JANE. I've held my warfare through a troubled world, And borne with steady mind my share of ill; For then the helpmate of my toil wast thou. But now the wane of life comes darkly on, And hideous passion tears thee from my heart, Blasting thy worth. I cannot strive with this. DE MON. What shall I do?

Picture of a Country Life.

Even now methinks

Each little cottage of my native vale

Swells out its earthen sides, upheaves its roof,
Like to a hillock moved by labouring mole,

And with green trail-weeds clambering up its walls,
Roses and every gay and fragrant plant
Before my fancy stands, a fairy bower,

Ay, and within it too do fairies dwell.

Peep through 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. Seest thou not
Their very forms distinctly?

I'll gather round my board
All that Heaven sends to me of way-worn folks,
And noble travellers, and neighbouring friends,
Both young and old. Within my ample hall,
The worn-out man of arms shall o' tiptoe tread,
Tossing his gray locks from his wrinkled brow
With cheerful freedom, as he boasts his feats
Of days gone by. Music we'll have; and oft
The bickering dance upon our oaken floors
Shall, thundering loud, strike on the distant ear
Of 'nighted travellers, who shall gladly bend
Their doubtful footsteps towards the cheering din
Solemn, and grave, and cloistered, and demure
We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels?
Every season

Shall have its suited pastime: even winter
In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow,
And choked-up valleys, from our mansion bar
All entrance, and nor guest nor traveller
Sounds at our gate; the empty hall forsaken,
In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire,
We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court,
Plying our work with song and tale between.

Fears of Imagination.

Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast,'
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud
In the sunned glimpses of a stormy day,
Shiver in silvery brightness?

Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash
In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake?

Or lonely tower, from its brown mass of woods,
Give to the parting of a wintry sun

One hasty glance in mockery of the night
Closing in darkness round it? Gentle friend!
Chide not her mirth who was sad yesterday,
And may be so to-morrow.

Speech of Prince Edward in his Dungeon.

Doth the bright sun from the high arch of heaven,
In all his beauteous robes of fleckered clouds,
And ruddy vapours, and deep-glowing flames,
And softly varied shades, look gloriously?

Do the green woods dance to the wind? the lakes
Cast up their sparkling waters to the light?
Do the sweet hamlets in their bushy dells
Send winding up to heaven their curling smoke
On the soft morning air?

Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound
In antic happiness? and mazy birds

Wing the mid air in lightly skimming bands?
Ay, all this is-men do behold all this-

The poorest man. Even in this lonely vault,
My dark and narrow world, oft do I hear
The crowing of the cock so near my walls,

And sadly think how small a space divides me
From all this fair creation.

Description of Jane de Montfort.

[The following has been pronounced to be a perfect picture of Mrs. Siddons, the tragic actress.]

PAGE. Madam, there is a lady in your hall
Who begs to be admitted to your presence.
LADY. Is it not one of our invited friends?
PAGE. NO; far unlike to them. It is a stranger.
LADY. HOW looks her countenance?

PAGE. So queenly, so commanding, and so noble,
I shrunk at first in awe; but when she smiled,
Methought I could have compassed sea and land
To do her bidding.

LADY. Is she young or old?

PAGE. Neither, if right I guess; but she is fair,
For Time hath laid his hand so gently on her,
As he too had been awed,

LADY. The foolish stripling!

She has bewitched thee. Is she large in stature?
PAGE. SO stately and so graceful is her form,

I thought at first her stature was gigantic;

But on a near approach, I found, in truth,
She scarcely does surpass the middle size.
LADY. What is her garb?

PAGE. I cannot well describe the fashion of it:
She is not decked in any gallant trim,

But seems to me clad in her usual weeds

Of high habitual state; for as she moves,

Wide flows her robe in many a waving fold,
As I have seen unfurled banners play
With the soft breeze.

LADY. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy;

It is an apparition thou hast seen.

FREBERG. [Starting from his seat, where he has been sitting during the conversation between the Lady and the Page.]

It is an apparition he has seen,

Or it is Jane de Montfort.

This is a powerful delineation. Sir Walter Scott conceived that Fear was the most dramatic passion touched by Miss Baillie, because capable of being drawn to the most extreme paroxysm on the , stage.

REV. CHARLES ROBERT MATURIN.

The REV. CHARLES ROBERT MATURIN, author of several romances, produced a tragedy named 'Bertram,' which, by the influence of Lord Byron, was brought out at Drury Lane in 1816. It was well received; and by the performance and publication of his play, the author realised about £1000. Sir Walter Scott considered the tragedy 'grand and powerful, the language most animated and poetical, and the characters sketched with a masterly enthusiasm.' The author was anxious to introduce Satan on the stage-a return to the style of the ancient mysteries by no means suited to modern taste. Mr. Maturin was curate of St. Peter's, Dublin. The scanty income derived from his curacy being insufficient for his comfortable maintenance, he employed himself in assisting young persons during their classical studies at Trinity College, Dublin. The novels of Maturin-which will be afterwards noticed-enjoyed considerable popularity; and had his prudence been equal to his genius, his life might have been passed in comfort and respect. He was, however, vain and extravagant-always in difficulties (Scott at one time generously sent him £50), and pursued by bailiffs. When this eccentric author was engaged in composition, he used to fasten a wafer on his forehead, which was the signal that if any of his family entered the sanctum they must not speak to him! The success of Bertram' induced Mr. Maturin to attempt another tragedy, Manuel,' which he published in 1817. It is a very inferior production; the absurd work of a clever man,' says Byron. The unfortunate author died in Dublin on the 30th of October 1824,

Scene from Bertram.'

A passage of great poetical beauty,' says Sir Walter Scott, in which Bertram is represented as spurred to the commission of his great crimes by the direct agency of a supernatural and malevolent being.'

PRIOR-BERTRAM.

PRIOR. The dark knight of the forest,

So from his armour named and sable helm,
Whose barred visor mortal never saw.

He dwells alone; no earthly thing lives near him,
Save the hoarse raven croaking o'er his towers,
And the dank weeds muffling his stagnant moat.
BERTRAM. I'll ring a summons on his barred portal
Shall make them through their dark valves rock and ring.

PRI. Thou'rt mad to take the quest. Within my memory
One solitary man did venture there-

Dark thoughts dwelt with him, which he sought to vent.
Unto that dark compeer we saw his steps,

In winter's stormy twilight, seek that pass

But days and years are gone, and he returns not.

BERT. What fate befell him there?

PRI. The manner of his end was never known.

BERT. That man shall be my mate. Contend not with me-
Horrors to me are kindred and society.

Or man, or fiend, he hath won the soul of Bertram.

[Bertram is afterwards discovered alone, wandering near the fatal tower, and decribes the effect of the awful interview which he had courted].

BERT. Was it a man or fiend? Whate'er it was,

It hath dealt wonderfully with me

All is around his dwelling suitable;

The invisible blast to which the dark pines groan,

The unconscious tread to which the dark earth echoes,

The hidden waters rushing to their fall;

These sounds, of which the causes are not seen,

I love, for they are, like my fate, mysterious!

How towered his proud form through the shrouding gloom,
How spoke the eloquent silence of its motion,
How through the barred visor did his accents
Roll their rich thunder on their pausing soul !
And though his mailed hand did shun my grasp,
And though his closed morion hid his feature,
Yea. all resemblance to the face of man,
I felt the hollow whisper of his welcome,
I felt those unseen eyes were fixed on mine,
If eyes indeed were there-

Forgotten thoughts of evil, still-born mischiefs,
Foul fertile seeds of passion and of crime,
That withered in my heart's abortive core,
Roused their dark battle at his trumpet-peal;
So sweeps the tempest o'er the slumbering desert,
Waking its myriad hosts of burning death:

So calls the last dread peal the wandering atoms

Of blood, and bone, and flesh, and dust-worn fragments,
In dire array of ghastly unity.

To bide the eternal summons

I am not what I was since I beheld him-
I was the slave of passion's ebbing sway-
All is condensed, collected, callous, now-
The groan, the burst, the fiery flash is o'er,
Down pours the dense and darkening lava-tide,
Arresting life, and stilling all beneath it.

[Enter two of his band, observing him.]

FIRST ROBBER. Seest thon with what a step of pride he stalks? Thou hast the dark knight of the forest seen;

For never man, from living converse come,

Trod with such step, or flushed with eye like thine.

SECOND ROBBER. And hast thou of a truth seen the dark knight?
BERT. [Turning on him suddenly.] Thy hand is chilled with fear.
Well, shivering craven,

Say I have seen him--wherefore dost thou gaze?

Long'st thou for tale of goblin-guarded portal?
Of giant champion, whose spell-forged mail
Crumbled to dust at sound of magic horn-

Banner of sheeted flame, whose foldings shrunk
To withering weeds, that o'er the battlements
Wave to the broken spell-or demon-blast

Of winded clarion, whose fell summons sinks
To lonely whisper of the shuddering breeze
O'er the charmed towers-

FIRST ROBBER. Mock me not thus. Hast met him of a truth?
BERT. Weil, fool--

FIRST ROBBER. Why, then, Heaven's benison be with you.
Upon this hour we part-farewell for ever.

For mortal cause I bear a mortal weapon

But man that leagues with demons lacks not man.

RICHARD L. SHEIL-J. H. PAYNE-B W PROCTOR.

Another Irish poet, and man of warm imagination, RICHARD LALOR SHEIL (1794-1851), sought distinction as a dramatist. His plays,

Evadne' and 'The Apostate,' were performed with much success, partly owing to the admirable acting of Miss O'Neil. The interest of Mr. Sheil's dramas is concentrated too exclusively on the heroine of each, and there is a want of action and animated dialogue, but they abound in impressive and well-managed scenes. The plot of 'Evadne' is taken from Shirley's Traitor,' as are also some of the sentiThe following description of female beauty is very finely ex

ments.

pressed:

But you do not look altered-would you did!
Let me peruse the face where loveliness
Stays, like the light after the sun is set.

Sphered in the stillness of those heaven-blue eyes,
The soul sits beautiful; the high white front,
Smooth as the brow of Pallas, seems a temple
Sacred to holy thinking--and those lips
Wear the small smile of sleeping infancy,
They are so innocent. Ah, thou art still
The same soft creature, in whose lovely form
Virtue and beauty seemed as if they tried

Which should exceed the other. Thou hast got
That brightness all around thee, that appeared
An emanation of the soul, that loved

To adorn its habitation with itself,

And in thy body was like light, that looks
More beautiful in the reflecting cloud
It lives in, in the evening. O Evadne,
Thou art not altered--would thou wert!

Mr. Sheil was afterwards successful on a more conspicuous thea tre. As a political character and orator, he was one of the most dis tinguished men of his age. His brilliant imagination, pungent wit, and intense earnestness as a speaker, riveted the attention of the House of Commons, and of popular Irish assemblies, in which he was enthusiastically received. In the Whig governments of his day, Mr. Sheil held office; and at the time of his death, was the British minister at Florence.

In the same year with Mr. Sheil's Evadne' (1820) appeared 'Brufus, or the Fall of Tarquin,' a historical tragedy, by JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. There is no originality or genius displayed in this drama