FROM "DE MONTFORT."

JOANNA BAILLIE,

De Montfort explains to his sister Jane his hatred of Rezenvelt, 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 passions, seem to have been the prototype of Byron's Manfred and Lara.

De Montfort. 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.
Fane. 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
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.

De Mon. O Jane, thou dost constrain me with thy love-

Would I could tell it thee!

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

Till thou, with brow unclouded, smil'st 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.

Fane. 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 say'st 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 entreat 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 honored 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,
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!
Strive bravely with it; drive it from thy heart;
'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. 1 loathed him when a boy.

Fane. Whom didst thou say?

De Mon. Detested Rezen velt!

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 honors came,
And wealth and new-got titles fed his pride;
Whilst flattering knaves did trumpet forth his praise,
And grovelling 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!

Fane. 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.

Fane. 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 woe.
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

Returned the forfeit sword, which, so returned,
You did refuse to use against him more;
And then, as says report, you parted friends.
De Mon. When he disarmed this cursed, this
worthless hand,

Of its most worthless weapon, he but spared
From devilish pride, which now derives a bliss
In seeing me thus fettered, shamed, subjected
With the vile favor of his poor forbearance;
Whilst he securely sits with gibing brow,
And basely baits me like a muzzled cur,
Who cannot turn again.

Until that day, till that accursed day,

I knew not half the torment of this hell

Which burns within my breast. Heaven's light

nings blast him!

Fane. Oh, this is horrible! Forbear, forbear! Lest Heaven's vengeance light upon thy head For this most impious wish.

De Mon. Then let it light.

Torments more fell than I have known already
It cannot send. To be annihilated,
What all men shrink from; to be dust, be nothing,
Were bliss to me, compared to what I am!
Jane. Oh, wouldst thou kill me with these dread-
ful words?

De Mon. Let me but once upon his ruin 1 ok,
Then close mine eyes forever!——

Ha! how is this? Thou'rt ill; thou'rt very pale;
What have I done to thee? Alas! alas!

I meant not to distress thee-O my sister!
Jane. I cannot now speak to thee.
De Mon. I have killed thee.

Turn, turn thee not away! Look on me still!
Oh, droop not thus, my life, my pride, my sister!
Look on me yet again.

Jane. Thou, too, De Montfort,

In better days was wont to be my pride.

De Mon. I am a wretch, most wretched in myself, And still more wretched in the pain I give. Oh, curse that villain, that detested villain! He has spread misery o'er my fated life; He will undo us all.

Fane. I've held my warfare through a troubled world,

And borne with steady mind my share of ill;
For then the helpmate of my toil wast thou,
But now the wane of life comes darkly on,
And hideous passion tears thee from my heart,
Blasting thy worth. I cannot strive with this.

SONG TO DAVID.

CHRISTOPHER SMART.

O thou, that sit'st upon a throne,
With harp of high, majestic tone,
To praise the King of kings:
And voice of heaven, ascending swell,
Which, while its deeper notes excel,
Clear as a clarion rings:

To bless each valley, grove, and coast, And charm the cherubs to the post

Of gratitude in throngs;

To keep the days on Zion's Mount,
And send the year to his account,
With dances and with songs:

O servant of God's holiest charge,
The minister of praise at large,

Which thou mayest now receive; From thy blest mansion hail and hear, From topmost eminence appear

To this the wreath I weave.

Great, valiant, pious, good, and clean,
Sublime, contemplative, serene,

Strong, constant, pleasant, wise!
Bright effluence of exceeding grace;
Best man! the swiftness and the race,
The peril and the prize!

Great-from the lustre of his crown,
From Samuel's horn, and God's renown,
Which is the people's voice;
For all the host, from rear to van,
Applauded and embraced the man-
The man of God's own choice.

Valiant-the word, and up he rose ;
The fight-he triumphed o'er the foes
Whom God's just laws abhor;
And, armed in gallant faith, he took
Against the boaster, from the brook,
The weapons of the war.

Pious-magnificent and grand,
'Twas he the famous temple planned-

The seraph in his soul:

Foremost to give the Lord his dues, Foremost to bless the welcome news, And foremost to condole.

Good-from Jehudah's genuine vein,
From God's best nature, good in grain
His aspect and his heart:
To pity, to forgive, to save,
Witness En-gedi's conscious cave,
And Shimei's blunted dart.

Clean-if perpetual prayer be pure,
And love, which could itself inure
To fasting and to fear-

Clean in his gestures, hands, and feet,
To smite the lyre, the dance complete,
To play the sword and spear.

Sublime-invention ever young,
Of vast conception, towering tongue,
To God the eternal theme;
Notes from yon exaltations caught,
Unrivalled royalty of thought,

O'er meaner strains supreme.

Contemplative-on God to fix

His musings, and above the six

The Sabbath-day he blest;

"Twas then his thoughts self-conquest pruned,

And heavenly melancholy tuned,

To bless and bear the rest.

Serene-to sow the seeds of peace,

Remembering when he watched the fleece,
How sweetly Kidron purled-

To further knowledge, silence vice,
And plant perpetual paradise,

When God had calmed the world.

Strong-in the Lord, who could defy
Satan, and all his powers that lie

In sempiternal night;

And hell, and horror, and despair
Were as the lion and the bear
To his undaunted might.

Constant-in love to God, the Truth,
Age, manhood, infancy, and youth-
To Jonathan his friend
Constant beyond the verge of death.
And Ziba and Mephibosheth,
His endless fame attend.
Pleasant-and various as the year;
Man, soul, and angel without peer,
Priest, champion, sage, and boy;
In armor, or in ephod clad,
His pomp, his piety was glad;
Majestic was his joy.

Wise-in recovery from his fall,
Whence rose his eminence o'er all,

Of all the most reviled;

The light of Israel in his ways,

Wise are his precepts, prayer, and praise, And counsel to his child.

O David, scholar of the Lord!
Such is thy science, whence reward,
And infinite degree;

O strength, O sweetness, lasting ripe!
God's harp thy symbol, and thy type
The lion and the bee!

There is but One who ne'er rebelled,
But One by passion unimpelled,
By pleasures unenticed;

He from himself his semblance sent,
Grand object of his own content,
And saw the God in Christ.

"Tell them, I Am," Jehovah said
To Moses; while earth heard in dread,
And, smitten to the heart,
At once above, beneath, around,
All nature, without voice or sound,
Replied: "O Lord, Thou Art."

EXMOOR HARVEST SONG.

R. D. BLACKMORE.

The corn, oh the corn, 'tis the ripening of the corn! Go unto the door, my lad, and look beneath the moon,

Thou canst see, beyond the woodrick, how it is yelloon:

'Tis the harvesting of wheat, and the barley must be shorn.

(Chorus.)

The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn! Here's to the corn, with the cups upon the board! We've been reaping all the day, and we'll reap again the morn,

And fetch it home to mow-yard, and then we'll thank the Lord.

The wheat, oh the wheat, 'tis the ripening of the wheat!

All the day it has been hanging down its heavy head,

Bowing over on our bosoms with a beard of red: 'Tis the harvest, and the value makes the labor sweet. (Chorus.)

The wheat, oh the wheat, and the golden, golden wheat!

Here's to the wheat, with the loaves upon the board!

We've been reaping all the day, and we never will be beat,

But fetch it all to mow-yard, and then we'll thank the Lord.

The barley, oh the barley, and the barley is in prime! All the day it has been rustling with its bristles brown,

Waiting with its beard abowing, till it can be mown!

'Tis the harvest, and the barley must abide its time.

(Chorus.)

The corn, oh the corn, and the blessing of the corn! Come unto the door, my lads, and look beneath

the moon,

We can see, on hill and valley, how it is yelloon, With a breadth of glory, as when our Lord was born. (Chorus.)

The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn! Thanks for the corn, with our bread upon the

board!

So shall we acknowledge it, before we reap the morn, With our hands to heaven, and our knees unto the Lord.

HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE.

WILLIAM COWPER.

Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say;
'Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!'
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes-
Blest be the art that can immortalise,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it-here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honour, with an artless song
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief;
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?

brown!

Here's to the barley, with the beer upon the board! We'll go amowing, soon as ever all the wheat is down; When all is in the mow-yard, well stop, and thank the Lord.

The oats, oh the oats, 'tis the ripening of the oats! All the day they have been dancing with their flakes of white,

Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial-day,

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit or confectionery plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes:
All this, still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin—
And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Would softly speak, and stroke my head and smile-
Could those few pleasant hours again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast-
The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed-
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore
Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;'
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life, long since has anchored at thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,
Sails ript, seams opening wide, and compass lost;

And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise—
The son of parents passed into the skies.
And now, farewell-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again:
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left

JUGGLING JERRY.

GEORGE MEREDITH.

Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes: By the old hedge-side we'll halt a stage.

It's nigh my last above the daisies:

My next leaf'll be man's blank page. Yes, my old girl! and it's no use crying; Juggler, constable, king, must bow. One that outjuggles all's been spying

Long to have me, and he has me now.

We've traveled times to this old common. Often we've hung our pots in the gorse. We've had a stirring life, old woman!

You, and I, and the old gray horse. Races, and fairs, and royal occasions, Found us coming to their call: Now they'll miss us at our stations: There's a Juggler outjuggles all!

Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly!
Over the duck-pond the willow shakes.
Easy to think that grieving's folly,

When the hand's firm as driven stakes!
Ay! when we're strong, and braced, and manful
Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a batch
Born to become the Great Juggler's han'ful:
Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch.

Here's where the lads of the village cricket:

I was a lad not wide from here:

Couldn't I whip off the bale from the wicket?
Like an old world those days appear!
Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatch'd ale-house-]
know them!

They are old friends of my halts, and seem,
Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them:

Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem.