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Isabel, a Dramatic Poem.

Agnes. Preserve me, Saints! is that a living form
That waves her long and naked arms in air ?—
She seems to have no thought of wretchedness,
Although she seems most wretched-
Lin, (not heeding Agnes)




Fill not my blasted sight with that worn frame,—
Am I not yet absolved? my festering soul
Has shrunk within itself, and would not be
Thus punished for its guilt-
My Lord, My Lord,

What mean those words?

Again!-Again !—No more—
I would close up those eyes for ever, yet
I strain their orbs to watch thee on thy vigil-
Again she beckons me—again she calls-
Her voice is on the wind-her curse on me-
1 come-I come→

[He flings himself from the window on the terrace-Agnes screams, and, endeavouring to save him, sinks to the ground. Scene changes.]

SCENE 2d. The ruins of an ancient Abbey.-Moonlight.-At one end an inhabited part of the building, the rest presents the remains of an old Monastery. The Hymn of the Monks within:

'Tis midnight, and the stars are waking-
'Tis midnight, and the sinner sleeps ;
The light of Heaven is darkly breaking,

Where lonely sorrow wakes and weeps.

'Tis midnight, and the Abbey bell

Hath tolled to mark the hour of prayer,
The organ's awful, solemn swell

Hath called th to the vesper there.

All nature joins the holy choir,

One gen'ral thought pervades the whole,
As if one ray of heav'nly fire

Had spread its flame from soul to soul.

[Isabel rushes in—she looks as if pursued by some one whom she is anxious to avoid.]

Isabel. Hide me, ye caverns of the earth-roll, roll,

Great mountains from your base and bury me.
The strong forebodings of my wretchedness
This hour fulfills-Oh! I am grown feeble,-
Against this pillar will I lean-perhaps
It may protect and shelter me-

Isabel, a Dramatic Poem.

A pause-Lindenberg appears- he looks earnestly round-at length he discovers Isabel

Lin. Ha!-near me-Sorceress art thou hither come
To blight my happiness ?-has the grave yawned,
And broke its peace to give thee back again?
Isabel. Thou 'lt triumph in my state-but mark,

The dying curse is hovering round thee now-
I am wasted now, and gone-look, look on me-
There was a time the eye of Isabel-

Nay, start not at that name-there was a time
The eye of Isabel had light for thee-

O holy virtue! had I loved thee yet,

I had not now been scorned-my child-my child

I gazed on her to-day,-I gazed on her

Off, monster-off-delirium 's in my brain

She draws from her bosom a dagger-Lindenberg attempts to seize it, but she plunges it into her side.

Lin. Oh! Heaven, she's dead

What ho!-within-within-
Perhaps these Monks may offer her some aid-

He knocks at the convent gate-lights appear at the windows, and in a few moments some Monks enter from a low postern door. Lindenberg points to Isabel who lies on the earth at his feet-they raise her and support her in their arms, and Lindenberg continues to gaze on her without speaking-as they carry her into the monastery the scene closes.

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Thou hast departed,-like a beauteous cloud
Fainting away in twilight,-thou art flown
Like the last note of music, when its tone
Still trembles in the bosom, deep, not loud!
Thou wert my dream of boy-hood; oh thou wert
The vision of my loneliness,-my love!

Thou wert the soothing spirit, which did move
Thro' all my purified, impassion'd heart,
Till life was but one blessed thought of thee,

And earth grew dim, and yon blue world of skies
Had nought to me, so beauteous as thine eyes,
Smiling upon me, pure and lovingly!

But now I see thee human,-faithless-wed !-
The dream hath pass'd away,-the spirit fled!

Sonnet to Spring--Beaty.


I see thee-feel thee-life-renewing Spring!
Thou pourest through my veins a glowing flood,
"Till, doubly rapid, rushes my warm blood.
I see thee, Spirit! on descending wing,
Calming the loud winds and the waters wild ;-
And now on earth thy magic is begun ;

A young creation springs, and the sweet sun
Smiles, like a mother o'er her new born child!
The air is filled with odour from the boughs,
The earth with gladness-and the joyous birds
Pour forth their spirit in harmonious words,
Warbling their lays of love, and tender vows.

Ah, Spring! there is a season of the heart
That mocks thy power, all-cheering as thou art!


O Beauty! words are poor and idle all,

Unskilled are they thy myst'ries to proclaim;
Utterance is weak; but thy inspiring call

Hath wak'd my harp-unused to glowing theme!

Hail minister of bliss! whose balm can heal

The wounded mind-can soothe affliction strong;
From raging madness thou canst softly steal

The poison'd arrow that hath rankled long
In the heart's core. Grim Anger feels thy sway,
And, kneeling where thy majesty doth shine,
His sceptre drops; while kindling in thy ray,

The soul exults-for lo! its empire 's thine!


No treasons, Beauty, mar thy boundless reign.
Monarchs and slaves one fealty doth bind
To worship thee. All loyalty may wane,

Save that which burns for thee through all mankind;
Whether we woo thee in the pathless wild,

Where Nature decks thee for herself alone:
Or lull'd in pleasant vales by Zephyrs mild,

With Summer's fairest fruits around thy throne ;
Daughter of Heaven! pride of the varying year,
Mantled in brightest green or virgin snow,
Unchanging thou-for ever young and fair,

Our orisons are thine-for thee they flow!

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Without thee life were vain-Elysium cold;
And Love-Ah! Love could never kindled be,
Save by thy beams-and joy could ne'er unfold
His wanton wing, unless 'twas nerved by thee!


O Woman! Beauty's softer, tenderer name,
Union of ev'ry tie that most endears,
Mid Sorrow's gloom we hail thy soothing beam,

Emblem of Peace-bright rainbow mid our tears!
Thine is the eloquence that asks no sound

Of doubtful cadence-for to thee 'tis given
From sparkling eyes to pour on all around

The language of the Stars-that speaks of Heaven!
The Heathen decks his paradise with thee,

And blooming Houries light his blissful dream;
Thy form renew'd in Angel's guise we see,

To bless our Eden with a holier name!

O Time! thou stand'st alone-cold, and unmoved,
Thy frozen heart regards not Beauty's sheen;
Here is sad proof that thou hast never loved;

This ruined Statue's pity-moving mein;
This sad memorial prostrate to thy rage,

Whose lips seem almost opening to complain,
Whose Beauty's wreck is still a fragrant page,

Bright with the glories of thy earlier reign!
Yes; pausing here thy trophied tale we trace,

And fancy, sorrowing, through a thousand years,
Mourns o'er thy favour'd Rome's extinguished race,
Or drops for long-remember'd Greece her tears!

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But let me gaze once more upon the sky;

The things of art are fading fast away,
And Man, the puny moralist, must die,

But here is beauty that can ne'er decay!
Coeval with Eternity-that sate

Fast by the font of light, and quaffed its ray,
Ere the world bounded from the hand of Fate,
Or Man was yet to mar the coming day!

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In the days of my childhood, unfetter'd and free
From the hopes and the cares of less innocent hours,
I have roam'd amid scenes that were lovely to me,

For Liberty breathed her swet light on the flowers;

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There was sunshine above me-the sunshine of skies Which the darkness of earth never turned into tears, Yet oh! even that was less bright than the eyes

That sparkled around me-like stars in the spheres!


Those scenes of my boy-hood are far, far away,

With the friends that I loved-and the hearts I ador'd; Yet oft will the spirit of memory stray,

To mingle with souls that can ne'er be restored ; And falsehood must dim the pure lustre of truth,

And feeling and passion no longer must be,
Ere I cease to remember those days of my youth,

And the hearts that once made them so precious to me.


From the smile of contempt-and the frown of disdain, Which the world ever flings on the friendless and lone, I have turn'd with a spirit no ills could restrain,

To those days of my childhood-now faded and gone : And as darkly and sad on their fleetness I dwelt,

And thought of the friends that could never return, On the tomb of my hopes and enjoyments I knelt, And sweet were the tears that I pour'd on each urn!

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