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ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER.

MAGNIFICENT creature! so stately and bright! In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight; For what hath the child of the desert to dread, Wafting up his own mountains that far beaming head;

Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale !— Hail! king of the wild and the beautiful!—hail! Hail! idol divine !-whom nature hath borne O'er a hundred hill-tops since the mists of the morn, Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain

and moor,

As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore;
For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free,
Are spread in a garment of glory o'er thee,
Up! up to yon cliff! like a king to his throne!
O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone-
A throne which the eagle is glad to resign
Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine.
There the bright heather springs up in love of thy
breast,

Lo! the clouds in the depths of the sky are at rest;
And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill!
In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers, lie still !—
Though your branches now toss in the storm of
delight

Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless height,
One moment-thou bright apparition-delay!
Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the day.
His voyage is o'er-As if struck by a spell,
He motionless stands in the hush of the dell;
There softly and slowly sinks down on his breast,
In the midst of his pastime enamour'd of rest.
A stream in a clear pool that endeth its race-
A dancing ray chain'd to one sunshiny place-
A cloud by the winds to calm solitude driven-
A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven.

Fit couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee:
Magnificent prison enclosing the free;
With rock wall-encircled, with precipice crown'd—
Which, awoke by the sun, thou canst clear at a bound.
Mid the fern and the heather kind nature doth keep
One bright spot of green for her favourite's sleep;
And close to that covert, as clear to the skies
When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies,
Where the creature at rest can his image behold,
Looking up through the radiance, as bright and as
bold.

Yes: fierce looks thy nature, e'en hush'd in repose

In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes,
Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar,
With a haughty defiance to come to the war.
No outrage is war to a creature like thee;
The buglehorn fills thy wild spirit with glee,
As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the wind,
And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind.
In the beams of thy forehead, that glitter with death,

In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath,In the wide raging torrent that lends thee its roar,In the cliff that once trod must be trodden no more,Thy trust-mid the dangers that threaten thy reign: -But what if the stag on the mountain be slain? On the brink of the rock-lo! he standeth at bay, Like a victor that falls at the close of the dayWhile the hunter and hound in their terror retreat From the death that is spurn'd from his furious feet; And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies, As nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies.

LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN.

To whom belongs this valley fair,
That sleeps beneath the filmy air,

Even like a living thing?
Silent as infant at the breast,
Save a still sound that speaks of rest,

That streamlet's murmuring!

The heavens appear to love this vale;
Here clouds with scarce-seen motion sail,
Or mid the silence lie!

By the blue arch, this beauteous earth,
Mid evening's hour of dewy mirth,

Seems bound unto the sky.

O that this lovely vale were mine!
Then, from glad youth to calm decline,
My years would gently glide;
Hope would rejoice in endless dreams,
And memory's oft-returning gleams
By peace be sanctified.

There would unto my soul be given,
From presence of that gracious heaven,
A piety sublime!

And thoughts would come of mystic mood,
To make in this deep solitude
Eternity of Time!

And did I ask to whom belong'd
This vale? I feel that I have wrong'd
Nature's most gracious soul!
She spreads her glories o'er the earth,
And all her children, from their birth,
Are joint heirs of the whole!
Yea, long as nature's humblest child
Hath kept her temple undefiled
By sinful sacrifice,
Earth's fairest scenes are all his own;
He is a monarch, and His throne
Is built amid the skies!

JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

MR. KNOWLES was born at Cork, about the year 1789. His father, a near relative of the celebrated RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, was a popular teacher of elocution in that city. Young KNOWLES was at a very early age placed at a school in England, where the bent of his genius was shown in his fondness for dramatic literature, and his attempts in dramatic composition. His first effort was called The Chevalier Grillon. At sixteen he wrote a tragedy in five acts, which is still extant, entitled The Spanish Story; eight years after, the tragedy of Hersilia; and in his twenty-sixth year his first successful piece, The Gipsy, which was performed at Waterford, with EDMUND KEAN in the character of the hero. This was succeeded by Brian Boroighme, Caius Gracchus, Virginius, William Tell, Alfred the Great, The Hunchback, The Wife of Mantua, The Beggar's Daughter of Bethnal Green, The Love Chase, Woman's Wit, The Wrecker's Daughter, Love, John di Procida, The Maid of Mariendorpt, The Secretary, and other plays, all of which have been acted with applause in the British and American theatres.

Although there are many striking and beautiful passages in the writings of KNOWLES, he is deserving of little praise as a poet. It would not be difficult to find a very large number of pieces, among the unacted dramas of the last ten years, superior to his in every quality but effectiveness for the stage. He has carefully studied the Elizabethan drama

LOVE'S ARTIFICE.

I SAID it was a wilful, wayward thing, And so it is, fantastic and perverse! Which makes its sport of persons and of seasons, Takes its own way, no matter right or wrong. It is the bee that finds the honey out,

Where least you dream 't would seek the nectarous

store.

And 'tis an errant masker-this same love-
That most outlandish, freakish faces wears
To hide his own! Looks a proud Spaniard now;
Now a grave Turk; hot Ethiopian next;
And then phlegmatic Englishman; and then
Gay Frenchman; by-and-by Italian, at
All things a song; and in another skip,

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tists; and endeavoured, not altogether without success, to fashion himself upon the best models they produced. His dialogue is spirited and dramatic, the action of his pieces fine, their morality unexceptionable, and the sympathy he manifests with human nature deep and healthy. But he has incongruously blended modern manners, opinions, feelings, incidents, and actions, with the antique; his versification is often careless and inharmonious; and he is deficient in the important poetical faculty of constructiveness. Virginius, The Hunchback, and some of his other pieces, are, however, among the most successful dramatic compositions of the age, and after the making of all abatements, he is the best playwright who has written in England during the present century.

The greatest poet of the world was an actor, and KNOWLES has thought it no disgrace to follow so illustrious an example. I remember having seen him in one of his own characters on the Park stage in New York in 1835, a year in which. FANNY BUTLER, in whom SIDDONS seemed to live anew, transiently restored to the stage the glory of its palmier days. As an actor, however, he was never successful. He still appears occasionally in the British theatres; but probably only in some of the less important characters of his own pieces.

Mr. KNOWLES is a general favourite in society, and is not more respected for his abilities than for his manly virtues.

Gruff Dutchman; still is love behind the mask!
It is a hypocrite! looks every way
But that where lie its thoughts! will openly
Frown at the thing it smiles in secret on;
Shows most like hate, e'en when it most is love;
Would fain convince you it is very rock
When it is water! ice when it is fire!

Is oft its own dupe, like a thorough cheat;
Persuades itself 'tis not the thing it is;
Holds up its head, pursues its brows, and looks
Askant, with scornful lip, hugging itself
That it is high disdain-till suddenly

It falls on its knees, making most piteous suit
With hail of tears and hurricane of sighs,
Calling on heaven and earth for witnesses
That it is love, true love-nothing but love!

LAST SCENE IN JOHN DI PROCIDA.

[Isoline follows John di Procida and his son, her husband, against Messina, of which city her father is governor. As the castle falls into the hands of the Liberator, she, unknown to either party, reaches the garden, and pauses, exhausted, listening to the tumult of the battle.]

Iso. Thus far in time-thus far in safety! Wer't Another stride, ere take it, I had dropped. The work is going on! Oh, spare my fatherSpare him, and deal with me! Hark! Massacre Has left this quarter free; within the city Holding her gory reign. She does not riot Within the castle yet. He yet may live! [here? Limbs, hold me up. Don't fail me.

My father!-Father!

Who comes

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In times like these men know not one another.
Holding together, they together fall,

As men in knots do drown. In scattering
Is chance of safety. Do not hold me, friend.
Let go. Look to thyself. Let every one
Look to himself. He's lost that casts his eye
Upon another's jeopardy. His own
Asks all his care. Let go!-Away!-Away!

Iso. (thrown upon her knees, as he rushes off.)
He does not know me!-He's my father, and
He does not know me! He's distracted-mad!
Fain would I follow him, but cannot. No,
My knees refuse to raise me.

Fernando, (rushing in.) Isoline!

Iso. (throwing herself into his arms.) Fernando! my Fernando! true, to death! My husband-mine own love !-I die for joy! And bless thee, my Fernando, for my death! [Swoons in his arms.

Fer. Love! wife! choice pattern of thy partial sex! My Isoline! She's dead! she's dead! she's dead! Guiscardo, (enters, sword drawn.) Fernando! Fer. Here, Guiscardo!

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Andrea, (rushing in.) Hold! 'tis the son of
John of Procida!

Guis. The son of John of Procida!
Fer. Too late!

Take her! preserve from insult-pay all honours-
For her sake, not for mine,-and lay us side
By side. I pant for death, and not the life
Would hold my spirit from rejoining hers. [Dies.
Enter John of Procida.

Pro. It is not there! I came to see his corse,
But not to smite him. No! I would not stain
This day of freedom with the narrow deed
Of personal vengeance. To the swords of others
I would have left him, satisfied if they

The debt exacted that was due to mine.
But they, intent on their own quarry, mine
Have suffered to escape, and vengeance, now
Balked, by its own remissness, of its prey,
Gnashes the teeth in vain!

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And we are safe! Are we not, sir? [reels forward. Pro. O, Heaven!

Iso. You will not let them murder us? You

will not!

You can't! else nature has no truth in her,
And never more be trusted! Never more!
If fathers will not stretch an arm to save
Their children's throats, let mothers' breasts run dry,
And infants at the very founts of life

Be turn'd to stones! Sir! father! where's your son?
Ah, you repulse me not! You let me come
Closer to you. Where's my Fernando, father?
What! do you draw me to you? Would you take me
Into your very bosom? There then!

[Throws her arms about his neck.] Now, Fernando, what's to fear? Now, mine own love, We shall be happy! happy! blessed happy! Why don't you answer me? Where is he, father? I left him here! Where I have been I know not, I recollect a sickness as of death, And now it comes again. And damp-I'll wipe it!

here?

My brow grows chill Blood! what brings it

Whose blood is this?

And. Blood has been shed to-day. No vestment in Messina, but you'll find Some trace upon't.

Iso. Where is my husband, sirs?

Is this Fernando's blood? We were together,
And it was here! If death did threaten us
He would be close to me, of his own life
Making a shield for mine! Was he alive,
Were he not here? Not here! he must be dead,
And this must be his blood!

Pro. Remove her, friend;

Take and remove her hence. I lack the strength.
Her plight, to mine own added, weighs me down.
She must not see his body; 'tis her life
That I feel fluttering next my breast just now
As ready to take wing. "Twere certain death
To look upon him.

Iso. (to Andrea.) No, I will not hence!
You will murder me. I am safe here-am I not?
Am I not, father? Father! where's my father?
He did not know me! he did shake me off!
He fled me! You are all my father now!
But there's Fernando, too! You are not weeping?
You are! don't weep! I'll dry your eyes for you!
The blood again!

Pro. We must remove her hence.

Come with me, child.

Iso. Child! do you call me child? Child! is a sweet name!

Pro. Come, my daughter.

Iso. Daughter!

That's sweeter yet than child. Nothing so sweet After the name of wife; but wife's not sweeter Than husband. Husband? That's the sweetest

name

Of all! My husband is your son! and sonThere is a sweet name too! No sweeter name Than son! Do you not think so?

Pro. Come.

Iso. I Come!

We are going to Fernando. Are we not?
Sir, fare-you-well. What's that upon the ground?
And. Where?

Iso. There! You know as well as I! Stand off! [Breaks away. Fernando! my Fernando! dead? "Ay, dead Indeed, when I do call on thee, and thou Return'st no answer! My Fernando! dead! Ah! it is well! Here's silence coming too For me, love. I do feel the frost of death Biting my limbs, and creeping towards my heart, Colder and colder-all will soon be ice. "Tis winter ere its time! but welcome, since 'Tis shared with you, Fernando. Mercy, Heaven! 'Tis kind-'tis pitiful to suffer me

On thy dead lips to breathe my life away. [Dies. And. Let me conduct thee hence, O Procida! Grief doth benumb his every faculty.

Stephano, (entering with others.) Where is John of Procida?

And. Behold him.

Ste. Health

To thee and to Messina, which, to-day,

Through thee, beholds her grievous yoke thrown off.

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To say he loved,
Were to affirm what oft his eyes avouch'd,
What many an action testified and yet-
What wanted confirmation of his tongue.
But if he loved-it brought him not content!
'Twas now abstraction-now a start-anon
A pacing to and fro-anon, a stillness,
As naught remain'd of life, save life itself,
And feeling, thought, and motion, were extinct!
Then all again was action! Disinclined
To converse, save he held it with himself;
Which oft he did, in moody vein discoursing,
And ever and anon invoking Honour,

As some high contest there were pending, 'twixt
Himself and him, wherein her aid he needed.
-I saw a struggle,
But knew not what it was.
I wonder'd still,
That what to me was all content, to him
Was all disturbance; but my turn did come.
At length he talk'd of leaving us; at length,
He fix'd the parting day—but kept it not-
O how my heart did bound! Then first I knew '
It had been sinking. Deeper still it sank
When next he fix'd to go; and sank it then
To bound no more! He went.
Y

ARTIFICE DISOWNED BY LOVE.

I CANNOT think love thrives by artifice, Or can disguise its mood, and show its face. I would not hide one portion of my heart Where I did give it and did feel 'twas right, Nor feign a wish, to mask a wish that was, Howe'er to keep it. For no cause except Myself would I be loved. What were 't to me, My lover valued me the more, the more He saw me comely in another's eyes, When his alone the vision I would show, Becoming to? I have sought the reason oft, They paint love as a child, and still have thought It was because true love, like infancy, Frank, trusting, unobservant of its mood, Doth show its wish at once, and means no more!

PRIDE OF RANK.

DESCENT,

You'll grant, is not alone nobility,

Will you not? Never yet was line so long,
But it beginning had : and that was found
In rarity of nature, giving one
Advantage over many; aptitude

For arms, for counsel, so superlative
As baffled all competitors, and made
The many glad to follow him as guide

Or safeguard; and with title to endow him,
For his high honour, or to gain some end
Supposed propitious to the general weal,
On those who should descend from him entail'd.
Not in descent alone, then, lies degree,
Which from descent to nature may be traced,
Its proper fount! And that, which nature did,
You'll grant she may be like to do again;
And in a very peasant, yea, a slave,
Enlodge the worth that roots the noble tree.
I trust I seem not bold, to argue so.

TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. YE crags and peaks, I'm with you once again! I hold to you the hands you first beheld, To show they still are free. Methinks I hear A spirit in your echoes answer me, And bid your tenant welcome to his home Again! O sacred forms, how proud you look! How high you lift your heads into the sky! How huge you are! how mighty and how free! How do you look, for all your bared brows, More gorgeously majestical than kings Whose loaded coronets exhaust the mine! Ye are the things that tower, that shine, whose smile Makes glad, whose frown is terrible, whose forms, Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear Of awe divine, whose subject never kneels In mockery, because it is your boast To keep him free! Ye guards of liberty, I'm with you once again!—I call to you With all my voice! I hold my hands to you To show they still are free! I rush to you As though I could embrace you!

LOST FREEDOM OF SWITZERLAND.

On! with what pride I used

To walk these hills, and look up to my God,
And bless Him that it was so. It was free-
From end to end, from cliff to lake 'twas free-
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks,
And plough our valleys, without asking leave;
Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow,
In very presence of the regal sun!
How happy was I in it then! I loved
Its very storms! Yes, Emma, I have sat

In my boat at night, when, midway o'er the lake,
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge
The wind came roaring-I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own!
You know the jetting cliff round which a track
Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow
To such another one, with scanty room
For two abreast to pass? O'ertaken there
By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along,
And while gust follow'd gust more furiously,
As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink,
And I have thought of other lands, whose storms
Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just
Have wish'd me there-the thought that mine was
free

Has check'd that wish, and I have raised my head,
And cried in thraldom to that furious wind,
Blow on! This is the land of liberty!

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Is this the daughter of a slave? I know
"Tis not with men, as shrubs and trees, that by
The shoot you know the rank and order of
The stem. Yet who from such a stem would look
For such a shoot? My witnesses are these-
The relatives and friends of Numitoria,
Who saw her, ere Virginia's birth, sustain
The burden which a mother bears, nor feels
The weight, with longing for the sight of it.
Here are the ears that listen'd to her sighs
In nature's hour of labour, which subsides
In the embrace of joy-the hands, that when
The day first look'd upon the infant's face,
And never look'd so pleased, help'd them up to it,
And bless'd her for a blessing-Here, the eyes
That saw her lying at the generous
And sympathetic fount, that at her cry
Sent forth a stream of liquid living pearl
To cherish her enamell'd veins. The lie
Is most unfruitful then, that takes the flower-
The very flower our bed connubial grew,
To prove its barrenness!

Speak for me, friends!
Have I not spoke the truth?

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