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Hers is a face thou never wilt behold.


I will.

On her on her shall fall my worst revenge;
And I will know what foul and magic arts


It is just here, in the midst of his angry purposes, that the beautiful form of Miriam glides in. And by his excited feelings, bearing, as she did, the lovely features of one whom he had formerly loved, she might easily have been mistaken for a shadow, sent from the "dim realms" of the dead, " to look him into peace."

Oh, say not so!

"Beautiful shadow! in this hour of wrath

What dost thou here? In life thou wert too meek,
Too gentle for a lover stern as I.

And since I saw thee last, my days have been
Deep steep'd in sin and blood! What seekest thou?
I have grown old in strife, and hast thou come,
With thy dark eyes and their soul-searching glance,
To look me into peace? It cannot be.
Go back, fair spirit, to thine own dim realms!
He whose young love thou didst reject on earth
May tremble at this visitation strange,
But never can know peace or virtue more!
Thou wert a Christian, and a Christian dog
Did win thy precious love. I have good cause
To hate and scorn the whole detested race;
And till I meet that man, whom most of all
My soul abhors, will I go on and slay!
Fade, vanish-shadow bright! In vain that look!
That sweet, sad look! My lot is cast in blood!



The voice that won me first!

Oh, what a tide of recollections rush
Upon my drowning soul! my own wild love—
Thy scorn- the long, long days of blood and guilt
That since have left their foot-prints on my fate!


Oh, man of guilt and woe!
Thine own dark phantasies are busy now,
Lending unearthly seeming to a thing
Of earth, as thou art!


How! Art thou not she?

I know that face! I never yet beheld
One like to it among earth's loveliest.
Why dost thou wear that semblance, if thou art
A thing of mortal mould? —oh, better meet
The wailing ghosts of those whose blood doth clog
My midnight dreams, than that half-pitying eye!


Thou art a wretched man! and I do feel
Pity ev'n for the suff'ring guilt hath brought-
But from the quiet grave I have not come,
Look up, thou conscience-struck!


Off! off! She touched me with her damp, cold hand!
But 't was a hand of flesh and blood! — Away!
Come thou not near me till I study thee.


Why are thine eyes so fix'd and wild? thy lips
Convuls'd and ghastly white? Thine own dark sins,
Vexing thy soul, have clad me in a form
Thou dar'st not look upon-I know not why.
But I must speak to thee. 'Mid thy remorse,
And the unwonted terrors of thy soul,
I must be heard - for God hath sent me here.

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Which was not there at first; it kindles fast!
Say on. Although I dare not meet that eye,
I hear thee.


He hath given me strength,

And led me safely through the broad lone streets,
E'en at the midnight hour! my heart sunk not,
My noiseless foot paced on unfaltering
Through the long colonnades, where stood aloft
Pale gods and goddesses on either hand,

Bending their sightless eyes on me! by cool founts,
Waking with ceaseless plash the midnight air'
Through moonlit squares, where ever and anon
Flash'd from some dusky nook the red torch light,
Flung on my path by passing reveller.
And He hath brought me here before thy face;
And it was He who smote thee even now
With a strange, nameless fear.


Girl! name it not.
I deem'd I look'd on one, whose bright young face
First glanc'd upon me 'mid the shining leaves
Of a green bower in sunny Palestine,

In my youth's prime! I knew the dust,
The grave's corroding dust, had soiled
That spotless brow long since. A shadow fell
Upon the soul that never yet knew fear.
But it is past." pp. 69–73.

Those who have read Talfourd's tragedy must remember that striking scene, the first interview between Ion and king Adrastus. After urging upon the tyrant various motives, and finding that neither regard to his own safety, nor generous sympathy with the sufferings of his people touched him, Ion carries him back to childhood, and endeavors to strike upon some chord, among his earliest recollections, which should vibrate in unison with the wailing mothers and children of Argos. In vain. "His youth was blasted." But there was yet one vein to be explored in his soul.


If thou hast ever loved


Beware! beware!


Thou hast! I see thou hast! Thou art not marble,
And thou shalt hear me! Think upon the time
When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul
Were ruffled with the troublings of strange joy,
As if some unseen visitant from heaven
'Touch'd the calm lake and wreath'd its images
In sparkling waves; recall the dallying hope
That on the margin of assurance trembled,
As loth to lose in certainty too bless'd
Its happy being;-

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That tone! that tone!

Whence came it? from thy lips? It cannot be -
The long-hushed music of the only voice
That ever spake unbought affection to me,
And wak'd my soul to blessing! O sweet hours
Of golden joy, ye come! your glories break
Through my pavilion'd spirit's sable folds!
Roll on! roll on! Stranger, thou dost enforce me
To speak of things unbreathed by lip of mine
To human ear; - wilt listen?


As a child.


Again! that voice again! - thou hast seen me moved,
As never mortal saw me, by a tone

Which some light breeze, enamor'd of the sound,
Hath wafted through the woods, till thy young voice
Caught it to rive and melt me.' pp. 28, 29. N. Y. Ed.


It is a pleasing task to trace such coincidences as these, where, as in the present case, there is no room for a suspicion of plagiarism. They only prove that the instincts of genius often lead different writers into the same paths of thought, and produce unwittingly a resemblance too close to have been aimed at.

We shall use the critic's privilege a moment longer, and then close. In her Preface, our author says, speaking of herself, that "the lapse of years has already cooled her imagination, and taught her that exertions, whose tendency might be more practical and useful, would now interest her

feelings more deeply." We are sure that we are not to understand this as if it were designed to countenance the common mistake of narrowing the meaning of the words, practical and useful, so far as to exclude the labors of the Imagination, and the results of high art. And we would fain hope that there is no settled purpose of retiring from a field on which so much honor can be won. Society cannot willingly permit those, who are able to present good thoughts and pure sentiments in the fascinating shapes of poetry, to relinquish their peculiar province for other departments of labor, for which the thousand are abundantly qualified. As well might the old Prophet have thrown off his mantle, and dropped his scroll, in order to follow the plough, or handle the hammer.

ART. VII.-I. The Duties of Hard Times. A Sermon preached to the First Church, on Sunday Morning, April 28, 1837. By its Minister, N. L. FROTHINGHAM. BOSton: Munroe & Francis. 1837.

2. Views of Duty adapted to the Times. A Sermon preached at Portsmouth, N. H., May 14, 1837. By ANDREW P. PEABODY, Pastor of the South Church and Parish. Portsmouth: J. W. Foster, and J. F. Shores & Son. 1837. 3. The Temptations of the Times. A Discourse delivered in the Congregational Church in Purchase Street, on Sunday Morning, May 7, 1837. By GEORGE Ripley, Pastor of that Church. Boston: Hilliard, Gray, & Co. 1837.

4. The Hard Times. A Discourse delivered in the Second Unitarian Church, and also in the First Parish Church, Portland, Sunday, January 1, 1837. By JASON WHITMAN. Portland: Arthur Shirley. 1837.

WE are glad that these discourses have been published, and regret only that many other excellent ones upon the same topic, of which we have heard, have not also been given to the public. The clergy, in our cities and large towns, have very generally, we believe, taken occasion to preach upon the times, to present to their parishioners and fellow citizens thoughts, suggested by the existing commercial embarrassment,

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