With one brave impulse, if ambitious bands

Of foreign power should threaten.

That ye will do this!

Medon. Wherefore ask this now?

Swear to me

Thou shalt live long; the paleness of thy face,

Which late seemed death-like, is

grown radiant now,

And thine eyes kindle with the prophecy

Of glorious years.

Ion. The gods approve me then!

Yet I will use the function of a king,

And claim obedience. Swear, that if I die
And leave no issue, ye will seek the power
To govern in the free-born people's choice,
And in the prudence of the wise.

Medon and others. We swear it!

Ion. Hear and record the oath, immortal powers! Now give me leave a moment to approach

That altar unattended.

[He goes to the Altar.

Gracious gods!

In whose mild service my glad youth was spent,

Look on me now; and if there is a power,

As at this solemn time I feel there is,

Beyond ye, that hath breathed through all your shapes
The spirit of the Beautiful, that lives

In earth and heaven; to ye

I offer up

This conscious being, full of life and love,

For my dear country's welfare. Let this blow

Ion. Yes-is it as I hope?

Irus. The pestilence abates.

Ion. [Springs to his feet.] Do ye not hear? Why shout ye not? ye are strong-think not of me ; Hearken! the curse my ancestry had spread

O'er Argos is dispelled!

The offering is accepted-all is well!

[Dies.

Gerald Griffin.

GISIPPUS; OR, THE FORGOTTEN FRIEND.
Love's Changes.

PASSION hath its change of seasons, Sir;

And 'twere as vain to hope eternal Summer,

As an eternal faith. This is with you

The Spring of courtship, which calls up the flowers,
The fairest flowers of love-your blooming fancies-
Your fragrant love-thoughts, murmuring sighs and prayers.
But even as Nature's spring, Love's too must roll
`Away; and then comes your adored honey-moon,
Love's Summer of enjoyment; next, his Autumn
Of lukewarm liking, verging to indifference—
The time of shrugs and yawns, and absent thoughts.
And then his Winter comes-frosty and dry,
Sharp, biting, bitter; cunning in cold taunts;
Making the evening hearth, so late a paradise,
A place of harsh uncomfort.-Then, O Love!
How suddenly thy changeful votaries

Find thy Elysium void! From the pale poet,
Who wooed the groves in song-lorn melancholy,

To him the blustering terror of the field,

Who sighed like Boreas, and who made love like war

All, weary grown of the ignoble bondage,

Look back with scorn upon the yoke they've spurned,

And wonder how the silly toy had power

To make them sin so palpably 'gainst wisdom.

The Sacredness of Wedded Love.

Gis. Here in these silent groves we will attend

The lighting of the Hymeneal torch.

How pure, how holy is the sacrifice,

That waits on virtuous love! How sacred is
The very levity we wake to honour it!
The fiery zeal that passion knows, is there
Tempered by mild esteem and holiest reverence
Into a still, unwasting, vestal flame,

That wanders nor decays. All soft affections,
Calm hopes, and quiet blessings, hover round,
And soft Peace sheds her virtuous dews upon it;
No conscious memories haunt the path of pleasure,
But happiness is made a virtue.

The ways of Providence inscrutable to Man.

Let it be ever thus

The generous still be poor-the niggard thrive-
Fortune shall pave the ingrate's path with gold,
Death dog the innocent still—and surely those
Who now uplift their streaming eyes, and murmur
Against oppressive Fate, will own its justice.
Invisible ruler! should man meet thy trials

With silent and lethargic sufferance,

Or lift his hands and ask Heaven for a reason?

Our hearts must speak—the sting, the whip is on them;

We rush in madness forth to tear away

The veil that blinds us to the cause.

The hand of that Eternal Providence

In vain!

Still holds it there, unmoved, impenetrable! and turn away again

We can but
To mourn

pause,
to wonder-and endure.

DAMON, condemned to death by DIONYSIUS, the Tyrant of Syracuse, obtains permission to take a Farewell of his Wife and Child, through the intervention of his Friend PYTHIAS, who consents to become a Hostage for DAMON's return, at the hour appointed for his Execution. time has arrived, and DAMON has not returned. CALANTHE, betrothed Wife of PYTHIAS, hurries despairingly to the place of Execution.

The

SCENE-A Public Place in Syracuse.-A Scaffold, with steps ascending to it, upon the right hand.-In the back of the stage the Gates of a Prison.-Executioner with an axe, and Guards discovered.

CALANTHE, ARRIA (her Mother).

Calanthe. There's no power

Shall stay me back! I must behold him die,

Then follow him!

Arria. My child!

Cal. I cannot hear thee!

The shrieking of the Furies drowns thy cries!

Arr. This is no place for thee-no place, Calanthe, For such a one as thou!

Cal. No other place

Is fit for such a wretch! I am his wife,

Betrothed, though not married.

There's no place

For me but at his side: in life or death

There is no other.

There is the scaffold with the block on it!

There is the-Oh, good gods!

Arr. Come back, my child!

Good Damocles, give me your aid to bear
This wretched woman hence.

Cal. Oh, mother, mother,

I'll not be grudged that horrible delight!

I'll take one long and maddening look of him,
Whom in the morn I thought I should have waited,
Blushing within the chamber of a bride,

And with a heart all full of love and fear.
Now I await him in a different place,

And with a cheek that ne'er shall blush again;
Whose marble may be spotted o'er with blood,
But not with modesty; Love yet remains,
But Fear, its old companion, 's fled away,
And made room for Despair!

Enter DIONYSIUS, in disguise.

Ha! are you come ?

'Twas you that told me so,

And froze the running currents in my bosom,

To one deep cake of ice! You said too well

That Damon would not come.

The traitor Damon!

Dion. Hark thee, Calanthe!

It was an idle tale I told to thee!

The selfish traitor!