While yet he was but plain old Father Joseph- I had ta'en oaths enough to serve Don Pedro. SCENE V. A Chamber in the Castle of Montiel. [Exeunt. MARIA DE PADILLA, her SON, and SARAH, seated by a window. MARIA. Your father will come home anon, my love. SARAH. The sun's gone down, and if it please my lady I'll see him to his chamber. Boy. Let me stay Until my father be come home again, I will not sleep till he has said good night, And kissed me. MARIA. Kiss me darling So, you shall stay and get the other too. Speak truly, Sarah-they're the king's own eyes. SARAH. In part 'tis so; the long lids are the same 'Tis a sweet mixture-fair and gentle boy! MARIA. Aye, fair and gentle now-gentle and fair! But look beneath the shadow of the oak, Fruit of some late chance-scattered acorn shews I hope a noble soldier like his father. SARAH. Aye, and a prince as once his father was, + And in God's time a king as he is now. MARIA. I hope my God will hear my nightly voice, And let me sleep in dust before that day— SARAH. You'll send us all a weeping to our beds His counsel and his prudence are my hope I cannot trust them-Yon old crafty Zagal, I doubt he'll pause before he sheds much blood SARAH. If you suspect him, speak it to the king. long. SARAH. He hath rode something further than he thought for In reconnoissance-he will soon be here; De Castro, Zagal, and the other lords Are but assembling in the hall as yet. MARIA. Sleepy, my boy? Well, Sarah, carry him Up to bis chamber: when the king returns We both will come together-soon I hope. SARAH. Come, darling, you have watched too long already. [Exit with the boy. MARIA. And now 'tis dark all over-hot and dark The heavens must be relieved from this oppression We from this doubting which is worse than death. The spirit of one must be unclad—a king She knew that I had lain on Pedro's breast, And yet she couched her curls there ;-my sweet boy On thee she had no pity, nor thy mother [Scene closes. JESSY OF KIBE'S FARM. By Miss M. R. Mitford. ABOUT the centre of a deep winding and woody lane, in the secluded village of Aberleigh, stands an old farm-house, whose stables, out-buildings, and ample yard, have a peculiarly forlorn and deserted appearance; they can, in fact, scarcely be said to be occupied, the person who rents the land preferring to live at a large farm about a mile distant, leaving this lonely house to the care of a labourer and his wife, who reside in one end, and have the charge of a few colts and heifers that run in the orchard and an adjoining meadow, whilst the vacant rooms are tenanted by a widow in humble circumstances and her young family. The house is beautifully situated; deep, as I have said, in a narrow woody lane, which winds between high banks, now feathered with hazel, now thickly studded with pollards and forest trees, until opposite Kibe's farm it widens sufficiently to admit a large clear pond, round which the hedge, closely and regularly set with a row of tall elms, sweeps in a graceful curve, forming for that bright mirror, a rich leafy F |