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Other documents randomly have
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embroidered kerchief for Hermine, a book for Ernst, and a sabre for
the young soldier.
And now the white tower of the castle of R—— gleamed in the
twilight, and on every side dear familiar objects greeted them. There
the pine wood, and now over the forget-me-not brook under the
hanging-boughs of the willows around the mill, and they were in the
village. And what a joyful welcome awaited them here. “It is our
dear pastor,” resounded from all sides, caps were waved, and hands
thrust into the carriage windows. The pastor bowed right and left
with emotion, but as the carriage drove by the church he uncovered
his venerable head, and a grateful prayer gushed from his
overflowing heart.
As they turned the corner, and the peaceful parsonage
embowered in its magnificent trees stood before them, mother and
children came hastening to meet them with cries of joy. “Children,”
cried the pastor, “it has all gone!—you need no longer creep round
so quietly, and try not to touch me. Come here! and pinch me, I am
really well again, and we must thank the dear Lord and Theodora for
it.”
“Oh dear sister! O father! mother! brother!” sounded on all sides,
and there was no end to the joyful welcome. And the noise and glee
all began anew when the trunks were unpacked, and the presents
produced. And the questions and answers! Paul wished particularly
to know how many lions and tigers his father had seen on the
journey. Hermine, how the ladies in A—— were dressed, and the
mother what they had for dinner. All were satisfied, and went happy
to bed.
But the morning came, the day passed, and in the evening there
wandered in the park unhappy love. But Theodora suffered no
longer in secret, her mother’s heart and her father’s kind words
offered healing to her wounded soul, although she felt that for her
there was no happiness left. On the sixth day the post brought a
letter for Theodora. She handed it tremblingly to her father, and
sank upon a seat, while her father read aloud to her, as follows—
 “Theodora, my Theodora, I am the happiest of mortals!
Wherever I turn I see nothing but happiness and joy. The
sky is clear and blue above me, and you love me and will
always love me. You have repelled me, but indeed you
knew me not. You have left my ring in the hands of vice,
but how could you know it? Did I not myself doubt my own
identity when I first saw him? Is not that vile fellow, Rodel,
my perfect double? But all is right again, and I have your
ring upon my finger. Hear how it all came about. The day
after you left, I went to the promenade overwhelmed with
agony at your departure, and your manner toward me.
There I saw the detestable gambler, Rodel, and a ray of
light from his finger caught my eye. I looked at it more
attentively—it was the very ring that I had given you. I felt
that I must instantly know how he came by it, and perhaps
it would unravel the mystery.
“ ‘Sir,’ said I, turning to him, ‘you have a fine stone
there.’
“ ‘Do you like it?’ said the fellow with assumed
nonchalance, ‘ma foi, it does not look amiss, and from a fair
one too.’
“ ‘I controlled myself, followed him to his room, and
stepping up to him, said coldly and seriously—
“ ‘Mr. Rodel, be pleased to tell me upon this spot how
you came by that ring.’
“ ‘En vérité mon enfant,’ laughed he, ‘you are very
amusing, but I am not in a joking humor, what do you want
of me?’
“ ‘The ring,’ replied I, ‘and an open confession of how
you came by it.’
“ ‘I can easily tell you that, the more readily as I think
you already guess the truth. I received it from my lady fair,
Miss Theodora S——. Ah! my dear fellow, she is un
morceau de prince.’
 “Your name, dear love, sounded to my heart like a
thunderclap, but only because such lips dared to pronounce
it, for I never for an instant supposed that he owed the ring
to any thing but some miserable fraud. Without allowing
myself to be outwardly disturbed by the man’s impudence,
‘no more of this,’ I said, ‘give me the ring this moment, or I
will immediately inform Gen. B—— of the ingenious trick by
which he lost his two thousand louis d’ors yesterday. You
may have seen me before? I have also seen you, and
although yesterday it was none of my business, and I did
not feel myself called upon to act as guardian to your
dupes, to-day the office suits me exactly. So choose—the
ring, and an explanation, or the general’s whip, and my
pistols.’ Pale and trembling, the wretch drew the ring from
his finger and handed it to me with your father’s note. I
hastened away with my heart filled with happiness. All was
clear to me—only your grief in being so deceived troubled
me. No, my Theodora, I am not unworthy of you. Tell every
thing to your father, and commend me to his love. I would
write to him but I cannot. Yes, Theodora, there is mystery
still, the time for explanation is not yet arrived, but I can
see nothing but joy in store for us. Trust in my fervent
eternal love as I trusted in yours. It is impossible for you to
answer this, for you do not know where I am; I, myself do
not know where I may be to-morrow. But soon I shall be
with you, never to leave you but to be always your own,
Robert.”

Theodora’s eyes now sparkled with love and joy, but her father
silently folded the letter again and gave it to her.
“How, father?” she asked, “you say nothing!”
“What can I say?” replied her father. “He has acted nobly, and
that he really loves you is clear to me. But, beware my child, the
tempter goeth about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may
devour.”
 But a new life had begun for Theodora. She soon knew the dear
letter by heart, and thought only of his return. Thus a week passed
away, and another, when the post again brought a letter for her
father, marked private.
“From my dear friend, Dr. S——, of the springs at A——, said he,
as he locked himself into his study, and seating himself in his arm-
chair, read the following—

“Dear old Friend,—I have so little time for writing any

thing but prescriptions in this busy place, that you will be
surprised indeed to receive this. But your happiness is
mine, and I can no longer keep secret what I know is in
store for you. The twenty dollars that you in your simple
benevolence slipped into the hands of the old gray-coat,
has brought you interest indeed. That shabby was Sir
William C——, the rich English banker, who diseased in
body, and plunged into insane misanthrophy by the death
of his wife, and of all save one of four children, to whom he
was devotedly attached, spent this summer at the springs.
At the urgent solicitation of his only son, a young man of
most prepossessing manners and appearance, I had been
for some time attending him, when you met him in the
garden. Your kindness to him when you could not know
him, his conversation with you, and your warm, humane
nature made the greatest impression upon him, and so
moved him that he was immediately afterward seized with
a violent attack of illness, which proved a favorable crisis,
and his health both of body and mind is completely
restored. His gratitude to you knows no bounds. He is now,
by my advice, traveling through Italy previous to coming to
R——, where he intends to present himself at your door in
his former shabby dress, and require at your hands the
friendship you so generously proffered him. As for his son,
ask your daughter, Theodora, she can tell you far more
about him than I can. All this I should not have told you,
 but how could I help it? With the warmest congratulations,
and repeated injunctions laid upon you to keep the secret
from your wife and children better than I have been able to
keep it from you, believe me, my dear old friend, truly
yours,
Herman A——.”

It was long before the worthy pastor became convinced that all
this was no dream, but when the reality burst upon him, he folded
his hands, and his heart was filled with love and gratitude to God.
“But,” said he to himself, “how can I keep all this from my dear
Catharine? Heaven grant that that for the first time in my life I may
keep my tongue between my teeth, and not betray every thing as
my old friend here has done.”
“Father,” said his wife at supper, “your face shines like Moses,
when he came down from the mount. What did the doctor write
about?”
“Oh!—he—why of course about every thing that is going on at
the springs, about the flowers, and my Banksia serrata.”
“And nothing,” asked Theodora, “of the old man and—and—”
“Why, what should he know of them?” said her father. “Doubtless
the young fellow has forgotten our existence, dear Dora, but don’t
be troubled, we are so happy here.” And then he bit his lips, and
swallowed the secret as best he could, and as he was obliged to do
fifty times a day.
Thus the autumn passed, the winter came, and with it that
joyous time, which, for the sake of the dear child born long ago in
Bethlehem, makes children of us all. But no news of the absent
ones; only the intelligence from the capital that the count had sold
his castle of R——, and that the new lord would take possession at
Christmas.
“Well, well,” said the pastor, “the new lord can hardly be worse
than the old one, and very easily better and more generous, so we
may in future have a merrier Christmas than this will be, for this
time, children, affairs look rather gloomy.”
“Ah! we know, father,” cried the joyous children. “You always say
so—you always try to frighten us with the idea of no Christmas, but
it always turns out well. Didn’t Ursula slip in yesterday evening, at
the back-door, with a splendid Christmas tree? We didn’t see it, to be
sure, but we heard it. And didn’t mother and Dora gild the apples
and nuts, and cut out the stars yesterday evening? You thought we
were in bed, but we peeped.”
“Well, well,” laughed their father; “to-morrow will be Christmas-
eve, and of course you will go to bed bright and early, that you may
be up in time the next morning.”
“No, no,” shouted the children; “to-morrow evening is just the
time when the Christ-child comes to us. Have we not just seen
Ursula making our Christmas-cake? Oh, dear, angel of a father, we
will be so good.”
The next day all without was dreary and stormy; the heavy
snow-flakes fell all day long, but within it was bright and cheerful.
Ursula had swept and dusted every nook and corner of the house,
and the fires all burned brightly. In the study the father and mother
were busy all the morning; the children, meanwhile, looked wisely at
one another, and tried to keep back the smiles that would dimple out
every moment.
At three o’clock, according to the custom of the house, the
holyday began. The fragrance of the fresh Christmas-cake was
wafted through the house, mother and children were all dressed in
their holyday attire, and the father, easy and happy that the
morrow’s sermon was prepared, sat and smoked in his arm-chair. At
four o’clock Theodora came in from the gardener’s, where she had
been in all the storm to carry a slice of the Christmas-cake, with the
intelligence that strangers had arrived at the village inn.
This news made the good pastor restless, and after pacing up
and down the room, he went to the window, and rubbing the
moisture from the pane, looked out. And there, just round the
corner, crept the old man in the gray coat, with his hands behind
him, as formerly, and he walked up the steps and knocked at the
door. “Courage,” said the pastor to himself, and hastened out to
meet him.
“Here I am,” said the old man, in a hollow voice, his looks bent
on the ground, “I have fortunately arrived here at last, but I am
weary and ill, and I have no one to pity me. Do you remember your
kind words; will you take me in? What! No reply?”
The honest pastor could not reply. This was what he had so long
looked forward to, and now he was really grieved that the kind heart
of the old man could not enjoy the brief pleasure of his little
surprise. But as he stood silently there, the old man raised his eyes,
met that look of love and sorrow, and threw himself into his arms.
“No,” cried he, “no longer bent with age, but erect and strong—
away with dissimulation! O my benefactor, I am—”
“Stay!” interrupted the pastor, “there shall indeed be no
dissembling in this happy moment. Sir William C——, I know you.
The doctor wrote me all about you.”
“Take me, then, to your wife and children; they are mine, you are
mine, but you must take me for payment, and keep me for the rest
of my life.”
“Hush!” said the pastor, “my wife and children know nothing of
the secret, now see what they will say. Come in, dear guest, come
in.”
“Ah!” cried Theodora, joyfully, “our old man from A——.”
The children gathered round, the mother welcomed him cordially,
and seated him in the arm-chair by the bright fire.
Speechless he looked round upon them all, but kept Theodora’s
hand in his while his gaze rested with evident satisfaction upon her
lovely face.
“Light the colored Christmas candles, Catharine,” said the father,
“and seat yourselves all round the table.”
 Then he opened his desk, took from it the doctor’s letter, stroked
his wife’s cheek, and said—
“Ah, Catharine, all this has weighed upon me like a mountain, but
now all that I know, you, dear ones, shall know, too, and our guest
here shall tell us whether it be true or no.”
And then he read the doctor’s letter. Let whoever can, imagine
the variety of emotions that overcame all the listeners; the
astonishment of the mother, the gentle emotion of the guest, the
alternate red and white that overspread Theodora’s cheek, and the
delight of the little ones.
“Here I am, dear ones,” said the old man, at the end of the
reading, “and here I shall stay, in dear, cheerful Germany.”
“Where then is—is—” stammered Theodora.
But just then the door was flung open, and there stood Robert,
his eyes beaming with love and joy.
“Oh, Robert! my Robert!” she cried, and would have rushed
toward him, but overcome by her happiness, she sank into her
mother’s arms. The old man took his son’s hand, and turning to the
pastor, said,
“May I woo your daughter for my noble son?”
“May I,” continued Robert, “be your son, O, dear friend?”
“And may I say,” interrupted his father, “that I have bought the
castle yonder, and that I beg your daughter’s acceptance of it as a
bridal gift?”
“My son! my daughter!” cried the weeping parents, and
embraced the lovers, while the children crowded round the old man.
“But now for supper!” cried the pastor, “if there is any one here
who can ever eat again; and, mamma, pray see that it is a real
Christmas feast.”
And then they seated themselves round the table, and the old
man, looking round upon the happy faces about him, told how he
had finished the tour of Italy, and had determined to live for the rest
of his life in beautiful Germany. Then raising his glass, he drank a
heartfelt toast to them all. “And I have ordered every thing for your
comfort at the castle at Lee & Hammersmith’s, London; and for you,
dear friend,” turning to the pastor, “the choicest collection of plants
will arrive shortly.”
“Oh, heaven!” sighed the pastor, “How have I deserved this—the
Banksia serrata, Plumeria, and divine Strelitzia.”
“How?” said his guest, holding up the purse which Seidelman had
slipped into his hand at the springs; “see your twenty dollars here—
the purse shall always remain in the family, and our posterity shall
read what is embroidered upon it—‘Charity brings interest.’ But what
makes the little ones so restless?”
“Ah!” said their father, “they want to go to bed;” and he and his
wife quietly left the room.
“No, no!” cried the children, “now the holy child is coming, wait
until we hear his little bell, and then we shall go, and you, brother
Robert, and all.”
And soon the longed-for bell sounded, the children rushed into
the study, and bore along the older ones with them.
There was the Christmas heaven before them, with its shining
lights and stars. Theodora sprang forward to take from the table her
new white dress, and forgot her castle. Hermine danced round her
new work-box, Ernst round his tool-chest, and Paul was immediately
absorbed with his terrific cannon, and new troops of soldiers.
The mother, coming behind the pastor, slipped on him his new
dressing-gown, and he uncovered the corner of the table, where
were her pretty slippers and muff.
“O, ye happy ones,” said Sir William, with tears of real feeling,
“how easy would it be for me to cover this table with gold, and say,
‘Take it—it is all yours,’ but could it give you one moment of the
happiness that these simple gifts of love afford you. O let me be a
child with you!”
“Yes, yes, we will all be children,” cried they, and embraced each
other, while the pastor raised his eyes to heaven, and blessed them,
saying, “Of such is the kingdom of heaven.”
 SONNET.—LIGHT.
How beauteous art thou, sacred light! How sweet
To view thee gushing from the golden sun,
As he his morning race begins to run!
Than time or thought alone, thou art less fleet—
Where shall we seek thy primal dwelling-place?
About His throne, who ever girt with thee,
Lay on the bosom of eternity;
Who lit the stars, which radiate through space—
Lo! from the east in billowy tide thou flowest,
Gilding the hill-tops and the heavenly spires—
Empurpling ocean with a myriad fires—
Great light, thou sun! o’er heaven thou proudly goest;
Nor ever standest still, as once, of old,
Till setting thou hast bathed all with thy molten gold.

A.
 UNSPOKEN.
———
BY A. J. REQUIER.
———

As, sometimes, the tumultuary deep

Sinks to serene repose,
When sunset visions o’er its bosom creep
As o’er a couch of rose;

So, sometimes, the bright Caspian of the soul

Is sudden hushed and stilled,
As with the glow of some wild hope as goal
Its trancéd depths are filled.

“Maid of the twilight eyes! that musest late

What star breaks on thy brow
With the resplendence of a Heavenly Gate,
Greeting its angel now?”

The humid azure of her virgin dream,

Spanned from the realms above
By an all-dazzling Iris! thought—trust—theme—
Life-consecration—Love!

Come with me to the rustic paths and see

A mute scene eloquent;
That rude cot, reared where the daisied lea
Is with the mountain blent.
A form of lovely womanhood which bends
O’er a much daintier thing—
Eyes fixed with something that so far transcends
The strength of shattered suffering.

Armed Cæsar, with his legions, dared not break

Their concentration wild;
Life ventured—periled on a single stake!
And won:—her first born child!

Come with me where the artist-hand hath wrought

The crown of all its toil—
The spiritual idol madly sought
In the hot brain’s turmoil;

Come where the monumental dead have laid

Their thrice-anointed dust—
Where priest and martyr, bard and sage, have paid
The debt all mortals must;

Come where the spells of wizard Nature wrest

Sublimity from sod—
Where Lohmon gleams in paradisal rest,
Niagara preaches God;

Come thou and learn, the inmost glow of soul

Hath no terrestial token;
And that, while Polar Oceans freeze and roll,
It never can be spoken!
 TO A DANDELION.
———
BY ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH.
———

Thy face, my friend, is beauty-pale,

And doth a slender sweet exhale,
And here is but a homely vale,
And fancy draws
No dearness out of song or tale,
In thine applause;

And some there are who only prize

The blossoms wooed from foreign skies,
In odors drenched and dewy dyes,
But thou shalt be
Companion to my fonder eyes,
And kin to me.

When I shall praise a flower the more

Because its gilded portals pour
The sweetness of a foreign shore,
I’ll jog with those
Who drop the rhyme’s laborious oar,
And flow in prose.
All themes that Love and Honor use,
All tender, soul-inspiring views,
And all the raptures of the muse,
Howe’er we roam,
Like the sweet Grace that shuns abuse
Begin at home.

And where my steps are frequent led—

In beaten haunts—where’er I tread,
Are seeds of wit and wisdom spread,
That not abound,
Only because my heart and head
Are stony ground.

Thou claimant of a mutual birth

Poor kinsman of a fickle hearth,
Flower of the bleak New England earth,
I cannot deem
Your modest crown so little worth
In my esteem.

When spring returning, odor-sweet,

Touches the turf with tinsel feet,
Thy fresh rosette once more we meet,
By sun or shade,
Like Joy to smiles, with generous greet,
Or just displayed.

But soon thy little youth is gone,

Thy ample-headed age comes on,
And thou a standing wig dost don,
Of seedy hair,
Frayed by the winds, till bald as stone,
Thy skull is bare.
Ye sacred, sweet, sonorous Nine—
Dear Floras of the bowers divine—
Should Age discrown my sable twine
Of hairy weed,
Give me to say—This pate of mine
Has gone to seed.
 WHY DO I WEEP FOR THEE?
WORDS BY

GEORGE LINLEY.
COMPOSED BY

W. V. WALLACE.
SUNG BY

MISS CATHARINE HAYES.

Published by permission of Lee & Walker, 162 Chestnut Street,
Publishers and Importers of Music and Musical Instruments.
Why do I weep for thee?
Why weep in my sad dreams?
Parted for aye are we,
Yes! parted like mountain streams.
Yet with me lingers still
That word, that one last word,
Thy voice, thy voice yet seems to thrill
The heart’s fond chord.
Why do I weep for thee?
Why do I weep for thee?

II.

Once, ah! what joy to share

With thee the noontide hour;
Then, not a grief nor care
Had canker’d the heart’s young flow’r
The sun seems not to shed
A radiance o’er me now,
Save mem’ry all seems dead,
Since lost, since lost art thou.
Why do I weep for thee?
Why do I weep for thee?
 REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Aylmere, or the Bondman of Kent; and Other Poems. By

Robert T. Conrad. 1 Vol. Philadelphia; E. H. Butler & Co.

The author of this volume is one of those rare organizations,

intellectually, which have the power of transmuting whatever they
touch into gold. As an orator, he sways his audience at will; as a
writer, he storms the reader’s judgment by logic and declamation
welded into one; and as a poet, he now charms the fancy with the
grace and delicacy of his imagery, and now makes the heart throb
with his fiery and impassioned words.
“Aylmere” is a dramatic poem, originally written for Mr. Forrest,
and still played, under the name of “Jack Cade,” by that eminent
tragedian. Though parts of it may derive additional power, on the
stage, from the magnificent bursts of the great actor for whom it
was composed, the true beauty of the drama, we think, can only be
enjoyed by those who peruse it, at leisure, in the closet. Many
passages, indeed, are suppressed on the boards, in order to bring
the play within accustomed limits; and the benefit of these the
spectator loses entirely.
The drama of “Aylmere” is founded on the famous insurrection of
1450, in which the English peasantry were headed by a physician,
known indifferently as Jack Cade, Aylmere, Mendall and Mortimer.
The theme is one peculiarly fitted for a republican poet. Goaded by
intolerable wrongs, social as well as political—insults to their women,
contumely to themselves, public taxes that reaped them to the last
stubble, and private exactions on the part of the nobility, that
gleaned what little regal rapacity had left—the people, in which we
comprise the yeomen and burghers, as well as the villeins, rose in a
body, marched on London, exacted the death of the infamous lord-
chamberlain, and procured a charter from the king, guarantying to
the commonalty the rights and privileges demanded by their leader.
But scarcely had these concessions been granted, when a collision,
provoked probably by the royal party, occurred between the citizens
of London and the followers of Cade: the insurgents met with a
repulse; and the late terrified aristocracy rallying, a total defeat and
dispersion of the peasantry ensued. Aylmere himself was hunted
down, like a wild beast, and mercilessly put to death. The
concessions granted were revoked. And, for centuries after, English
historians in the interest of the upper classes, blackened the name
and misrepresented the motives of the ill-fated Kentish reformer.
What nobler task could a republican poet set before himself, than
to rescue the reputation of this martyred hero from obloquy and
shame? Well, too, has Judge Conrad fulfilled his pious labor. The
principal character of the play is Aylmere, of course; indeed he may
be said, in one sense, to be the entire play. His lofty courage, his
abhorrence of wrong, his high aspirations after liberty, and the fiery
enthusiasm which he breathes into his followers, form, as it were,
the deep undertone, whose thunders roll incessantly through this
grand anthem of freedom. Other characters, however, contribute
materially to the action of the piece, and furnish the author with
opportunities to display his dramatic powers. The portrait of
Marianne, the wife of Aylmere, is drawn with great tenderness of
feeling, and delicacy of touch: she is, like her own native Italy, a
vision of immortal beauty hallowed and sanctified by wo. The cruel,
vindictive and insolent Say; the gay, careless, yet not wholly wicked
Clifford; the friend of the people, Friar Lacy; and the yeomen, Wat
Worthy and Will Mowbray, all stand prominently out from the canvas.
The drama is full of noble poetry. It would give us pleasure to
quote more largely from it, in proof of this; but the quantity of books
upon our table, requiring notice, forbids a monopoly of our limited
space by one. We cannot, however, resist making a few extracts.
Here is one, in which Aylmere, after his return from Italy, eloquently
describes the bondage which he shared in common with his fellow-
Englishmen.
 Ten years of freedom have not made me free.
I’ve throttled fortune till she yielded up
Her brightest favors; I have wooed Ambition,
Wooed with a fiery soul and dripping sword,
And would not be denied; I turned from her,
And raked amid the ashes of the past,
For the high thoughts that burn but cannot die,
Until my spirit walked with those who now
Are hailed, as brethren, by archangels:—Yet,
Have I come home a slave—a thing for chains
And scourges—ay, a dog,
Crouching, and spurned, and spit upon.

In fine contrast to this picture, is the following one of Italy, as

Italy was four centuries ago.

’Tis free; and want, fear, shame, are aliens there.

In that blest land the tiller is a prince.
No ruffian lord breaks spring’s fair promises;
And summer’s toils—for freedom watches o’er them—
Are safe and happy; summer lapses by,
In its own music;
And pregnant Autumn, with a matron blush,
Comes stately in, and with her, hand in hand,
Labor, and busy Plenty. Then old Winter,
With his stout glee, his junkets, and a laugh
That shakes from his hoar beard the icicles,
Makes the year gay again. There are no poor
Where freedom is.

The whole of the following is in the same fine strain.

Worthy. Behold! He comes! he comes!

Enter Aylmere.
 Lacy. Thank Heaven! thou’rt free!

Aylmere, (laughs.) Ay, once more free! within my grasp

a sword,
And round me freemen! Free! as is the storm
About your hills; the surge upon your shore!
Free as the sunbeams on the chainless air;
Or as the stream that leaps the precipice,
And in eternal thunder, shouts to Heaven,
That it is free, and will be free forever!

Straw. Now for revenge! Full long we’ve fed on wrong:

Give us revenge!

Aylmere. For you and for myself!

England from all her hills, cries out for vengeance!
The serf, who tills her soil, but tastes not of
Her fruit, the slave that in her dungeon groans,
The yeoman plundered, and the maiden wronged,
Echo the call in shrieks! The angry waves
Report the sound in thunder; and the heavens,
From their blue vaults, roll back a people’s cry
For liberty and vengeance!

Lacy. Wrong on wrong!

Are there no bolts in heaven?

Aylmere. No swords on earth?

He’ll ever be a slave, who does not right
Himself. The heavens fight not for cravens. Let us
strike,
Strike for ourselves, and Heaven will strike for us.

The ensuing are nervous and striking.

 All would o’ertop their fellows;
And every rank—the lowest—hath its height
To which hearts flutter, with as large a hope
As princes feel for empire! But in each,
Ambition struggles with a sea of hate.
He who sweats up the ridgy grades of life.
Finds, in each station, icy scorn above,
Below him hooting envy.

My lord, if you seek power in this, remember,

The greatness which is born of anarchy,
And thrown aloft in tumult, cannot last.
It mounts, like rocks hurled skyward by volcanoes,
Flushes a guilty moment, and falls back
In the red earthquake’s bosom.

The tragedy violates, in some of its details, the facts of history.

Thus Aylmere, instead of being defeated and betrayed, as in the real
story, perishes, in the drama, at the very hour that the charter is
granted. The change enables the author to give a fine artistic scene
as his closing one. Marianne, the wife, having been separated from
her husband at the outset of the insurrection, falls into the power of
Lord Say. While thus a prisoner she is accosted with dishonorable
proposals by Lord Clifford, whom she stabs to escape indignity. For
this heroic act she is thrown into the castle dungeon, scourged, and
visited with other brutalities, till she loses her reason. Escaping
eventually, she rejoins her husband. In Aylmere’s last interview with
Lord Say, when the latter, dying, poniards the former, she rushes in,
her intellect restored, as is often the case before death, and perishes
with her lord. This furnishes the material for the closing scene,
which is most dramatically conceived. Clasping the fair corpse in his
arms, the hero is himself sinking into death, when suddenly loud
huzzas in the street, call him back to life. He starts up with a wild cry
of exultation, and asks eagerly what it means. The attendants reply,
“the charter!” and, as they speak, the parchment, duly sealed, is
brought triumphantly in. Aylmere rushes to it, kisses it, clasps it to
his bosom, and exclaiming that the bondmen are avenged and
England free, totters toward Marianne, falls, and dies.
But the drama is not the only poem in the volume, for some fifty
fugitive pieces ensue, the chance contributions of a life devoted
generally to pursuits more stern. Several of the last of these
originally appeared in the pages of this magazine: we may mention
“The Sons of the Wilderness,” and the “Sonnets on the Lord’s
Prayer.” Generally they are distinguished by great felicity of
expression, a vigorous imagination, touches of exquisite pathos, and
a lofty scorn of whatever is base, cruel, or wrong. As examples of
the gentler mood of the author’s muse, we would point out two
poems, which evidently relate to a mother and her daughter: the
first, “Lines on the death of a Young Married Lady,” and the second,
“To Maggie.” The sonnet, “To My Wife,” is also very beautiful. As
specimens of Judge Conrad’s more indignant mood, we refer to the
sonnets, “On the Invasion of the Roman Republic,” and to “Fear.”
The poem, “To My Brother,” is one that would have made the
author’s reputation, even if he had written nothing else; and
“Freedom” contains stanzas that but few other living poets could
have penned. To say that it exhibits the power of the fourth canto of
“Childe Harold,” would imply imitation, of which certainly no one can
accuse Judge Conrad. But we may remark that it has the same
nervous style, the same exalted imagination, with an original
conception that is all its own. In perusing this and other poems in
this volume we instinctively regret that Judge Conrad has not
devoted himself entirely to poetry. Such powers as his, concentrated
on a pursuit so congenial to him, could not but have produced
results that would have adorned American literature, not only
temporarily, but throughout all time.
We cannot take leave of our author without going back to the
dedication, which is addressed to the poet’s father, and which,
though often quoted in print since the appearance of the book, we
venture to quote again.