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Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen

censer,

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he

hath sent thee

Respite respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, Oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted · On this home by Horror hauuted — tell me truly, I implore — Is there is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,*
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven," Nevermore."

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"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light, o'er him streaming, throws his shadow on the

floor;

And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating on the floor,

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* The place of departed spirits: from the Greek" Hades " or " Haides;" or perhaps the word is an Anglicized and disguised spelling of the Arabic form of the word Eden, synonymous here with celestial paradise.

CXXXIV. SPEECH OF RINGAN GILHAIZE.

GALT.

(JOHN GALT was born in Irvine, Scotland, May 2, 1779, and died April 11, 1839. He was a voluminous writer, and among other things, author of a series of novels illustrating Scottish life and manners, of which the first in order of time, "The Annals of the Parish," became immediately and widely popular. They are unequal in style and structure, but none are without marked merit. He was for some time in Canada, and in one of the best of his novels," Lawrie Todd," the scene is laid in this country.

The following extract is from "Ringan Gilhaize," a novel so called from the name of one of the principal characters. The scene is laid in Scotland, during the time of the religious persecutions under Charles II. and James II. The speech is by Ringan Gilhaize, a patriotic and religious enthusiast, in reply to Mr. Renwick, a clergyman, who had counselled moderation.]

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MODERATION ! You, Mr. Renwick, counsel moderation -you recommend the door of peace to be still kept open you doubt if the Scriptures warrant us to undertake revenge, and you hope that our forbearance may work to 5 repentance among our enemies. Mr. Renwick, you have hitherto been a preacher, not a sufferer; with you the resistance to Charles Stuart's government has been a thing of doctrine. of no more than doctrine, Mr. Renwickwith us it has been a consideration of facts. Judge ye 10 therefore between yourself and us, I say, between yourself and us; for I ask no other judge to decide, whether we are not, by all the laws of God and man, justified in avowing that we mean to do as we are done by.

And, Mr. Renwick, you will call to mind that in this 15 sore controversy the cause of debate came not from us. We were peaceable Christians, enjoying the shade of the vine and the fig-tree of the gospel, planted by the care and cherished by the blood of our forefathers, protected by the laws, and gladdened in our protection by the oaths and the 20 covenants which the king had sworn to maintain. The Presbyterian freedom of worship was our property, we were in possession and enjoyment, no man could call our the king had vowed, as a condition before he was allowed to receive the crown, that he would

right to it in question,

preserve it. Yet, for more than twenty years, there has been a most cruel, fraudulent, and outrageous endeavor instituted, and carried on, to deprive us of that freedom and birthright.

We were asking no new thing from government; we were taking no step to disturb government; we were in peace with all men, when government, with the principles of a robber and the cruelty of a tyrant, demanded of us to surrender those immunities of conscience which our fathers 10 had earned and defended; to deny the gospel as it is written in the evangelists, and to accept the commentary of Charles Stuart, a man who has had no respect to the most solemn oaths, and of James Sharp, the apostate of St. Andrews, whose crimes provoked a deed, that but for their 15 crimson hue, no man could have doubted to call a most foul murder. The king and his crew, Mr. Renwick, are, to the indubitable judgment of all just men, the causers and the aggressors in the existing difference between his subjects and him. In so far, therefore, if blame there be, 20 it lieth not with us nor in our cause.

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But, sir, not content with attempting to wrest from us our inherited freedom of religious worship, Charles Stuart and his abettors have pursued the courageous constancy with which we have defended the same, with more animos25 ity than they ever did any crime. I speak not to you, Mr. Renwick, of your own outcast condition, perhaps you delight in the perils of martyrdom; I speak not to those around us, who, in their persons, their substance, and their families, have endured the torture, poverty, and irreme30 diable dishonor, they may be meek and hallowed men, willing to endure. But I call to mind what I am and was myself. I think of my quiet home, it is all ashes.

I remember my brave first-born, - he was slain at Bothwell-brigg. Why need I speak of my honest brother; the 35 waves of the ocean, commissioned by our persecutors, have triumphed over him in the cold seas of the Orkneys; and

as for my wife, what was she to you? Ye cannot be greatly disturbed that she is in her grave. No, ye are quiet, calm, and prudent persons; it would be a most indiscreet thing of you, you who have suffered no wrongs yourselves, to 5 stir on her account; and then how unreasonable I should be, were I to speak of two fair and innocent maidens. It is weak of me to weep, though they were my daughters.

O men and Christians, brothers, fathers! but ye are content to bear with such wrongs, and I alone of all here 10 may go to the gates of the cities, and try to discover which of the martyred heads mouldering there belongs to a son or a friend. Nor is it of any account whether the bones of those who were so dear to us, be exposed with the remains of malefactors, or laid in the sacred grave. To the 15 dead all places are alike; and to the slave what signifies who is master. Let us therefore forget the past, let us keep open the door of reconciliation, smother all the wrongs we have endured, and kiss the proud foot of the trampler. We have our lives, we have been spared; the mer20 ciless blood-hounds have not yet reached us. Let us therefore be humble and thankful, and cry to Charles Stuart, O King, live forever! — for he has but cast us into a fiery furnace and a lion's den.

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In truth, friends, Mr. Renwick is quite right. This 25 feeling of indignation against our oppressors is a most imprudent thing. If we desire to enjoy our own contempt, and to deserve the derision of men, and to merit the abhorrence of Heaven, let us yield ourselves to all that Charles Stuart and his sect require. We can do nothing 30 better, nothing so meritorious, nothing by which we can so reasonably hope for punishment here and condemnation hereafter. But if there is one man at this meeting, — I am speaking not of shapes and forms, but of feelings, — if there is one here that feels as men were wont to feel, he 25 will draw his sword, and say with me, Woe to the house of Stuart! Woe to the oppressors! And may a just God look with favor on our cause.

CXXXV. - ALCESTIS AND PHERES.

TRANSLATED BY MRS. HEMANS.

[VITTORIO ALFIERI was born in Asti, in Piedmont, in 1749, and died in 1803. Born of a rich and noble family, his early education was defective, and his youth was passed without any honorable object in life, but at the age of twenty-seven, he resolved to become a tragic poet, and with this view began a laborious course of study, in order to acquire the knowledge he had failed to obtain in his boyhood and youth. He wrote twenty-one tragedies, six comedies, besides several poems and translations from Greek and Latin. The plots of his plays are simple, the verse is unmusical, and the style dry and hard, but they have great energy of expression and fervor of sentiment, and never fail to produce a strong effect upon an audience.

The following scene is from " Alcestis," one of the last tragedies Alfieri composed, and marked by a tenderness of feeling not found in his earlier plays. The plot is founded upon a Greek legend. Alcestis is the wife of Admetus, the son of Pheres. Admetus has died, and an oracle had declared that he might be restored to life if another person would consent to die in his place. Alcestis, in this dialogue, announces her purpose of devoting herself to death, in order that her husband might return to life.]

ALCESTIS. Weep thou no more. O monarch, dry thy tears, For know, he shall not die; not now shall Fate

Bereave thee of thy son.

PHERES.

What mean thy words?

5 Hath then Apollo-is there then a hope?

10

15

ALCESTIS. Yes, hope for thee, hope, by the voice pronounced From the prophetic cave. Nor would I yield

To other lips the tidings, meet alone

For thee to hear from mine.

PHERES.

But say, oh! say,

He shall, to thee.

Shall, then, my son be spared?

ALCESTIS.

Thus hath Apollo said, Alcestis thus
Confirms the oracle; be thou secure.

PHERES. O sounds of joy! He lives!
ALCESTIS.

But not for this;

Think not that e'en for this the stranger, joy,

Shall yet revisit these devoted walls.

PHERES. Can there be grief when, from his bed of death,

20 Admetus rises? What deep mystery lurks

Within thy words? What mean'st thou? Gracious heaven!

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