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The dreadful sound is now upon the wind,
Sullen and low, as if it wound its way
Into the cavern'd earth that swallow'd it.
I will abide in patient silence here;
Tho' hateful and asleep, I feel me still
Near something of my kind.

O it returns! as tho' the yawning earth
Had given it up again, near to the walls.
The horribly mingled din! 'tis nearer still:
'Tis close at hand: 'tis at the very gate!
Were he a muurd'rer, clenching in his hands
The bloody knife, I must awake him.-No!
That face of dark and subtile wickedness!

I dare not do it. (listening again) Aye; 'tis at the gate-
Within the gate.-

What rushing blast is that

Shaking the doors? Some awful visitation

Dread entrance makes! O mighty God of Heaven!

Á sound ascends the stairs.

Ho, Rudigere!

Awake, awake! Ho! Wake thee Rudigere!' Vol. III. p. 56. This contest, between her powerful hatred of Rudigere, and her still more powerful fears is well imagined and ably executed. Her terrors, at length, drive her to madness, and in this state she is brought upon the stage. We cannot refuse our readers a pretty large proportion of this fine scene.

'Or. Come back, come back! The fierce and fiery light!
Theo. Shrink not, dear love! it is the light of day.
Ör. Have cocks crow'd yet?

Theo. Yes; twice I've heard already

Their mattin sound. Look up to the blue sky;
Is it not day-light there? And these green boughs
Are fresh and fragrant round thee: every sense
Tells thee it is the cheerful early day.

Or. Aye, so it is; day takes his daily turn
Rising between the gulphy dells of night

Like whiten'd billows on a gloomy sea.

Till glow-worms gleam, and stars peep through the dark,
And will o'the-wisp his dancing taper light,

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They are all there: I hear their hollow sound

Full many a fathom down.

Then. Be still, poor troubled soul; they'll ne'er return; They are for ever gone Be well assured

Thou shalt from henceforth have a cheerful home
With crackling faggots on thy midnight fire,
Blazing like day around thee; and thy friends-
Thy living, loving friends still by thy side,

To speak to thee and cheer thee. See my Orra!
They are beside thee now; dost thou not know them?
Or. No, no! athwart the wav'ring garish light,
Things move and seem to be, and yet are nothing.'

• El. Ah, Orra! do not look upon us thus !
These are the voices of thy loving friends
That speak to thee: this is a friendly hand

That presses thine so kindly.


What terror seizes thee?

Ŏ grievous state.

Or. Take it away! It was the swathed dead :
I know its clammy, chill, and bony touch.
Come not again; I'm strong and terrible now;
Mine eyes have look'd upon all dreadful things;

And when the earth yawns, and the hell-blast sounds,
I'll 'bide the trooping of unearthly steps

With stiff-clench'd, terrible strength.

Hu. A murd'rer is a guiltless wretch to me.'

Or. Ha! dost thou groan, old man? Art thou in trouble? Out on it! tho' they lay him in the mould,

He's near thee still.-I'll tell thee how it is:

A hideous burst hath been: the damn'd and holy,
The living and the dead, together are

In horrid neighbourship.-'Tis but thin vapour,
Floating around thee, makes the wav'ring bound.
Poh! blow it off, and see th' uncurtained reach.
See! from all points they come ! earth casts them up!
In grave-clothes swath'd are those but new in death;
And there be some half bone, half cased in shreds
Of that which flesh hath been; and there be some
With wicker'd ribs, thro' which the darkness scowls.
Back, back!-They close upon us —Oh the void
Of hollow unball'd sockets staring grimly,

And lipless jaws that move and clatter round us
In mockery of speech!-Back, back, I say!
Back, back!' Vol. III. Orra, pp. 91-100.

It is, however, in the delineation of quiet and domestic scenes that we think Miss B. principally excels; in painting the humble cares, and unambitious pursuits, and kindly affections, and homefelt enjoyments of private life. Our first instance is from Rayner. The soothing tenderness of Elizabeth is very amiable.

Rayner. And would'st thou have me live, Elizabeth
Forlorn and sad, in lothly dungeon pent,
Kept from the very use of mine own limbs,
A poor, lost, caged thing?

Elizabeth. Would not I live with thee? would not I cheer


Would'st thou be lonely then? would'st thou be sad?

I'd clear away the dark unwholesome air,

And make a little parlour of thy cell.
With cheerful labour eke or little means,
And go abroad at times to fetch thee in
The news and passing stories of the day.
I'd read thee books: I'd sit and sing to thee:
And every thing would to our willing minds.
Some observation bring to cheer our hours.
Yea, ev'n the varied voices of the wind
O' winter nights would be a play to us.
Nay, turn not from me thus, my gentle Rayner!
How many suffer the extremes of pain,
Ay, lop their limbs away, in lowest plight
Few years to spend upon a weary couch

With scarce a friend their sickly draughts to mingle.
And dost thou grudge to spend thy life with me?
Rayner. I could live with thee in a pitchy mine;

In the cleft crevice of a savage den,

Where coils the snake, and bats and owlets roost,

And cheerful light of day no entrance finds.' Rayner, pp. 86, Affections of this kind are not confined to humble life. Valeria, the queen of Constantime, feels and expresses them as strongly as Elizabeth.

• Shall eastern Cæsar, like a timid hind

Scar'd from his watch, conceal his cowering head?
And does an empire's dame require it of him?

Valeria. Away, away, with all those pompous sounds!
I know them not. I by thy side have shar'd
The public gaze, and the applauding shouts
Of bending crowds: but I have also shar'd
The hour of thy heart's sorrow, still and silent,
The hour of thy heart's joy. I have supported
Thine aching head, like the poor wand'rer's wife,
Who, on his seat of turf, beneath heaven's roof,
Rests on his way. The storm beats fiercely on us:
Our nature suits not with these worldly times,
To it most adverse. Fortune loves us not;
She hath for us no good: do we retain
Her fetters only? No, thou shalt not go !

(Twining her arms round him.)

By that which binds the peasant and the prince,

The warrior and the slave, all that do bear

The form and nature of a man, I stay thee!

Thou shalt not go.

Con. Would'st thou degrade me thus ?

Valeria. Would'st thou unto my bosòm give death's pang? Thou lov'st me not.

Con. My friends, ye see how I am fetter'd here.
Ye who have to my falling fortunes clung
With gen'rous love, less to redeem their fall
Than on my waning fate by noble deeds
To sed a ray of graceful dignity;
Ye gen'rous and devoted; still with you
I thought to share all dangers: go ye now,
And to the current of this swelling tide,
Set your brave breasts alone.

Now, wife, where wouldst thou lead me?

Valeria. There, there! O, there! thou hast no other way.'

Const. Paleol. pp. 305-7.

What can be more amiable than the following picture of benevolence and hospitality?

'E'en now methinks

Each little cottage of my native vale

Swells out its earthen sides, up-heaves its roof,
Like to a hillock mov'd by lab'ring mole,

And with green trail-weeds clamb'ring up its walls,
Roses and ev'ry gay and fragrant plant,
Before my fancy stands, a fairy bower.
Aye, and within it too do fairies dwell.
Peep thro' its wreathed window, if indeed

The flowers grow not too close; and there within
Thou'lt see some half a dozen rosy brats,

Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk;

Those are my mountain elves.' Vol. LI. Orra. p. 23.

In the following lines we have a prospect of the same kind but more extensive.

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Eth. O see before thee

Thy native land, freed from the ills of war

And hard oppressive power, a land of peace!

Where yellow fields unspoil'd, and pastures green,
Mottled with herds and flocks, who crop secure
Their native herbage, nor have ever known

A stranger's stall, smile gladly.

See, thro' its tufted alleys to heaven's roof
The curling smoke of quiet dwellings rise;
Whose humble masters, with forgotten spear
Hung on the webbed wall, and cheerful face
In harvest fields embrown d, do gaily talk
Over their ev❜ning meal, and bless Ling Ethwald,
The valiant yet the peaceful, whose wise rule,
Firm and rever'd, has brought them better days

Than e er their fathers knew.' Vol. II. Ethwald. p. 252.

The following is a pretty picture of maternal pride and affection.

Helen (to Rosa) Where hast thou been my Rosa ? with

my boy?

Have they with wild flowers deck'd his table round?

And peeps he thro' them like a little nestling,
A little heath-cock broken from his shell?
That thro' the bloom puts forth its tender beak,
As steals some rustling footsteps on his nest?
Come let me go and look upon him. Soon,
Ere two months more go by, he'll look again
In answer to my looks, as though he knew
The wistful face that looks so oft upon him,

And smiles so dearly, is his mother's.' Fam. Leg. p. 26. There are many separate images, rural descriptions, and short passages of poetical beauty, thrown into the dialogue, of which we ought to give our readers a specimen, but which, we feel, lose much of their charm, when torn from their situation.

'De Mon. Thus, it is true, from the sad years of life
We sometimes do short hours, yea minutes strike,
Keen, blissful, bright, never to be forgotten;
Which, thro' the dreary gloom of time o'erpast,
Shine like fair sunny spots on a wild waste.'

Vol. I. De Monfort. p. 311.

Aur. How many leagues from shore may such a light
By the benighted mariner be seen?

Bast. Some six or so, he will descry it faintly,
Like a small star, or hermit's taper, peering
From some cav'd rock that brows the dreary waste;
Or like the lamp of some lone lazar-house,
Which through the silent night the traveller spies
Upon his doubtful way.

Viol. Fie on such images!

Thou should'st have liken'd it to things more seemly.
Thou might'st have said the peasant's evening fire
That from his upland cot, thro' winter's gloom,
What time his wife their ev ning meal prepares,
Blinks on the traveller s eye, and cheers his heart;
Or signal-torch, that from my Lady's bower
Tells wand'ring knights the revels are begun;
Or blazing brand, that from the vintage-house
O' long October's nights, thro' the still air

Looks rousingly.- To have our gallant Beacon.

Ta'en for a lazar house! Vol. III. The Beacon. pp. 297, 298.

'When slowly from the plains and nether woods

With all their winding streams and hamlets brown,

Updrawn, the morning vapour lifts its veil,

And thro' its fleecy folds with soften'd rays,

Like a still'd infant smiling in his tears,
Looks thro' the early sun; when from afar
The gleaming lake betrays its wide expanse,
And, lightly curling on the dewy air,

The cottage smoke doth wind its path to heaven:
When larks sing shrill, and village cocks do crow,

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