'Tis true your mandate led me to the block,
     Where pardon came upon me, like a dream;
     I blessed you then, unconscious as I was
     That a king's mercy, sharper far than death,
     To save a father doomed his child to shame;
     Yes, without pity for the noble race
     Of Poitiers, spotless for a thousand years,
     You, Francis of Valois, without one spark
     Of love or pity, honor or remorse,
     Did on that night (thy couch her virtue's tomb),
     With cold embraces, foully bring to scorn
     My helpless daughter, Dian of Poitiers.
     To save her father's life a knight she sought,
     Like Bayard, fearless and without reproach.
     She found a heartless king, who sold the boon,
     Making cold bargain for his child's dishonor.
     Oh! monstrous traffic! foully hast thou done!
     My blood was thine, and justly, tho' it springs
     Amongst the best and noblest names of France;
     But to pretend to spare these poor gray locks,
     And yet to trample on a weeping woman,
     Was basely done; the father was thine own,
     But not the daughter!—thou hast overpassed
     The right of monarchs!—yet 'tis mercy deemed.
     And I perchance am called ungrateful still.
     Oh, hadst thou come within my dungeon walls,
     I would have sued upon my knees for death,
     But mercy for my child, my name, my race,
     Which, once polluted, is my race no more.
     Rather than insult, death to them and me.
     I come not now to ask her back from thee;
     Nay, let her love thee with insensate love;
     I take back naught that bears the brand of shame.
     Keep her! Yet, still, amidst thy festivals,
     Until some father's, brother's, husband's hand
     ('Twill come to pass!) shall rid us of thy yoke,
     My pallid face shall ever haunt thee there,
     To tell thee, Francis, it was foully done!...

       TRIBOULET (the Court Jester), sneering. The poor man
     raves.

       ST. VILLIER. Accursed be ye both!
     Oh Sire! 'tis wrong upon the dying lion
     To loose thy dog!  (Turns to Triboulet)                        And thou, whoe'er thou art,
     That with a fiendish sneer and viper's tongue
     Makest my tears a pastime and a sport,
     My curse upon thee!—Sire, thy brow doth bear
     The gems of France!—on mine, old age doth sit;
     Thine decked with jewels, mine with these gray hairs;
     We both are Kings, yet bear a different crown;
     And should some impious hand upon thy head
     Heap wrongs and insult, with thine own strong arm
     Thou canst avenge them! God avenges mine!
     FREDK. L. SLOUS.

     ("Ma fille! ô seul bonheur.")
     {LE ROI S'AMUSE, Act II}

     My child! oh, only blessing Heaven allows me!
     Others have parents, brothers, kinsmen, friends,
     A wife, a husband, vassals, followers,
     Ancestors, and allies, or many children.
     I have but thee, thee only. Some are rich;
     Thou art my treasure, thou art all my riches.
     And some believe in angels; I believe
     In nothing but thy soul. Others have youth,
     And woman's love, and pride, and grace, and health;
     Others are beautiful; thou art my beauty,
     Thou art my home, my country and my kin,
     My wife, my mother, sister, friend—my child!
     My bliss, my wealth, my worship, and my law,
     My Universe! Oh, by all other things
     My soul is tortured. If I should ever lose thee—
     Horrible thought! I cannot utter it.
     Smile, for thy smile is like thy mother's smiling.
     She, too, was fair; you have a trick like her,
     Of passing oft your hand athwart your brow
     As though to clear it. Innocence still loves
     A brow unclouded and an azure eye.
     To me thou seem'st clothed in a holy halo,
     My soul beholds thy soul through thy fair body;
     E'en when my eyes are shut, I see thee still;
     Thou art my daylight, and sometimes I wish
     That Heaven had made me blind that thou might'st be
     The sun that lighted up the world for me.

     FANNY KEMBLE-BUTLER.

     ("Mes jeunes cavaliers.")
     {HERNANI, Act I., March, 1830.}

     What business brings you here, young cavaliers?
     Men like the Cid, the knights of bygone years,
     Rode out the battle of the weak to wage,
     Protecting beauty and revering age.
     Their armor sat on them, strong men as true,
     Much lighter than your velvet rests on you.
     Not in a lady's room by stealth they knelt;
     In church, by day, they spoke the love they felt.
     They kept their houses' honor bright from rust,
     They told no secret, and betrayed no trust;
     And if a wife they wanted, bold and gay,
     With lance, or axe, or falchion, and by day,
     Bravely they won and wore her. As for those
     Who slip through streets when honest men repose,
     With eyes turned to the ground, and in night's shade
     The rights of trusting husbands to invade;
     I say the Cid would force such knaves as these
     To beg the city's pardon on their knees;
     And with the flat of his all-conquering blade
     Their rank usurped and 'scutcheon would degrade.
     Thus would the men of former times, I say,
     Treat the degenerate minions of to-day.

     LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE.)

     ("L'homme auquel on vous destina.")
     {HERNANI, Act I.}

     Listen. The man for whom your youth is destined,
     Your uncle, Ruy de Silva, is the Duke
     Of Pastrana, Count of Castile and Aragon.
     For lack of youth, he brings you, dearest girl,
     Treasures of gold, jewels, and precious gems,
     With which your brow might outshine royalty;
     And for rank, pride, splendor, and opulence,
     Might many a queen be envious of his duchess!
     Here is one picture. I am poor; my youth
     I passed i' the woods, a barefoot fugitive.
     My shield, perchance, may bear some noble blazons
     Spotted with blood, defaced though not dishonored.
     Perchance I, too, have rights, now veiled in darkness,—
     Rights, which the heavy drapery of the scaffold
     Now hides beneath its black and ample folds;
     Rights which, if my intent deceive me not,
     My sword shall one day rescue. To be brief:—
     I have received from churlish Fortune nothing
     But air, light, water,—Nature's general boon.
     Choose, then, between us two, for you must choose;—
     Say, will you wed the duke, or follow me?

       DONNA SOL. I'll follow you.

       HERN. What, 'mongst my rude companions,
     Whose names are registered in the hangman's book?
     Whose hearts are ever eager as their swords,
     Edged by a personal impulse of revenge?
     Will you become the queen, dear, of my band?
     Will you become a hunted outlaw's bride?
     When all Spain else pursued and banished me,—
     In her proud forests and air-piercing mountains,
     And rocks the lordly eagle only knew,
     Old Catalonia took me to her bosom.
     Among her mountaineers, free, poor, and brave,
     I ripened into manhood, and, to-morrow,
     One blast upon my horn, among her hills,
     Would draw three thousand of her sons around me.
     You shudder,—think upon it. Will you tread
     The shores, woods, mountains, with me, among men
     Like the dark spirits of your haunted dreams,—
     Suspect all eyes, all voices, every footstep,—
     Sleep on the grass, drink of the torrent, hear
     By night the sharp hiss of the musket-ball
     Whistling too near your ear,—a fugitive
     Proscribed, and doomed mayhap to follow me
     In the path leading to my father's scaffold?

       DONNA SOL. I'll follow you.

       HERN.           This duke is rich, great, prosperous,
     No blot attaches to his ancient name.
     He is all-powerful. He offers you
     His treasures, titles, honors, with his hand.

       DONNA SOL. We will depart to-morrow. Do not blame
     What may appear a most unwomanly boldness.

     CHARLES SHERRY.

     DONNA SOL to HERNANI.

     ("Nous partirons demain.")
     {HERNANI, ACT I.}

     To mount the hills or scaffold, we go to-morrow:
     Hernani, blame me not for this my boldness.
     Art thou mine evil genius or mine angel?
     I know not, but I am thy slave. Now hear me:
     Go where thou wilt, I follow thee. Remain,
     And I remain. Why do I thus? I know not.
     I feel that I must see thee—see thee still—
     See thee for ever. When thy footstep dies,
     It is as if my heart no more would beat;
     When thou art gone, I am absent from myself;
     But when the footstep which I love and long for
     Strikes on mine ear again—then I remember
     I live, and feel my soul return to me.

     G. MOIR.