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A tuniful mandoline, and then a voice,
Clear in its manly depth, whose tide of song
O'erwhelin'd the quivering instrument; and then
A world of whispers, mix'd with low response,
Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strains
Of nightingales.

Cla. Oh father! father!

Rie. Well!
Do'st love hiin, Claudia ?

Cla. Father!

Rie. Do'st thou love Young Angelo? Yes? Said'st thou yes? That heart That throbbing heart of thine, keeps such a coil, I cannot hear thy words. He is return’d To Rome; he left thee on mine errand, dear one; And now-Is there no casement myrtle-wreathed, No cedar in our courts, to shade to-night The lover's song?

Cla. Oh father! father!

Rie. Now,
Back to thy maidens, with a lighten'd heart,
Mine own beloved child. Thou shalt be first
In Rome, as thou art fairest; never princess
Brought to the proud Colonna such a dower
As thou. Young Angelo hath chosen his mate
From out an eagle's nest.

Cla. Alas! alas!
I tremble at the height. Whene'er I think
Of the hot barons, of the fickle people,
And the inconstancy of power, I tremble
For thee, dear father.

Rie. Tremble ! Let them tremble.
I am their master, Claudia, whom they scorn'd,
Endured, protected.—Sweet, go dream of love.
I am their master, Claudia.

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Rie. Lords,
If
ye
could range

before me all the peers,
Prelates, and potentates of Christendom,-
The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee,
And emperors crouching at my fect, to sue
For this great robber, still I should be blind

As Justice. But this very day a wife,
One infant hanging at her breast, and two,
Scarce bigger, first-born twins of misery,
Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid
Her squalid form, grasp'd at my

bridle-rein
To beg her husband's life; condemn’d to die
For some vile petty theft, some paltry scudi;
And whilst the fiery war-horse chafed and rear’d,
Shaking his crest, and plunging to get free,
There 'midst the dangerous coil, unmoved, she stood,
Pleading in piercing words, the very cry
Of nature! And, when I at last said no-
For I said no to her—she flung herself
And those poor innocent babes between the stones
And my hot Arab's hoofs. We saved them all-
Thank heaven, we saved them all! but I said no
To that sad woman ʼmidst her shrieks. Ye dare not
Ask me for mercy now.

POPULAR APPLAUSE.

Cosmo. (Shouts without.) Hark! thou art called.

The citizens demand their general. Go!
Foscari.

I'd rather face
An enemy in battle.
Cos.

Thou wast wont
To love the people, Foscari.
Fos.

I would drain
The last drop in my veins for them and freedom;
But these loud shouts, this popular acclaim,
This withering, perishing blast of vulgar praise,
Whose noisy echoes do shake off the Hush
Of Fame's young blossoms--Oh, I hate them all!
True honour should be silent, spotless, bright,
Enduring ; trembling even at the breath
That woo's her beauty.
Cos.
Come.

From Foscari.

The talented woman of whom the world has been so lately and prematurely deprived, was born in Hans Place, Chelsea. She is supposed to have delineated the history of her own early life and studies in her work entitled Traits and Trials, which was published in 1837. Having lost her father at aa early period, and feeling within her youthful mind those aspirations of genius which could not be repressed, she begin to write even while still in the age of girlhood, and devoted the proceeds of her labours to the comfort of the family. Having commenced a career of authorship thus prematurely, sbe unfortunately acquired those habits of intellectual independence, which made her indifferent to the conventional forms of society, but against which no female can rebel with impunity. From this cause, her natural cheerfulness of spirit, and fearlessness in the expression of her feelings were exhibited with a frankness, which the censorious blamed as unbecoming, and by which they were enabled to wound most injuriously her peace and good name during her subsequent career.

After Miss Landon had commenced authorship under the anonymous sigpature of L.E. L., her works succeeded with great rapidity. The titles of these were The Improvisatrice, The Troubadour, The Golden Violet, The Golden Bracelet, and The Vow of the Peacock. Such indeed was the rapidity of ber pen in verse, that she wrote poetry faster than prose. In the latter she often was obliged to hesitate in the choice of a word; but in the former, expressions flowed spontaneously, so that she experienced no impediment. Be. sides these works, she wrote three novels, which were entitled Romance and Reality, Francesca Carrara, and Ethel Churchill, productions distinguished by the same vividness of fancy and depth of feeling that had characterised her poetical productions, and which attained a deserved celebrity.

After having acquired a high poetical reputation, the permanent happiness of Miss Landon seemed to be secured by her marriage in 1838, with Mr. Maclean, the Governor of Cape Coast Castle. Immediately after the marriage she set sail with her husband to Africa, and on their arrival at the settlement, she wrote several playful letters to her London correspondents, describing the scenery of the country and the manners of the people. But these cheerful missives were almost immediately succeeded by tidings of her death. Having been subject to spasms and hysterical affections, hydrocianic acid was prescribed to mitigate their attacks, but probably in consequence of injudiciously taking too large a dose she was found dead in her bedroom, on the morning of the 15th of October, 1538.

As Mrs. Maclean published poetry at a very early period, and continued to produce her works in rapid succession, her versification exhibits the consequent defects, being somewhat loose and irregular in its structure, while her several poems bear a resemblance to each other that subjects them to the charge of mannerism. But even these serious defects are almost lost sight of in the lively and sparkling imagination and deep tone of feeling with which they everywhere abound. It must also be added to her praise, that notwithstanding this continual strain upon her powers, she was indefatigable in the cultivation of her mind, and the acquirement of new stores of knowledge, so that in her latest poetry there are the obvious indications of very considerable improvement. It had been her purpose also during her sojourn in Africa to maintain her literary connexion with England, and she trusted to produce works superior to those she had already written a hope which she would probably have realized had her life been continued. But the sweet songstress died-died with a suddenness, and under circumstances, that produced a shudder in the literary world. Even calumny could not spare her memory after that mournful close, and surmises as malignant as they wers ridiculous, were circulated, that she had coinmitted suicide. But to this, the evidence furnished upon the coroner's inquest was a sufficient refutation, even if the whole tenor of her life, and the cheerful letter which she wrote on the morning of her death, had not l.cen deened enough.

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At length I made myself a task

To paint that Cretan maiden's fate, Whom Love taught such deep happiness,

And whom Love left so desolate. I drew her on a rocky shore: Her black hair loose, and sprinkled o'er With white sea-foam;-her arms were bare, Flung upwards in their last despair. Her naked feet the pebbles prest; The tempest wind sang in her vest: A wild stare in her glassy eyes; White lips, as parch'd by their hot sighs ; And cheek more pallid than the spray, Which, cold and colourless, on it lay :

nage she set bau ». tlement, she wrote several playful letters to her London correspondents, describing the scenery of the country and the manners of the people. But these cheerful missives were almost immediately succeeded by tidings of her death. Having been subject to spasms and hysterical affections, hydrocianic acid was prescribed to mitigate their attacks, but probably in consequence of injudiciously taking too large a dose she was found dead in her bedroom, on the morning of the 15th of October, 1838.

As Mrs. Maclean published poetry at a very early period, and continued to produce her works in rapid succession, her versification exhibits the consequent defects, being somewhat loose and irregular in its structure, while her several poems bear a resemblance to each other that subjects them to the charge of mannerism. But even these serious defects are almost lost sight of in the lively and sparkling imagination and deep tone of feeling with which they everywhere abound. It must also be added to her praise, that notwithstanding this continual strain upon her powers, she was indefatigable in the cultivation of her mind, and the acquirement of new stores of knowledge, so that in her latest poetry there are the obvious indications of very considerable improvement. It had been her purpose also during her sojourn in Africa to maintain her literary connexion with England, and she trusted to produce works superior to those she had already written-2 hope which she would probably have realized had her life been continued. But the sweet songstress died-died with a suddenness, and under circumstances, that produced a shudder in the literary world. Even calumny could not spare her memory after that mournful close, and surmises as malignant as they wer: ridiculous, were circulated, that she had committed suicide. Bus to this, the evidence furnished upon the coroner's inquest was a sufficient refutation, even if the whole tenor of her life, and the cheerful letter which she wrote on the morning of her death, had not l.ceu deemed enough.

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