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VOL. I.
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OFFICE on Mulberry Street, East of the Floyd House and near the
Market.
‘(Tljr ]M'j Corner,
From the Ohio Statesman.
APPEAL F3 21 SATIOAAL t.\SO\.
BY It. E. H. LEVERI.NO.
air—■“Wallace.**
Spirit of the holy one,
Spirit of our Washington,
Handed down from sire to son,
Inspiration’s source, —
Spirit of the rield and flood,
Where our fathers battling stood,
Let that principle imbued,
Fire with pristine force !
On each altar’d heart uproar
Freedom's off - ring burning clear,
Sacrificial glory there
To the (100 of Truth,—
As the gath'ring hosts attend,
.Patriots for a patriot end,
While our spirit fathers Ino id
w finessing our oath!
l\y the British task-man’s stroke,
By the royal duties we broke,
By the proud oppressor's look
Freezing souls to death, —
By the Thraldom's thick’ ning spell,
Broken soon as breath'd from hell,
Swear we that the ”1 mom” still
Bright our land shall wreathe!
By our patriot fathers gone,
By the victories they won.
By their bloody graves when done
Freedom's task sublime’—
By their spirit's hov'ring now,
Warding off the fatal blow,
Swear the “Union's” flame shall glow
Through all future time !
By each foreign myrmidon,
Watching for our setting sun,
By each curse they heap upon
Glorious Liberty,—
By Disunion that they spread,
Wishing long the‘“Union” dead,
Swear we that its fire shall shed
Light till they lie free.
By our country's rising fame,
By the “Union's'’ doubtless claim,
By the States of dff ‘rrnt name,
Yet with common right,—
By cadi patriotic heart,
Sworn to act the patriot part,
Swear we that no foul upstart
Shall the “Union'’ blight!
By our glorious flag unfurl'd
Starry o'er a bright'ning world,
Showing tyranny is hurl'd
Lower still in gloom,—
By that banner's brilliancies,
Freedom's herald o'er the seas,
Swear the “Union” still shall rise
O’er Disunion's tomb !
This our sacred oath to Gon,
Signed by Truth, and seal'd with blood,
Showing that our fathers trod
Where their sons shall tread,—
This our record through all time,
’Seutcheon'd on our scrolls sublime,
Bead in ov’ry glad’ning dime
“Union's” flame to shed !
FLOWERS*
Flowers! sweet Flora’s children !
llow ye sport and spring,
Smiling between bank and brook,
Mossy marge, and woody nook,
Where the linnets sing:
Climbing hedge-row, bush, and briar,
As your spirits ne’er would tiro,
Over land and lea;
Full of life, and full of mirth,
Ye alone enjoy the earth—
Happy children yc !
Flowers! sweet Flora's children!
How yc roam and race
Up the valley — up the hill —
With an everehanging will,
Haunting every place:
Hanging half-way down the steep,
V\ here not e’en the stag dare leap,
In yonr reckless glee;
Or, where snows eternal blanch,
Listening to the avalanche—
Bold adventurers ye!
Flowers! sweet Flora's children
llow ye dance and twine
With loveliest born of Spring,
Moving in an endless ring—
An exhaustless line!
Sometimes shy and singly seen f
Like some nun in cloister green,
Offering incense free;
Sometimes over marsh .and moor,
Resting by the cottage door—
W elcome comers ye!
Flowers, dear Flora's children,
How ye love to meet
lar away from human sound,
Making Nature hallowed ground,
Even loneness sweet;
\\ here some fount, ’mid mountain springs.
Singing falls, and falling sings
In melodious key;—
Blooming where no step is heard,
Save the light step of some bird :
Favored child ten ye !
Flowers, sweet Flora’s children,
Loved by moon and star;
Loved by little ramblers’ lone,
Seated on some grassy stone,
Many a footstep far !
Loved by all that God hath made,
All that ever watched and prayed :
For ye seem to me,
In your bright and boundless span,
Silent speakers unto man,
Os the World to be.
iUiorrllinuj.
Tlie Mother and Daughter.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF MOLIERO.
Ina magnificent house situated in Burbett street,
in a parlor most splendidly and tastefully furnished,
sat a lady elegantly attired. Her eyes were anx
iously fixed on a time piece, the slow movement of
which rendered her almost desperate.
this lady was the Marchioness de Montrevel; her
age was about thirty-two, though she appeared as
young as twenty-five. During a residence of six
years in Canada, her face had acquired a delicate
paleness, which contrasting with hair black as ebony,
and flexible and brilliant as silk, gave to her regular
features an expression of mildness and tenderness,
which rendered her irresistibly charming. But
sometimes this expression degenerated into langour,
though without taking away the grace of her fea
tures. Her arms of snowy whiteness, and an ivory
polish, joined a hand, which Hue bens could not have
imitated. A form of faultless symmetry, and most
winning manners, all combined to give her a high
rank at the court of the Queen regent, Anne of
Austria.
It was not a lover that this beautiful woman was
awaiting with so much impatience; so much the
better. Suddenly a ray of joy illuminated her fine
countenance, as a young girl of about sixteen years,
(who might have been taken for sister, so great was
the resemblance,) now entered, and knelt before her.
“My mother ! ”
“My daughter!”
The marchioness opened her arms, and pressed
her daughter to her bosom. _ Some time elapsed be
fore either could find words to express the pleasure
they experienced to be again restored to each other.
The marchioness wept and laughed at the same time,
while she covered the fair face of the young girl
with kisses; then she contemplated her charms with
ecstasy, and exclaimed: “My Louise, my good
Louise, how happy I am to have you with me again,
to behold your growth in stature and in beauty.—
May we always remain together, to compensate for :
the long years of cruel absence l have endured.”
“And think, my dear mother, what 1 have suf
fered. ’
“ Child, do not accuse me. When I left you,
you were not old enough to comprehend my motives,
lut now I can explain and justify my conduct. You
have often heard, my Louise, of the glorious death j
your father found, upon the battle field of llhinfield; !
you were then hut eight years old, and could not ap- j
predate the extent of this cruel loss, not only to have !
him taken away —him who was so dear to us, but
all the fortune yon had a right to expect. The Mar-1
qnis dc Montrevel was a faithful subject, and nobly
performed his duty, but after bis death his estates
were sold, and I gave up a part of my dowry, in or
der to fulfil all the engagements lie had contracted
during a long war of seven years. Nothing then re
mained to you but your mother.
Here she was interrupted by Louise, who pressed
her in her arms, saying, “And was that not enough?”
“Yes,” replied the marchioness, “enough for your
love, but not sufficient for happiness. I trembled
for vour fate, as I considered our small resources,
and often wept bitterly at your progress in accom
plishments, which had formerly been my joy and
pride. But an unexpected circumstance occurred
to dissipate my anxiety. I had an old uncle resi
ding in Canada, whose immense wealth had been
one of the first elements of the prosperity of Quebec.
This uncle h* ard of my husband’s death, and of my
ruin; lie invited me to go and live with him, and
inherit all his riches. But I should have been con
sidered imprudent, and almost guilty, to have ex
posed you to the dangers of the passage, and 1 felt
obliged to sacrifice the comfort of having you with
me to your health and advantage.
I confided you during my absence to the care of
our relation the Abbess de Chelles. I cannot ex
press the weariness and suffering that I endured
through the six years of my exile. But to have you
with me now, and to know that you will become the
richest heiress in France, is a happiness which I
would have paid ten times dearer for, had it been
necessary.”
“Excellent mother,” exclaimed Louise,.passionate
ly kissing her hands, “what need I of fortune ?
Your tenderness is more precious to me than all
your riches.”
“ You are but sixteen years old, my Louise, and
have not yet learned to appreciate life, excepting in
a convent. The time will come when you will un
derstand that, in the eyes of men, birth and beauty
are not sufficient without wealth. Thank heaven, I
have removed far from you this shipwreck. You
can follow the dictates of your heart without fear. —
You have a right to console or reject.”
“But why, my dear mother,” replied Louise,
“should you speak upon this subject ? You are yet
young, and far more beautiful than I am, and Ido
not wish that all the devotion should be on your
side or that you should renounce a happiness of
which you are more worthy than your daughter.”
“ My good Louise,” said the marchioness, slightly
blushing, “ what can I desire more than to see your,
wishes gratified ? Besides” added she, smiling “we
have riches sufficient for us both, and the happiness
of one need be no obstacle to the happiness of the
other. But this subject must be reserved for future
consideration—some other time, perhaps; at pres
ent, I wish to be entirely occupied with your concerns
—to witness your introduction at court —to see you
shine among the most celebrated and the most
beautiful ladies there; to-morrow I sha.l present
you to the queen regent.”
“ To-morrow ? ”
u Yes, my dear; why are you so much alarmed.
You need not fear not being well received. I ha\e
foreseen all this.”
“ Oh! it is not fear, dear mother, that distresses
me.”
“3trt>cpcniicnt in oil tilings—Neutral iti Notljiug.”
MACON, GEORGIA, THURSDAY EVENING, MAY, 2, 1850.
“What then ? ”
“1 have just begun to enjoy your society, to re
ceive your caresses; and you already speak of divi
ding my time with the world.”
“Why, my child, are you not impatient to realise
the pleasures that you have so often anticipated,
while confined in the retirement of your convent?”
“1 am so happy with you,” replied Louise, em
bracing her mother tenderly. “1 have a favor to
ask; do not refuse my first petition.”
“ Speak, my love, speak, and I promise to grant
your request, if possible.”
“Well, then, let my presentation be deferred a
month.”
“And do you really wish it ? ”
“If it does not displease you too much.”
“Displease me! it delights me. lam the gainer
by this delay, I shall have you all to myself.”
Louise was overjoyed; hut the time she had ob
tained was not suffered to be passed in complete re
tirement. Two persons had free access to the house,
and they made frequent visits.
One of them, the Baron de Danneville, about
fifty years old, had become acquainted with the
Marchioness de Montrevel in Quebec. A daily wit
ness of her many virtues, during her long residence
with her relation—of the tender cares she bestowed
upon him, and of the angelic patience with which
she supported the oddities of this difficult old man,
all tended to excite esteem, which was soon con
verted into deep affection; hut this affection did
not often show itself in words. He decided to go to
France at the same time the marchioness returned
there, and not wishing his motive to be suspected, lie
was silent on the subject. On their arrival, he procu
red a very large house in the neighborhood of Burbett
street, and visited the marchioness without ceremo
ny, as he had been accustomed to do at Quebec. So
carefully did he conceal his sentiments, that if the
marchioness had not been gifted with a large share
of discernment, she would not have discovered his
love.
It is true, as soon as he was aware of it himself,
he watched her with the greatest possible care, but
could not perceive the slightest appearance of at
tachment. She esteemed his character and valued
his friendship and good opinion, but —hut the ba
ron had a nephew, who possessed as many good
qualities as his uncle, with the advantage of youth
and beauty,—two powerful arguments in his favor.
This nephew in whom the short-sighted baron
had not divined a rival, was the Chevalier de Mon
brun, who being desirous of glory, hoped to find it
in France. lie asked and obtained permission to
accompany his uncle there ; thus, being much with
the marchioness, he saw much in her to admire, and
was often eloquent in her praise; she was pleased
with the delicate attentions he was constantly show
ing her, and by no means discouraged his advances,
which she certainly did not rightly understand; she
attributed his silence to timidity. “But,” said she,
“the time will soon come when lie will gain courage
to speak.”
The marchioness was so completely absorbed with
her own love, that she did not perceive what was
passing in the heart of her daughter, or the great
change in her manners. She was melancholy and
reserved, but had she been asked why she so fre
quently sighed, and why she was so languid, she
would have been exceedingly embarrased to answer.
She was always seated in the parlor at the hour
when the chevalier was expected, lie, too, was al
tered; he was more serious and thoughtful than he
had ever been. The marchioness thought his at
tentions to herself were redoubled, and that his pas
sion would soon overcome his timidity. She was
daily expecting a declaration of his love. One
morning she took her daughter’s arm for a little
walk, and, in a few minutes, addressed her as fol
lows :
“You remember, Louise, that in our first conver
sation, you observed, I was not too old to forget my
own happiness for yours?”
“Yes, mother, and what I then said I still think.”
“ You must not deceive me ; does not the idea of
my being again married give you any trouble ‘?”
“No indeed, my mother, you may be assured I
shall love the man of your choice almost as well as
you can yourself.”
“ Well, your friendship will not he ill placed. He
is young, elegant in appearance, and ranks high in
society.”
“So much the better,” exclaimed Louise, in a
cheerful voice.
“He has great beauty and an irreproachable char
acter. You cannot imagine anything more noble.”
“O! so much the better ;so much the better, lie
must be every way worthy of you.”
“Flatterer! ”
“ And shall I soon show my gratitude towards
him who is so dear to you ?”
“Yes, at least I think so,” said the marchioness,
half laughing.
“J ’>ut you are not sure ? ”
“ I must confess 1 am now waiting for a formal
declaration, but 1 cannot be mistaken in his feelings,
as his whole conduct, even the sound of his voice,
shows his deep devotion.”
“Good mother,” replied Louise, “you have not
told his name ? ”
“ I left that to exercise your patience j cannot you
divine the name ? ”
“I can form no idea who it is.”
“Well, then, I must tell you; it is de Monbrun,”
replied Madame de Montrevel.
At that moment they saw the young gentleman
just mentioned, and his uncle, coming to meet them.
The baron approached the marchioness with great
gravity, and begged the favor of a private interview,
which she felt obliged to grant, and the young peo
ple seated themselves in the garden.
When the baron found himself alone with the
marchioness, it was long before he could utter a
word; but when he regained his voice, he began to
implore her indulgence, and said it was a more dif
ficult task to express his feelings than lie could have
imagined.
“Monsieur de Danneville,” exclaimed the march
ioness, “you frighten me by these preparations!”
“What I most feared was your raillery.”
“My raillery, why, the subject seems too serious
for that.”
“Serious, indeed,” said he, “ for him whose cause
I am anxious to plead before you.”
“ Plead, baron, plead, I am all attention.”
“ You, alone, dear madam, can repair the evil you
have occasioned.”
“Me ! If I have injured any one, it was involun
tary”
“You are not content with being beautiful, but
you are amiable, accomplished, talented, and abound
ing in goodness of heart.”
“Well, if all this be true, how can it be consid
ered a crime ? ”
“Not a crime, if you only reciprocate ; but your
indifference almost deprives him of reason; he has
long strove to conquer this passion, fearing your re
fusal.”
“And can he not speak for himself ?”
“Yes, yes,” said the baron, as he threw himself
on his knees before her. “I will speak freely, lovely
woman. You may have admirer* younger and more
polished, hut none whose devotion and sincerity can
equal mine.”
“You really trifle very pleasantly, hut my mind
is seriously disposed this morning, and I must beg
you to desist.”
The baron was now more confused than even at
the commencement of the interview, and earnestly
besought her not to render him miserable. But
she, thinking it time to put an end to this scene,
begged him to rise from his knees, and left him im
mediately.
This proved a most trying day for the sensitive
Madame do Montrevel. On leaving the baron she
went into the garden and heard what she was total
ly unprepared for, viz: the chevalier making a most
passionate avow al of love for her daughter. This
entirely destroyed her patience and self possession.
She stepped forward, and in a severe tone com
manded Louise to retire; then fixing on the cheva
lier an angry look: “It is I, monsieur, who must an
swer for my daughter’s actions, and I ought to have
been informed of your sentiments otherwise than by
chance.”
Having uttered these words, she went rapidly to
her chamber, and gave vent to her tears for a long
time. After this temporary relief she had a hard
struggle between passion and duty. At length she
formed a resolution, and suddenly rang the boll,
telling the domestic who answered to request her
daughter’s immediate presence. But it would he
difficult to depict her astonishment and grief at hear
ing that Louise had quitted the house, leaving a
letter which was in substance as follows :
“Be not distressed, my good mother, at my ab
sence; it is essential for our mutual comfort. 1 was
greatly afflicted at your severity this morning, and
wept bitterly. I asked myself what fault 1 had com
mitted. Then 1 recollected your confidential com
munication, and understood our feelings. It was
not your daughter—your dear Louise—hut your
rival, that you we reoffended with. Me, your rival!
It must not be. I cannot* lose the precious love of
inv mother —Never, never! and to guard against
this calamity, 1 have determined to return to the
convent, and remain in that holy asylum until you
arc married. Pray let my exile be as short as pos
sible. Your devoted daughter,
LOUISE DE MONTREVEL-”
‘Noble Jieart! generous child!’ exclaimed the
marchioness, having read this letter; ‘you shall soon
be restored to my arms.’
The next day, great preparations were making in
the house; every one was actively employed from
morning till night. This state of affairs continued
till the eighth day, when the marriage of the march
ioness was celebrated.
But poor Louise found tins time long; slie passed
gloomy days and sleepless nights. She had pre
sumed too much upon her firmness, and was fast
sinking, in spite of the holy exhortations of the Ab
bess, and the kind attentions of her young friends,
the sisters of the establishment.
One evening as she sat indulging her grief, she
was summoned to receive company in the parlor. —
This announcement made her tremble exceedingly,
but her heartbeat more violently when on opening
the door, she perceived her mother, and was instant
ly pressed in her arms.
The marchioness was not alone, hut accompanied
by the Baron de Danneville and the Chevalier de
Monbrun. ‘Wicked girl,’ said she, kissing the fore
head of Louise,‘l have yielded to your threats; I
am married.’
‘Married!’ exclaimed Louise, with an accent of de
spair she could not suppress. But soon conquering
her feelings, she turned towards the chevalier with
n forced smile, saying, ‘I entreat you, Monsieur de
Monbrun, to make my mother happy.’
‘What, do you say, little simpleton ?’ asked her
mother, laughing; ‘your wish should not he ad
dressed to the chevalier !’ Then taking the baron
by the hand she continued, ‘I introduce my husband,
the Baron de Danneville, to you.’
1 shall not attempt to describe the scene which
followed; the reader can easily supply the blank.—
And it is almost useless to add, that the health of
Louise was restored as if by magic, and that her
marriage with Monbrun took place without loss of
time.
Society in California.— An intelligent correspon
dent of the Journal of Commerce, gives the following picture
of California Society.
“ This mining business rusts a man wonderfully, and yet I
find more literary men engaged in it than of any other class.
In fact, the mines are well stocked with lawyers, doctors and
schoolmasters. The first of these have little in their calling to
attend to —the second, plenty of pliysieing, hut no pay —the
third undoubtedly find gold digging a much more agreeable
occupation than ramming ideas into thick skulls, or belaboring
the unfeeling backs of stubborn urchins. Os ministers, the
number is not a great deal, nor the demand ; every effort here
to get up Sabbath meetings lias failed. The best we can do
is to hold a prayer or conference meeting among 3,5, 6or
more professing Christians of different denominations. The
ravines are from one to six miles apart, with high hills inter
vening, and the cabins are even more scattered. Sunday, too,
as I have heretofore told you, is washing day, mending day,
prospect hunting and gala-day. There is no marrying to do
—no children here to baptise—no sacramental feast—no fe
males to exert a hallowed influence—no homes to tie men
down. Sueli a state of society, I venture to assert, has never
before existed in the world’s history; lam impatient to get
back to some spot where the thirst for gold has not drunk up
the nobler qualities of the human heart, and made men bru
tish, selfish and unholy. I admit there are some exceptions,
but generally speaking, men here are not what they were at
home. All restraints are removed, and the cloven foot was
boldly displayed.”
Putting the Question. — At the time Andrew
Jackson and John Q. Adams were candidates for
President, a worthy minister of the Methodist order
took for his text, on Sunday, the following words :
“ Who is on the Lord's side?” After exhorting
them with characteristic ardor, he brought the ques
tion home to each individual’s heart, thus :
‘My Ik •loved brethren, this is an important ques
tion—‘Who is on the Lord’s side ? ’ All those who
are on the Lord’s side will rise in their seats.’ To
the surprise of the elder, no one arose. With par
liamentary propriety, he put the opposite question—
‘Who is on the devil’s side?’ No one arose. At
last an ‘old salt’ addressed the oxhorter with —
‘Please, sir, we all goes here for Gin'ral Jackson ! ’
The Latest. —A woman in Ohio put her baby
into the washing tub, and its dirty frock and petti
coat into the cradle, and set her little boy to rock
it. She did not discover her mistake until tlie ba
by cried when she pinned its left leg to the line as
she hung it out in the yard to dry.
(Original papers.
COI'JSTANCE OF WERDENBERG,
on
The Heroes of Switzerland. -
A Dramatic Poem.
Written for the ‘‘Georgia Citizen,” by Mrs.C. L. llbntx.
PART IV.—Scene 1.
(The mountain—Enter Berthold meeting Erni.)
Bertiiold.—True chamois of the Alps ! thy fearless step
Buoys thee o’er danger with the joy of youth.
Care has not laid its blighting hand on thee;
But why that doubtful glance ? Surely I meet
The gallant champion of his country's freedom,
Who own'd me late a brother in the cause.
Erni.—d am that peasant youth, who dar’d so much—
Bertiiold.—Where are the leaders of your glorious band ?
Ekxi.—Waiting above. They know that shelter'd hero
A patriot brother to our cause is sworn ;
Receive them, noble stranger ! They have come
To hear the vow that binds lliy faith to ours.
The moments press, and j ustice calls aloud.
Bertiiold.—Stay ; hast thou known aught of that banish'd
inan,
Who once tire Lord of Werdcnbcrg was styl'd ?
Erni.—l knew him once ere sorrow's hand laid
touch'd him ;
And memory pictures him the star of manhood,
Radiant in youth and rank.
Bertiiold.—Care leaves sad print
On youth’s bright feature ; years are pass'd since then ;
In clouds the star of manhood now is set.
Erni.—Oh ! tell me, if thou know'st.
Bertiiold.—l’ve told thee all—
That all that bound me to my race is broken.
Erni.—The vale is fill’d with rumors of his death.
Bertiiold.—His death !
Erni.—His murder. From his Castle's walls
’Tis said his life-blood now for vengeance calls.
Bertiiold.—Who is the murderer?
Erni.—Curses on the wretch 1
The brutal Hmdenborg has seized on her —
Constance of Werdenberg—whose very name
Is, like an angel’s, worshipped.
Bertiiold.—(suddenly grasping Erni’s hand) What of her ?
Speak, speak—v> here is she ? Constance, didst thou say ?
Erni.—ln prison, of her husbands blood accus’d ;
On Sarnen’s height she groans. Whoe'er thou art—
Bertiiold.—Know me; I am that wretched,branded man,
Whose path is trac'd by ruin and despair.
Sav that thou know’st me ; say this tale was told
That thou might*st see this tortur’d heart unveil’d
And triumph in its agonies.
Erni.—Hold, hold,
My Lord, there is a majesty in grief
To which my spirit bows, else I could spurn
A charge so black. True, I believed this morn
When rumor told this tale of blood and death, .
That I had seen tlie exil'd Count in thee;
But fear not for the Countess, every hand—
Bertiiold.—No hand but mine. My life shall ransom her ;
-V life of shame—a death of ignominy; (departing)
Erni;—Rush not to death. We can—we will redeem her.
The sons of Switzerland shall right thy wrongs.
The vow of vengeance is recorded there; ( pointing to heaven)
Bertiiold.—Avenge thine own. There's no redress for me.
Brave heart farewell. Now, peril on thy soul,
If thou attempt'st to impede iny path.
(releases himself from Erni’s grasp and rushes out)
Erni.— There is redress in an Almighty arm.
Oh ! when the signal lights shall shortly blaze
On every hill, till our own forest, sear,
Gives back the ruddy glow, may that doom'd house
Resume the splendor of its ancient rank,
And banners float in triumph on its walls. (exit)
Scene 2.
(.1 hall in the Castle of Werdenberg. The Governor seat
ed on a tribune— citizens arranged around.)
Landen^rg.—We meet this day to judge no common cause :
A crime at which credulity starts {>ack,
Dismay'd at guilt cloth’d in so fair a garb,
Calls forth our wonder and demands our justice.
Guards lead the prisoner forth—vassals stand back.
(Constance is brought in guarded)
Landenbero.—Constance of Werdenberg! thou art arraign'd
Before the high tribunal of thy country,
Stain’d with a crime so black, that every ear
Will start appall’d, and every heart recoil
As 1 repeat the charge : Thou art arraign'd
For murder, perpetrated in thy walls,
At dead of night, the chosen hour of guilt.
Thy victim—whom ? That husband, whose fell hand
Laid low in manhood’s bloom, my only son.
Constance.—l will not plead my innocence. In vain
Were all appeal before a bar like this.
AY hat shameless sacrilege! to steal the robes,
The holy robes of justice to conceal
I Tate, deadly malice—avarice and revenge.
Thou know'st me guillless—know'st these fetter'd hands
Are unpolluted with the stain of bl>od.
Ilis blood! Guardian of purity, a husband's blood !
If ‘tis a crime to waste my youth in tears,
My days in solitude, my nights in prayer ;
To nurse one sad remembrance, till it make
Life one drear sc-ene of utter desolation ;
To love with such impassion’d tenderness,
That the heart scarcely feels a pulse or throb,
Save that which thrills at memory of him—
If this is crime, I am indeed most guilty.
Landenbero.—l am prepar'd for this. I know thy tongue
Is gifted with most marvellous persuasion.
AA'e're poor in words, but arm’d with such strong proofs,
As shall make good our charge in heaven’s broad face.
Ere we prooceed, guards, bring the lover forth.
Constance.—Thou, here! (Herman is brought in)
Landenberg.—Mark,friends, that guilty start.
Thou didst not know, fair Lady, tliy young Knight
Had followed thee, to bear thee tliro’ this need;
‘Tis well he did—he might have heard pcrcliance,
A rougher summons than thy silver voice.
(sternly) Why did the Duly Constance leave her halls
Alone, unguarded, at the midnight hour,
To meet this youth in solitary shades.
Herman.—Oh! calumny.
Landenberg.—What, dar'st thou give the lie to this bold truth,
Attested by a secret witness, too!
Herman.—l do, though back’d by thousands. True, she came
To meet the wretch who speaks, by treachery lur’d,
By base and cruel fraud. I m manhood's shame ,
But she’s as pure as everlasting snow,
As cold to passion.
Constance. —Herman, ’tis in vain ;
Thou canst not wipe away the stain thou’st caus’d.
AY ere life alone endanger’d, I could meet
My doom undaunted, but the hand that blots
The whiteness of my fame, inflicts a pang
Keener than death’s last agony —
Landenberg.—Enough.
Passion too long delays the course of justice.
Berthold of \V : knberg, so long exil’d,
Was seen at midnight winding up the liills,
O’er which Ms Castle frown. Yon vassal saw
And knew the banish'd man; yet knavish fool;
The n: >rn had dawn’d ere he the tidings brought.
Speed bore me to the Castle. There dismay
And pallid guilt, and ghastly horror reign'd;
I sought the fugitive,hut tain the search •
Yet lie had left behind some fearful tokens.
That blood-stain’d liand kerchief, wet prints of blood;
Deepening in tint, towards the Lady's chamber.
Who says she slumber'd while the tempest's rago
Swept o'er her walls, and murder toil'd within.
That spur, on which liis name and arms are WfOtlghtj
Hard by the gate was found. Ilia sable steed
With on white - *ar shining upon his brow,
Each forest hunter knew. What would ye more?
My veins with horror thrill, as one by one,
These silent witnesses of death arise.*
Where is the murderer ? Echo tells not where—
Where lies the murdered f Peep must be the gram j
But dt p's the meat below those ancient walls—
The waves sir ps calm, though blood may lie beneath.
(Enter Chic, who press, s through the guards uiid throws
himself at Constance’ feet)
Ulric. —My noble mistress 1 rather let me die
Than live to see thee thus !
Laxdexberg. —Out with the slave ;
llow dare he break, unlieens'd, on our council f
(Guards attempt to thrust him out)
Ulric. — l will not lienee. Let me stay and die.
My master slain, my mistress doom’d to doath ;
Their ancient M use despoil'd of all its honors !
Oh ! I have liv'd too long!
Cox.st.vxce. —True, faithful heart 5
Break not for me—let not the aged weep.
Laxdexberg. —Silence once more. Why should we wait,
my friends ?
The awful voice of justice calls on me,
My country's delegate, to right her laws.
Never did crime more black our altars stain—
Never was guilt by stronger proofs confirm’d.
I read in every eye conviction’s flash,
Though mercy softens the indignant rav.
Constance of Werdenberg, thy doom is seal'd ;
I might have paus'd in pity, ere I gave
So dread a sentence; but a pride like thine,
By grief unlmmbled, triumphing in guilt,
Mer.ts the degradation tliatit meets.
No prayers, no tears can avert thy fate;
Before to-morrow's sun shall gild the Alps,
The night of death shall wrap thee. Guards advance*
Constance.— Not yet, ye ministers of death ! My voice
Shall leave an c ello in these storied walls.
Hear me, thou man of blood, thou heart of stone j
Tliou, who enthron’d upon thy judgment seat,
Ilurl’st down thy belts upon a suffering land,
Thy doom is seal'd. Upon the verge of fate
My spirit bonds, and secs the shadowy* firms
Os future tilings float dimly 011 its gaze.
A cloud comes darkening, spreading, rolling down j
O’er thee it rests, and issuing from it® depths,
The voice of coming time rings forth this knell 1
Tyrant , thy damn is sail'd. At that dread bar,
The last tribunal of eternal justice,
W here every sigh of outrag'd innocence,
Shall find a tongue, loud as the tempest’s blast,
And every drop of guiltless blood shall rouse
1 losts of avenging angels,—we shall meet.
(Berthold at this moment rushes in front of the tribunal.)
Laxdexberg.— (recoiling) \\ liat, lias the grave given up its
restless prey ?
(Constance shrieks and presses wildly forward, while the
guards lower their pikes so as to form a barrier against her)
Berthold. —Well mr.yst thou startle—well mayst thou recoil,
As if the the archangel's summons luid gone forth.
But look upon this brow. No unlaid ghost
Burst from the cerements of the voiceless ghtve,
Thus pales thy guilty blood. Look on me, man!
t iend in man’s form, behold thy victim here.
There is the hand that dy'd St. Gotliard’s rocks,
From Otlion’s veins. Here is the naked heart,
Th’ unshielded heart, that thy dead sou assail’d.
From clime to dime this weary heart I’ve borne,
Far o’er the desert lake beyond those hills,
Interminable pillars of the sun,
To frosty zones, its iron weight I've dragg’d.
Strike, strike this burden'd breast; the purple tide
Shall rush in joyous streams, as the glad torrent
Breaks through its icy bondage. Slake thy wrath,
Life-tiiirs r, in its gush. Unbind her chains,
V assa’s of crime ; bold back your herring steel.
Laxdexberg. — ics 1 1 leaven lias interpos’d to save from sta>A
Our sacred hall. This double stratagem
Shall notat-v thy wrath. Thou shalt atone,
Berthold of Wcrdonborg, for tliy* foul deed.
Guards loose her bands; but bring the heaviest chains
To fetter him, for whom our dungeon groans.
(Constance released, rushes towards Berthold, but his glance
arrests her)
Coxstaxce. —Berthe, i ’. is Constance then no longer lov’d t
Have \ been snap u and from death to meet it thus
From that cold eye, colder than steel to me 1
Tyrant give back your chains. These slighted arms
h iil Welcome back with joy tlieir chill embrace.
Berthold.—Oh ! Constance, there are wrongs whose very
Iliad ow
Comes o’er the memory’ with terrific power,
Making love's records, but a scorching roll
Os injuries, trac’d in fire.
Ulric. —Oh, my lost master!
Look on tliy* faithful Ulric ; give him once
The gracious glance, that erst his faith rewarded.
Alas! how chang’d.
Berthold.—Bui not to thee, true soul.
Why dost thou weep ? To sec tliat time lias cast
Its sliade upon the glory of my youth ?
Does the young tree, rent by the storm, still wear,
Unshorn, its leafy honors f There’s a blight
More fell than Timh's. That blight is on my soul.
Herman, I know thee.
Herman. —(advancing) Berthold 1 is it thee ?
Our hands once met in friendship.
Berthold.—Never more!
More than my hands are bound. My Utter’d Tkart
Untreasur’d h-ok* upon itself. Why art thou here ?
’Tis well for thee these ignominious bonds
Hold down the of an indignant arm.
Traitor, why art th< >(f here !
Herman.— Usurping power can answer.
Laxdexberg. —(sneeringly) Why? The lover comes
W hen peril waits his mistress. Art thou answered ?
Berthold. —Answered ? Oh! Constance, thou whom I have
lov’d
With such high trust as to believe thee pure
As light's first fountain ; have I liv’d to mourn
Thy broken faith, my ow n dishonor, shame ?
Constance. —Tliou think*st me false !
I thought my* heart impassible to grief,
Tlirough its excessive pangs; but thou hast thrown
An age-of suffering in this moment's anguish.
Thou think'st me false ! Oh ! faith too ill repaid !
Has love no home on earth ? No! let the dove
Fold o'er its wounded breast, its wings, or plume
Its pinions for the skies. There is an ark
O’er sorrow’s deluge, w hu e it.*, coul can rest.
NO. 6.
