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I'll shiel a' your sheep i' the mornin' sune,
I'll berry your crap by the light o' the moon,
An' ba the bairns wi an unkenned tune,

If ye'll keep puir Aiken-drum.

I'll loup the linn when ye canna wade,
I'll kirn the kirn, an' I'll turn the bread;
An' the wildest filly that ever ran rede,

I'se tame't,' quoth Aiken-drum.

To wear the tod frae the flock on the fell,
To gather the dew frae the heather bell,
An' to look at my face in your clear crystal well,
Might gi'e pleasure to Aiken-drum.

I'se seek nae guids, gear, bond, nor mark;
I use nae beddin', shoon, nor sark;

But a cogfu' o' brose 'tween the light an' dark
Is the wage o' Aiken-drum.'

Quoth the wylie auld wife, The thing speaks weel;
Our workers are scant-we hae routh o' meal;
Gif he'll do as he says-be he man, be he deil-
Wow! we'll try this Aiken-drum.'

But the wenches skirled, 'He's no be here!
His eldritch look gars us swarf wi' fear;
An' the feint a ane will the house come near,
If they think but o' Aiken-drum.'

'Puir clipmalabors! ye hae little wit;
Is'tna hallowmas now, an' the crap out yet?'
Sae she silenced them a' wi' a stamp o' her fit-
'Sit yer wa's down, Aiken-drum.'

Roun' a' that side what wark was dune

By the streamer's gleam, or the glance o' the moon;
A word, or a wish, an' the brownie cam sune,
Sae helpfu' was Aiken-drum.

On Blednoch banks, an' on crystal Cree,
For mony a day a toiled wight was he;
While the bairns played harmless roun' his knee,
Sae social was Aiken-drum.

But a new-made wife, fu' o' frippish freaks,
Fond o' a' things feat for the five first weeks,
Laid a mouldy pair o' her ain man's breeks
By the brose o' Aiken-drum.

Let the learned decide when they convene,
What spell was him an' the breeks between ;
For frae that day forth he was nae mair seen,
An' sair-missed was Aiken-drum.

He was heard by a herd gaun by the Thrieve,
Crying, Lang, lang now may I greet an' grieve;
For, alas! I hae gotten baith fee an' leave-
O luckless Aiken-drum !'

Awa, ye wrangling sceptic tribe,
Wi' your pros an' your cons wad ye decide
'Gain the sponsible voice o' a hale country side,
On the facts 'bout Aiken-drum?

Though the Brownie o' Blednoch' lang be gane,
The mark o' his feet's left on mony a stane;
An' mony a wife an' mony a wean

Tell the feats o' Aiken-drum.

E'en now, light loons that jibe an' sneer

At spiritual guests an' a' sic gear,

At the Glashnoch mill hae swat wi' fear,
An' looked roun' for Aiken-drum.

An' guidly folks hae gotten a fright,

When the moon was set, an' the stars gied nae light,
At the roaring linn, in the howe o' the night,
Wi' sughs like Aiken-drum.

Song.

[By Joseph Train.]

[Mr Train will be memorable in our literary history for the assistance he rendered to Sir Walter Scott in the contribution of some of the stories on which the Waverley novels were founded. He entered life as a private soldier, and rose by merit to be a supervisor of excise, from which situation he has now retired on a superannuation allowance.]

Wi' drums and pipes the clachan rang,
I left my goats to wander wide;
And e'en as fast as I could bang,

I bickered down the mountain side.
My hazel rung and haslock plaid
Awa' I flang wi' cauld disdain,
Resolved I would nae langer bide

To do the auld thing o'er again.
Ye barons bold, whose turrets rise
Aboon the wild woods white wi' snaw,
I trow the laddies ye may prize,

Wha fight your battles far awa'.
Wi' them to stan', wi' them to fa',
Courageously I crossed the main;
To see, for Caledonia,

The auld thing weel done o'er again.

Right far a-fiel' I freely fought,

'Gainst mony an outlandish loon;
An' wi' my good claymore I've brought
Mony a beardy birkie down:
While I had pith to wield it roun',
In battle I ne'er met wi' ane
Could danton me, for Britain's crown,
To do the same thing o'er again.
Although I'm marching life's last stage,
Wi' sorrow crowded roun' my brow;
An' though the knapsack o' auld age
Hangs heavy on my shoulders now-
Yet recollection, ever new,

Discharges a' my toil and pain,
When fancy figures in my view
The pleasant auld thing o'er again.

The Cameronian's Dream.

[By James Hislop.]

[James Hislop was born of humble parents in the parish of Kirkconnel, in the neighbourhood of Sanquhar, near the source of the Nith, in July 1798. He was employed as a shepherd-boy in the vicinity of Airsmoss, where, at the gravestone of a party of slain covenanters, he composed the following striking poern. He afterwards became a teacher, and his poetical effusions having attracted the favourable notice of Lord Jeffrey, and other eminent literary characters, he was, through their influence, appointed schoolmaster, first on board the Doris, and subsequently the Tweed man-of-war. He died on the 4th December 1827 from fever caught by sleeping one night in the open air upon the island of St Jago. His compositions display an elegant rather than a vigorous imagination, much chasteness of thought, and a pure but ardent love of nature.]

In a dream of the night I was wafted away,
To the muirland of mist where the martyrs lay;
Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen,
Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.

'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood,
When the minister's home was the mountain and wood;
When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion,
All bloody and torn 'mong the heather was lying.
'Twas morning; and summer's young sun from the east
Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast;
On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew,
Glistened there 'mong the heath bells and mountain
flowers blue.

And far up in heaven near the white sunny cloud,
The song of the lark was melodious and loud,

And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep,
Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.
And Wellwood's sweet valleys breathed music and
gladness,

The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;
Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.
But, oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings,
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings,
Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-

morrow.

'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying,

Concealed 'mong the mist where the heathfowl was crying,

For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering,

And their bridle reins rung through the thin misty covering.

Their faces grew pale, and their swords were sheathed,

un

But the vengeance that darkened their brow was unbreathed;

With eyes turned to heaven in calm resignation,
They sung their last song to the God of Salvation.
The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing,
The curlew and plover in concert were singing;
But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter,
As the host of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter.
Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were
shrouded,

Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded, Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and unbending,

They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending. The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming,

classes. The increased competition in business has also made our nation of shopkeepers' a busier and harder-working race than their forefathers; and the diffusion of cheap literature may have further tended to thin the theatres, as furnishing intellectual entertainment for the masses at home at a cheaper rate appear to have had considerable influence in this matthan dramatic performances. The London managers ter. They lavish enormous sums on scenic decoration and particular actors, and aim rather at filling their houses by some ephemeral and dazzling display, than by the liberal encouragement of native talent and genius. To improve, or rather re-establish the acted drama, a periodical writer suggests that there should be a classification of theatres in the metropolis, as in Paris, where each theatre has its distinct species of the drama, and performs it well. We believe,' he says, that the evil is mainly occasioned by the vain endeavour of managers to succeed by commixing every species of entertainment-huddling together tragedy, comedy, farce, melo-drama, and spectacleand striving, by alternate exhibitions, to draw all the dramatic public to their respective houses. Imperfect-very imperfect companies for each species are engaged; and as, in consequence of the general imperfection, they are forced to rely on individual excellence, individual performers become of inordinate importance, and the most exorbitant salaries are given to procure them. These individuals are thus placed in a false position, and indulge themselves in all sorts of mannerisms and absurdities. The

public is not unreasonably dissatisfied with imperfect companies and bad performances; the managers wonder at their ruin; and critics become elegiacal over the mournful decline of the drama! Not in this way can a theatre flourish; since, if one species of performance proves attractive, the others are at a discount, and their companies become useless burdens; if none of them prove attractive, then the loss ends in ruin.'* Too many instances of this have occurred within the last twenty years. Whenever a play of real excellence has been brought forward, the public has shown no insensibility to its merits; but so many circumstances are requisite to its successful repre

The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was stream-sentation-so expensive are the companies, and so ing,

The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling, When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.

When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended,

A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended;
Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,
And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness.
A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining,
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining,
And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation,
Have mounted the chariots and steeds of salvation.
On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding,
Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are
riding;

Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye,
A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!

DRAMATISTS.

Dramatic literature no longer occupies the prominent place it held in former periods of our history. Various causes have been assigned for this declineas, the great size of the theatres, the monopoly of the two large London houses, the love of spectacle or scenic display which has usurped the place of the legitimate drama, and the late dinner hours now prevalent among the higher and even the middle

capricious the favourite actors-that men of talent are averse to hazard a competition. The true dramatic talent is also a rare gift. Some of the most eminent poets have failed in attempting to portray actual life and passion in interesting situations on the stage; and as Fielding and Smollett proved unsuccessful in comedy (though the former wrote a number of pieces), so Byron and Scott were found wanting in the qualities requisite for the tragic drama. It is evident,' says Campbell, that Melpomene demands on the stage something, and a good deal more, than even poetical talent, rare as that is. She requires a potent and peculiar faculty for the invention of incident adapted to theatric effect; a faculty which may often exist in those who have been bred to the stage, but which, generally speaking, has seldom been shown by any poets who were not professional players. There are exceptions to the remark, but there are not many. If Shakspeare had not been a player, he would not have been the dramatist that he is.' Dryden, Addison, and Congreve, are conspicuous exceptions to this rule; also Goldsmith in comedy, and, in our own day, Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer in the romantic drama. The Colmans, Sheridan, Morton, and Reynolds, never, we believe, wore the sock or buskin; but they were either managers, or closely connected with the theatre.

*Edinburgh Review for 1843.

In the first year of this period, ROBERT JEPHSON associates! partners of my toil, my feelings, and (1736-1803) produced his tragedy of The Count of my fame! Can Rolla's words add vigour to the Narbonne, copied from Walpole's Castle of Otranto, virtuous energies which inspire your hearts? No! and it was highly attractive on the stage. In 1785 you have judged, as I have, the foulness of the Jephson brought out another tragedy, The Duke of crafty plea by which these bold invaders would deBraganza, which was equally successful. He wrote lude you. Your generous spirit has compared, as three other tragedies, some farces, and operas; but mine has, the motives which, in a war like this, can the whole are now utterly neglected. Jephson was animate their minds and ours. They, by a strange no great dramatic writer; but a poetical critic has frenzy driven, fight for power, for plunder, and exrecorded to his honour, that, at a time when the tended rule. We, for our country, our altars, and native genius of tragedy seemed to be extinct, he our homes. They follow an adventurer whom they came boldly forward as a tragic poet, and certainly fear, and a power which they hate. We serve a with a spark of talent; for if he has not the full monarch whom we love-a God whom we adore! flame of genius, he has at least its scintillating light.' Where'er they move in anger, desolation tracks their The dramatist was an Irishman by birth, a captain progress; where'er they pause in amity, affliction in the army, and afterwards a member of the Irish mourns their friendship. They boast they come House of Commons. but to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error. Yes, they will give enlightened freedom to our minds, who are them. selves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride. They offer us their protection; yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs-covering and devouring them! They call on us to barter all of good we have inherited and proved, for the desperate chance of something better which they promise. Be our plain answer this: the throne we honour is the people's choice; the laws we reverence are our brave fathers' legacy; the faith we follow teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and die with hopes of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your invaders this, and tell them, too, we seek no change, and least of all such change as they would bring us.'

The stage was aroused from a state of insipidity or degeneracy by the introduction of plays from the German, which, amidst much false and exaggerated sentiment, appealed to the stronger sympathies of our nature, and drew crowded audiences to the theatres. One of the first of these was The Stranger, said to be translated by Benjamin Thompson; but the greater part of it, as it was acted, was the production of Sheridan. It is a drama of domestic life, not very moral or beneficial in its tendencies (for it is calculated to palliate our detestation of adultery), yet abounding in scenes of tenderness and surprise, well adapted to produce effect on the stage. The principal characters were acted by Kemble and Mrs Siddons, and when it was brought out in the season of 1797-8, it was received with immense applause. In 1799 Sheridan adapted another of Kotzebue's plays, Pizarro, which experienced still greater success. In the former drama the German author had violated the proprieties of our moral code, by making an injured husband take back his guilty though penitent wife; and in Pizarro he has invested a fallen female with tenderness, compassion, and heroism. The obtrusion of such a character as a prominent figure in the scene was at least indelicate; but, in the hands of Mrs Siddons, the taint was scarcely perceived, and Sheridan had softened down the most objectionable parts. The play was produced with all the aids of splendid scenery, music, and fine acting, and these, together with its displays of generous and heroic feeling on the part of Rolla, and of parental affection in Alonzo and Cora, were calculated to lead captive a general audience. 'Its subject was also new, and peculiarly fortunate. It brought the adventures of the most romantic kingdom of Christendom (Spain) into picturesque combination with the simplicity and superstitions of the transatlantic world; and gave the imagination a new and fresh empire of paganism, with its temples, and rites, and altars, without the stale associations of pedantry. Some of the sentiments and descriptions in Pizarro are said to have originally formed part of Sheridan's famous speech on the impeachment of Warren Hastings! They are often inflated and bombastic, and full of rhetorical glitter. Thus Rollo soliloquises in Alonzo's dungeon: O holy Nature! thou dost never plead in vain. There is not of our earth a creature, bearing form and life, human or savage, native of the forest wild or giddy air, around whose parent bosom thou hast not a cord entwined of power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and at thy will to draw them back to thee. On iron pinions borne the blood-stained vulture cleaves the storm, yet is the plumage closest to her heart soft as the cygnet's down; and o'er her unshelled brood the murmuring ring-dove sits not more gently.'

Or the speech of Rolla to the Peruvian army at the consecration of the banners:- My brave

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Animated apostrophes like these, rolled from the lips of Kemble, and applied, in those days of war, to British valour and patriotism arrayed against France, could hardly fail of an enthusiastic reception. A third drama by Kotzebue was some years afterwards adapted for the English stage by Mrs Inchbald, and performed under the title of Lovers' Vows. The grand moral of the play is to set forth the miserable consequences which arise from the neglect, and to enforce the watchful care of illegitimate offspring; and surely as the pulpit has not had eloquence to eradicate the crime of seduction, the stage may be allowed a humble endeavour to prevent its most fatal effects.' Lovers' Vows also became a popular acting play, for stage effect was carefully studied, and the scenes and situations skilfully arranged. While filling the theatres, Kotzebue's plays were generally condemned by the critics. They cannot be said to have produced any permanent bad effect on our national morals, but they presented many false and pernicious pictures to the mind. There is an affectation,' as Scott remarks, 'of attributing noble and virtuous sentiments to the persons least qualified by habit or education to entertain them; and of describing the higher and better educated classes as uniformly deficient in those feelings of liberality, generosity, and honour, which may be considered as proper to their situation in life. This contrast may be true in particular instances, and being used sparingly, might afford a good moral lesson; but in spite of truth and probability, it has been assumed, upon all occasions, by those authors as the groundwork of a sort of intellectual Jacobinism.' Scott himself, it will be recollected, was fascinated by the German drama, and translated a play of Goëthe. The excesses of Kotzebue were happily ridiculed by Canning and Ellis in their amusing satire, The Rovers. At length, after a run of unexampled success, these plays ceased to attract attention, though one or two are still occasionally performed. With all their absurdities, we cannot but believe that they exercised an inspiring influence on the rising genius of that age.

They dealt with passions, not with manners, and awoke the higher feelings and sensibilities of our nature. Good plays were also mingled with the bad: if Kotzebue was acted, Goëthe and Schiller were studied. The Wallenstein was translated by Coleridge, and the influence of the German drama was felt by most of the young poets.

single tragedies; and she would have invented more stirring incidents to justify the passion of her characters, and to give them that air of fatality which, though peculiarly predominant in the Greek drama, will also be found, to a certain extent, in all successful tragedies. Instead of this, she contrives to make all the passions of her main characters proceed from the wilful natures of the beings themselves. Their feelings are not precipitated by circumstances, like a stream down a declivity, that leaps from rock to rock; but, for want of incident, they seem often like water on a level, without a propelling impulse.'* The design of Miss Baillie in restricting her dramas

One of those who imbibed a taste for the mar vellous and the romantic from this source was MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS, whose drama, The Castle Spectre, was produced in 1797, and was performed about sixty successive nights. It is full of supernatural horrors, deadly revenge, and assassination, with touches of poetical feeling, and some well-each to the elucidation of one passion, appears cermanaged scenes. In the same year Lewis adapted a tragedy from Schiller, entitled The Minister; and this was followed by a succession of dramatic pieces -Rolla, a tragedy, 1799; The East Indian, a comedy, 1800; Adelmorn, or the Outlaw, a drama, 1801; Rugantio, a melo-drama, 1805; Adelgitha, a play, 1806; Venoni, a drama, 1809; One o' Clock, or the Knight and Wood Demon, 1811; Timour the Tartar, a melo-drama, 1812; and Rich and Poor, a comic opera, 1812. The Castle Spectre is still occasionally performed; but the diffusion of a more sound and healthy taste in literature has banished the other dramas of Lewis equally from the stage and the press. To the present generation they are unknown. They were fit companions for the ogres, giants, and Blue-beards of the nursery tales, and they have shared the same oblivion.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

The most important addition to the written drama at this time was the first volume of JOANNA BAILLIE's plays on the passions, published in 1798 under the title of A Series of Plays: in which it is attempted to Delineate the Stronger Passions of the Mind, each Passion being the subject of a Tragedy and a Comedy. To the volume was prefixed a long and interesting introductory discourse, in which the authoress discusses the subject of the drama in all its bearings, and asserts the supremacy of simple nature over all decoration and refinement. Let one simple trait of the human heart, one expression of passion, genuine and true to nature, be introduced, and it will stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, whilst the false and unnatural around it fades away upon every side, like the rising exhalations of the morning.' This theory (which anticipated the dissertations and most of the poetry of Wordsworth) the accomplished dramatist illustrated in her plays, the merits of which were instantly recognised, and a second edition called for in a few months. Miss Baillie was then in the thirty-fourth year of her age. In 1802 she published a second volume, and in 1812 a third. In the interval she had produced a volume of miscellaneous dramas (1804), and The Family Legend (1810), a tragedy founded on a Highland tradition, and brought out with success at the Edinburgh theatre. In 1836 this authoress published three more volumes of plays, her career as a dramatic writer thus extending over the long period of thirtyeight years. Only one of her dramas has ever been performed on the stage: De Montfort was brought out by Kemble shortly after its appearance, and was acted eleven nights. It was again introduced in 1821, to exhibit the talents of Kean in the character of De Montfort; but this actor remarked that, though a fine poem, it would never be an acting play. The author who mentions this circumstance, remarks:If Joanna Baillie had known the stage practically, she would never have attached the importance which she does to the development of single passions in

tainly to have been an unnecessary and unwise re-
straint, as tending to circumscribe the business of
the piece, and exclude the interest arising from
varied emotions and conflicting passions. It cannot
be said to have been successful in her own case, and
it has never been copied by any other author. Sir
Walter Scott has eulogised Basil's love and Mont-
fort's hate' as something like a revival of the in-
spired strain of Shakspeare. The tragedies of Count
Basil and De Montfort are among the best of Miss
Baillie's plays; but they are more like the works of
Shirley, or the serious parts of Massinger, than the
glorious dramas of Shakspeare, so full of life, of in-
cident, and imagery. Miss Baillie's style is smooth
and regular, and her plots are both original and
carefully constructed; but she has no poetical luxu-
riance, and few commanding situations. Her tragic
scenes are too much connected with the crime of
murder, one of the easiest resources of a tragedian;
and partly from the delicacy of her sex, as well as
from the restrictions imposed by her theory of com-
position, she is deficient in that variety and fulness
of passion, the form and pressure' of real life, which
are so essential on the stage. The design and plot
of her dramas are obvious almost from the first act
-a circumstance that would be fatal to their suc-
cess in representation. The unity and intellectual
completeness of Miss Baillie's plays are their most
striking characteristics. Her simple masculine style,
so unlike the florid or insipid sentimentalism then
prevalent, was a bold innovation at the time of her
two first volumes; but the public had fortunately
taste enough to appreciate its excellence.
Baillie was undoubtedly a great improver of our
poetical diction.

[Scene from De Montfort.]

Miss

[De Montfort explains to his sister Jane his hatred of Rezen.

velt, which at last hurries him into the crime of murder. The
gradual deepening of this malignant passion, and its frightful
catastrophe, are powerfully depicted. We may remark, that the
character of De Montfort, his altered habits and appearance
after his travels, his settled gloom, and the violence of his pas
sions, seem to have been the prototype of Byron's Manfred and
Lara.]

De Mon. No more, my sister, urge me not again;
My secret troubles cannot be revealed.
From all participation of its thoughts
My heart recoils: I pray thee be contented.
Jane. What! must I, like a distant humble friend,
Observe thy restless eye and gait disturbed
In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart
I turn aside to weep? O no, De Montfort!
A nobler task thy nobler mind will give;
Thy true intrusted friend I still shall be.

De Mon. Ah, Jane, forbear! I cannot e'en to thee.
Jane. Then fie upon it! fie upon it, Montfort!
There was a time when e'en with murder stained,
Had it been possible that such dire deed

*Campbell's Life of Mrs Siddons.

Could e'er have been the crime of one so piteous,
Thou wouldst have told it me.

De Mon. So would I now-but ask of this no more. All other troubles but the one I feel

I have disclosed to thee. I pray thee, spare me.

It is the secret weakness of my nature.

Jane. Then secret let it be: I urge no further. The eldest of our valiant father's hopes,

So sadly orphaned: side by side we stood,

Like two young trees, whose boughs in early strength
Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove,
And brave the storm together.

I have so long, as if by nature's right,
Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been,

I thought through life I should have so remained,

Nor ever known a change. Forgive me, Montfort;

A humbler station will I take by thee;
The close attendant of thy wandering steps,
The cheerer of this home, with strangers sought,
The soother of those griefs I must not know.

This is mine office now: I ask no more.

Feel like the oppressive airless pestilence. O Jane! thou wilt despise me.

Jane. Say not so:

I never can despise thee, gentle brother.
A lover's jealousy and hopeless pangs
No kindly heart contemns.

De Mon. A lover's, say'st thou ?

No, it is hate! black, lasting, deadly hate!
Which thus hath driven me forth from kindred peace,
From social pleasure, from my native home,
To be a sullen wanderer on the earth,
Avoiding all men, cursing and accursed.

Jane. De Montfort, this is fiend-like, terrible!
What being, by the Almighty Father formed
Of flesh and blood, created even as thou,

Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake,

Who art thyself his fellow?

Unknit thy brows, and spread those wrath-clenched

hands.

Some sprite accursed within thy bosom mates To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother!

De Mon. Oh, Jane, thou dost constrain me with thy Strive bravely with it; drive it from thy heart; love

Would I could tell it thee!

Jane. Thou shalt not tell me. Nay, I'll stop

mine ears,

Nor from the yearnings of affection wring
What shrinks from utterance. Let it pass, my brother.
I'll stay by thee; I'll cheer thee, comfort thee;
Pursue with thee the study of some art,

Or nobler science, that compels the mind
To steady thought progressive, driving forth
All floating, wild, unhappy fantasies,

Till thou, with brow unclouded, smilest again;
Like one who, from dark visions of the night,
When the active soul within its lifeless cell
Holds its own world, with dreadful fancy pressed
Of some dire, terrible, or murderous deed,
Wakes to the dawning morn, and blesses heaven.
De Mon. It will not pass away; 'twill haunt me
still.

Jane. Ah! say not so, for I will haunt thee too,
And be to it so close an adversary,

That, though I wrestle darkling with the fiend,
I shall o'ercome it.

De Mon. Thou most generous woman!
Why do I treat thee thus? It should not be-
And yet I cannot-O that cursed villain!
He will not let me be the man I would.

Jane. What sayst thou, Montfort? Oh! what words are these!

They have awaked my soul to dreadful thoughts.
I do beseech thee, speak!

By the affection thou didst ever bear me;
By the dear memory of our infant days;
By kindred living ties-ay, and by those
Who sleep in the tomb, and cannot call to thee,
I do conjure thee, speak!

Ha! wilt thou not?
Then, if affection, most unwearied love,
Tried early, long, and never wanting found,
O'er generous man hath more authority,

More rightful power than crown or sceptre give,

I do command thee!

De Montfort, do not thus resist my love.
Here I intreat thee on my bended knees.
Alas! my brother!

De Mon. [Raising her, and kneeling.]
Thus let him kneel who should the abased be,
And at thine honoured feet confession make.
I'll tell thee all-but, oh! thou wilt despise me.
For in my breast a raging passion burns,
To which thy soul no sympathy will own-
A passion which hath made my nightly couch
A place of torment, and the light of day,
With the gay intercourse of social man,

'Tis the degrader of a noble heart.

Curse it, and bid it part.

De Mon. It will not part. I've lodged it here too

long.

With my first cares I felt its rankling touch.
I loathed him when a boy.

Jane. Whom didst thou say?

De Mon. Detested Rezenvelt!

E'en in our early sports, like two young whelps
Of hostile breed, instinctively averse,
Each 'gainst the other pitched his ready pledge,
And frowned defiance. As we onward passed
From youth to man's estate, his narrow art
And envious gibing malice, poorly veiled
In the affected carelessness of mirth,
Still more detestable and odious grew.
There is no living being on this earth
Who can conceive the malice of his soul,
With all his gay and damned merriment,
To those by fortune or by merit placed
Above his paltry self. When, low in fortune,
He looked upon the state of prosperous men,
As nightly birds, roused from their murky holes,
Do scowl and chatter at the light of day,
I could endure it; even as we bear
The impotent bite of some half-trodden worm,
I could endure it. But when honours came,
And wealth and new-got titles fed his pride;
Whilst flattering knaves did trumpet forth his praise,
And groveling idiots grinned applauses on him;
Oh! then I could no longer suffer it!

It drove me frantic. What, what would I give-
What would I give to crush the bloated toad,
So rankly do I loathe him!

Jane. And would thy hatred crush the very man
Who gave to thee that life he might have taken!
That life which thou so rashly didst expose

To aim at his? Oh, this is horrible!

De Mon. Ha! thou hast heard it, then! From all the world,

But most of all from thee, I thought it hid.
Jane. I heard a secret whisper, and resolved
Upon the instant to return to thee.

Didst thou receive my letter?

De Mon. I did! I did! "Twas that which drove me hither.

I could not bear to meet thine eye again.
Jane. Alas! that, tempted by a sister's tears,

I ever left thy house! These few past months,
These absent months, have brought us all this wo.
Had I remained with thee, it had not been.
And yet, methinks, it should not move you thus.
You dared him to the field; both bravely fought;
He, more adroit, disarmed you; courteously

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