FROM THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE.
Deliverance and revenge-but more for Athens,
Than for myself, I hail thee: why dost droop?
Art thou oppressed with honours, as a weight
Thou wert not born to carry? I will tell
That which shall show thee native to the load,
And shall requite thee with a joy as great
As that thou hast conferr'd. Thy life was hid
Beneath inglorious accident, till force
Of its strong current urged it forth to-day,
To glisten and expand in sun-light. Know
That it has issued from a fountain bright
As is its destiny.-Thou sharest with me
The blood of Theseus.1
Thoas. If thy speech is true,—
And I have something in me which responds
To its high tidings,-I am doom'd to bear
A heavier woe than I believed the gods
Would ever lay on mortal; I have stood
Unwillingly upon a skiey height,
By ponderous gloom encircled,-thou hast shown
The mountain-summit mournfully reversed
In the black mirror of a lurid lake,
Whose waters soon shall cover me,-I've stain'd
A freeman's nature; thou hast shown it sprung
From gods and heroes, and would'st have me proud
Of the foul sacrilege.
If that just deed,
Which thus disturbs thy fancy, were a crime,
What is it in the range of glorious acts,
Past and to come, to which thou art allied,
But a faint speck, an atom, which no eye
But thine would dwell on?—
Thoas.
Spreads out funereal blackness as they pass
In sad review before me. Hadst thou pour'd
This greatness on my unpolluted heart,
How had it bounded! now it tortures me,
From thee, fell sorceress, who snared my soul,
Here in this very hall !-May the strong curse
Which breathes from out the ruins of a nature
Blasted by guilt-
Hold! Parricide-forbear!
She whom thou hast avenged, she whom the death
Of Creon hath set free, whom thou would'st curse,
Is she who bore thee!
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
Upon thee yet ;-hast thou forgot the night
When foragers from Corinth toss'd a brand
Upon the roof that shelter'd thee; dragg'd out
The mother from the hearth where she had sat
Resign'd to perish, shrieking for the babe
Whom from her bosom they had rent? That child
Now listens. As in rapid flight I gazed
Backward upon the blazing ruin, shapes
Of furies, from amid the fire, look'd out
And grinn'd upon me. Every weary night,
While I have lain upon my wretched bed,
They have been with me, pointing to the hour
Of vengeance. Thou hast wrought it for me, Son!
Embrace thy mother!
Would the solid earth
Would open, and enfold me in its strong
And stifling grasp, that I might be as though
I ne'er was born.
Ismene.
Dost mock me? I have clasp'd
Sorrow and shame, as if they were my sons,
To keep my heart from hardening into stone;
The promised hour arrived; and, when it came,
The furies, in repayment, sent an arm
Moulded from mine, to strike the oppressor dead.
I triumph'd, and I sent thee!
Thoas.
That, conscious who I was, thou urged my knife
Against the king?
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.
To thank thee for thy love, ere thou didst kill
Honour and Hope;-then grovel at thy feet,
And pray them trample out the wretched life
Thou gav'st me.
Ha! Beware, unfeeling man :
I had opposed, had crush'd all human loves,
And they were wither'd; thou hast call'd them forth,
Rushing in crowds from memory's thousand cells,
To scoff at them. Beware! They will not slumber,
But sting like scorpions.
FROM ION.
Act II. Scene 1.
When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul
Were ruffled with the troublings of strange joy,
As if some unseen visitant from heaven
Touched the calm lake, and wreathed its images
In sparkling waves ;-recal the dallying hope,
That on the margin of assurance trembled,
As loth to lose in certainty too bless'd
Its happy being ;-taste in thought again
Of the stolen sweetness of those evening walks,
When pansied turf was air to wingéd feet,
And circling forests, by ethereal touch
Enchanted, wore the livery of the sky,
As if about to melt in golden light
Shapes of one heavenly vision; and thy heart,
Enlarged by its new sympathy with one,
LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. (L. E. L.)
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.
HE raised the golden cup from the board,
It sparkled with purple wealth,
He kissed the brim her lip had prest,
And drank to his ladye's health.
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
Amid thy beautiful hair,
Give me those roses, they shall be
The favour I will wear.
For ere their colour is wholly gone,
Or the breath of their sweetness fled,
They shall be placed in thy curls again,
But dyed of a deeper red.
The warrior rode forth in the morning light
And beside his snow-white plume
Were the roses wet with the sparkling dew,
Like pearls on their crimson bloom.
The maiden stood on her highest tower,
And watch'd her knight depart ;
She dash'd her tear aside, but her hand
Might not still her beating heart.
All day she watch'd the distant clouds
Float on the distant air,
A crucifix upon her neck,
And on her lips a prayer.
The sun went down, and twilight came
With her banner of pearlin grey,
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;
But the evening shadows were closing fast,
And she could see no more.
She turn'd from her watch on the lonely tower
In haste to reach the hall,
And as she sprang down the winding stair,
She heard the drawbridge fall.
A hundred harps their welcome rung,
Then paused, as if in fear;
The ladye entered the hall, and saw
Her true knight stretch'd on his bier.
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
Stands the deserter! Can this be the same,
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
False lights will dazzle. He had madly join'd
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
Glanced proudly round. But when they bared his breast
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;
That sunbeam shed its glory over one,
Young, proud, and brave, nerved in deep energy;
The next fell over cold and bloody clay.
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