Yet hear!-if still I love,

Oh still too fondly-if, for ever seen,

An earthly image comes, my heart between,
And thy calm glory, Father! thron'd above!

If still a voice is near,

(E'en while I strive these wanderings to control,) An earthly voice, disquieting my soul With its deep music, too intensely dear,

O Father! draw to thee

My lost affections back!—the dreaming eyes
Clear from their mist-sustain the heart that dies,

Give the worn soul once more its pinions free!

I must love on, O God!

This bosom must love on!—but let thy breath

Touch and make pure the flame that knows not

death,

Bearing it up to Heaven!-Love's own abode !

Ages and ages past, the wilderness,

With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night,

With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds,
That waft all sound, were conscious of those prayers.
How many such hath woman's bursting heart

Since then, in silence and in darkness breath'd,
Like the dim night-flower's odour, up to God?

PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE.

A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.*

From their spheres

The stars of human glory are cast down;
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms
Of all the mighty, withered and consumed!
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence
Long to protect her own.

WORDSWORTH.

SCENE-Prison of the Luxembourg, in Paris, during the Reign of Terror.

D'AUBIGNÉ, an aged Royalist-BLANCHE, his
Daughter, a young girl.

Blanche. What was our doom, my father?—In

thine arms

I lay unconsciously through that dread hour.

* The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and La Source, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her Letters from France, gave rise to this little scene. These two victims had composed a simple hymn, which they every night sung together in a low and restrained voice.

Tell me the sentence !-Could our judges look,
Without relenting, on thy silvery hair?

Was there not mercy, father?-Will they not

Restore us to our home?

D'Aubigné.

They send us home.

Blanche.

Yes, my poor child!

Oh! shall we gaze again

On the bright Loire ?-Will the old hamlet spire,

And the grey turret of our own château,

Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms?
Will the kind voices of our villagers,

The loving laughter in their children's eyes,
Welcome us back at last?-But how is this?-

Father! thy glance is clouded-on thy brow

There sits no joy!

D'Aubigné.

Upon my brow, dear girl,

There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace

As may befit the Christian, who receives

And recognizes, in submissive awe,

The summons of his God.

Blanche.

Thou dost not mean

No, no! it cannot be !-Didst thou not say

They sent us home?

D'Aubigné.

Where is the spirit's home?—

Oh! most of all, in these dark evil days,

Where should it be-but in that world serene,

Beyond the sword's reach, and the tempest's power—

Where, but in Heaven?

Blanche.

D'Aubigné.

My father!

We must die.

We must look up to God, and calmly die.—

Come to my heart, and weep there!-for awhile
Give Nature's passion way, then brightly rise
In the still courage of a woman's heart!

Do I not know thee?-Do I ask too much

From mine own noble Blanche ?

Blanche, (falling on his bosom.) Oh! clasp me fast! Thy trembling child!-Hide, hide me in thine armsFather!

D'Aubigné. Alas! my flower, thou'rt young to goYoung, and so fair!-Yet were it worse, methinks,