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And yet he's used to this ! — The mutterer !-
The storm should talk of death !-How durst he pray?
To the disposal of the savage elements!
Can save us. He's acquainted with each shoal
And inlet of the lake. GESLER. Where is he? GEORGE. There!
(pointing to Tell.) In chains, my lord. Set him at liberty ! Each moment lost, lets go a chance of life. The storm 's not fairly on as yet Its fury 's all to come! You hear, my lord,
What roar and crashing are a-head. GESLER. Take off his chains! (Tell is lifted by the soldiers from the bottom of the
boat, and his chains taken off:) Tell. Give me the helm-you do not trim the boat ;
She's far too light a-head. There-there-lie to’t.
(To Gesler) Heed not the storm, my lord ! No
stranger 't is
We're old acquaintance. Many a time we've met.
I know 't is all in kindness.
Seem subject to him !—Now we ’re making way.
there! Tell. Nothing, my lord! A rough-tongued friend of
mine, No more. You know me, do you ?_We have talked Before together ; (lightning). Come you too, my keen And hot ey'd comrade—Come you too, to take A look at me? Look on !-and if those bright And restless orbs of thine flash on me now With gratulation, how will they flame anon !
( Tell directs the boat towards a rock.) GESLER. Why turn you? Tell. See, my lord, that wave Rolls foaming towards us! We must shun its stroke! ( Tell seizes his bow and quiver, which lie at the head of
the boat, and springs on the rock.)
Rushes on certain death !- Exit.
SCENE. A Cliff.
They cannot scale this cliff. Once on its top,
Arnold and soldiers enter.
your arrows, Slaves, They can overtake him!-Send them after him. Tell. Look to your master first.-Tyrant ! take that For Melctal's eyes! (Gesler, transfired with the arrow, staggers in, and
falls dead into the arms of Arnold.) Melctal, thou art revenged ! Liberty!
WRITTEN BENEATH A PORTRAIT OF THE MARCHIONESS OP
SALISBURY, BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.
BY JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
It breathes, a mild convincing dignity;
FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “SELWYN.”
The perfume of a lily pure, the lunar rainbow's light, The faint farewell of parting day, fast fading into
night; The whispered sorrows of a friend, still softening as
they flow, The gentle murmur of a kiss, which lovers only know;
The texture of that seven-hued scarf, from dying tem
pests won, Which like a gorgeous trophy hangs, around the joyous
sun; The thrill a long mute voice inspires —a youthful
virgin's vow, And the first dream whose blissfulness flits o'er an