It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood; Its Maker. Now and then, the aged leaf Such was the night, so lovely, still, serene, Pure as the drops that hang at dawning time, On her the Moon look'd steadfastly; the stars, Glanced down, well pleased; and Everlasting Love AMONG the talented females who have distinguished themselves in the poetical world during the present day, Miss Mitford has justly obtained a conspicuous name. She is a daughter of Dr. Mitford, of Bertram House, near Reading. She was educated at Miss Rowdon's establishment, Brompton, and gave proofs of her poetical talent at a very early age. Her first work which she gave to the public, was a volume of Poems published in 1810. The popularity she acquired by this attempt encouraged her to persevere, and her next work, Christina, the Maid of the South Seas, a tale founded on the discovery of Pitcairn's Island, was published in the following year. This was succeeded by Watlington Hill, a descriptive poem, which appeared in 1812; and Narrative Poems on the Female Character in the various Relations of Life, which was published the same year. A considerable period then elapsed, during which she seemed to have retired from the literary world; but it was that she might appear with greater lustre in the character of a dramatic writer, and her tragedies of Julian, Foscari, Rienzi, and Charles I., between 1823 and 1834, obtained for her a continually increasing reputation. They abound in tenderness of feeling and rich poetical description, so that they will always continue to obtain a distinguished rank as dramatic poems, however they may cease to captivate in representation. FROM JULIAN. Enter MELFI. D'Alba (Aside). He's pale, he hath been hurt. I joy to see those reverend locks. I never From your own royal hand enough for joy But how My Lord, Melfi. Of our Sicilian realm, are here to pledge to me Seems One form is wanting. Our bereaved state For quick dispatch o'er every widow'd mate, D'Alba. Cannot your Highness guess the murderer? Melfi. Stand from about me, Lords! Dare ye to front A King? What, do ye doubt me; you, or you? To reign, I tell ye, nobles. Now, who questions? The undesign'd offence. Your Highness knows Melfi. And he knows mine. Well! Well! Be all these heats forgotten. Julian. FROM JULIAN. Annabel, look forth Upon this glorious world! Look once again Whose level beams do cast a golden shine Of bowery groves; on Etna's smouldering top;- Annabel. So sadly on me? Jul. Why dost thou gaze The bright stars, how oft They fall, or seem to fall! He sinks, he sets in glory. The sun-look! look! Like thee-like thee-Dost thou remember once Red, purple, saffron, melted into one Intense and ardent flame, the doubtful line Where sea and sky should meet was lost in that Wrought between earth and heaven, of life and death- A spirit sailing in that flood of light Straight to the Eternal Gates, didst pray to pass Away in such a glory. Annabel! Look out upon the burning sky, the sea One lucid ruby - 't is the very hour! Thou 'lt be a seraph at the Fount of Light Ann. What, must I die? And wilt thou kill me? Jul. To save thy honour! Oh no! no! live! live! I shall die with thee. Ann. If I must die-oh it is sweet to live, To breathe, to move, to feel the throbbing blood And such a heaven,-to look on thee! Is very dear. Jul. Ann. Would'st live for D'Alba? Young life I had forgot. I'll die. Quick! Quick! Claudia. Oh! mine old home! Cla. Mine own dear home! Father, I love not this new state; these halls, Rie. Why, simple child, thou hast thine old fond nurse, And good Camillo, and shalt have thy doves, Thy myrtles, flowers, and cedars; a whole province In Christendom but would right proudly kneel Cla. Oh! mine own dear home! Rie. Wilt have a list to choose from? Listen, sweet! If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle, And the white doves, were tell-tales, I would ask them, Whose was the shadow on the sunny wall? And if, at eventide they heard not oft |