Thou darest not look upon-I know not why.
But I must speak to thee. Mid thy remorse,
And the unwonted terrors of thy soul,

I must be heard, for God hath sent me here.
Piso. Who, who hath sent thee here?
Miriam. The Christian's GOD,

The GoD thou knowest not.

Piso. Thou art of earth!

I see the rose-tint on thy pallid cheek,
Which was not there at first; it kindles fast!
Say on. Although I dare not meet that eye,
I hear thee.

Miriam. He hath given me strength,
And led me safely through the broad, lone streets,
Even at the midnight hour! My heart sunk not;
My noiseless foot paced on unfaltering
Through the long colonnades, where stood aloft
Pale gods and goddesses on either hand,
Bending their sightless eyes on me! by cool founts,
Waking with ceaseless plash the midnight air!
Through moonlit squares, where, ever and anon,
Flash'd from some dusky nook the red torchlight,
Flung on my path by passing reveller.

And He hath brought me here before thy face;
And it was HE who smote thee even now
With a strange, nameless fear.

Piso. Girl! name it not.

I deem'd I look'd on one whose bright young face
First glanced upon me mid the shining leaves
Of a green bower in sunny Palestine,
In my youth's prime! I knew the dust,
The grave's corroding dust, had soil'd
That spotless brow long since. A shadow fell
Upon the soul that never yet knew fear.

But it is past. Earth holds not what I dread;
And what the gods did make me, am I now.
What seekest thou?

Euphas. MIRIAM! go thou hence.
Why shouldst thou die?

Miriam. Brother!

Piso. Ha! is this so?

Now, by the gods!-Bar, bar the gates, ye slaves!
If they escape me now- -Why, this is good!
I had not dream'd of hap so glorious.

His sister! she that beguiled my son!
Miriam. Peace!

Name not, with tongue unhallow'd, love like ours.
Piso. Thou art her image; and the mystery
Confounds my purposes. Take other form,
Foul sorceress, and I will baffle thee!

Miriam. I have no other form than this God gave;
And he already hath stretch'd forth his hand,
And touch'd it for the grave.

Piso. It is most strange.

Is not the air around her full of spells?

Give me the son thou hast seduced!

Miriam. PISO !

A heart too prone to worship noble things,
Although of earth; and he, alas! was earth's!
I strove, I pray'd in vain! In all things else
I might have stirr'd his soul's best purposes;
But for the pure and cheering faith of Christ,
There was no entrance in that iron soul.

And I-amid such hopes, despair arose,
And laid a withering hand upon my heart.
I feel it yet! We parted! Ay, this night
We met to meet no more.

Euphas. Sister! my tears

They choke my words-else

Miriam. EUPHAS, thou wert wroth

When there was little cause; I loved thee more. Thy very frowns in such a holy cause

Were beautiful. The scorn of virtuous youth, Looking on fancied sin, is noble.

Piso. Maid!

Hath then my son withstood thy witchery,
And on this ground ye parted?
Miriam. It is so.

Alas! that I rejoice to say it.
Piso. Nay,

Well thou mayst, for it hath wrought his pardon.
That he had loved thee would have been a sin
Too full of degradation-infamy,

Had not these cold and aged eyes themselves
Beheld thee in thy loveliness! And yet, bold girl!
Think not thy Jewish beauty is the spell

That works on one grown old in deeds of blood.
I have look'd calmly on when eyes as bright
Were drown'd in tears of bitter agony,
When forms as full of grace and pride, perchance,
Were writhing in the sharpness of their pain,
And cheeks as fair were mangled-

Euphas. Tyrant! cease.

Wert thou a fiend, such brutal boasts as these Were not for ears like hers!

Miriam. I tremble not.

He spake of pardon for his guiltless son,
And that includeth life for those I love.
What need I more?

Euphas. Let us go hence. PISO !
Bid thou thy myrmidons unbar the gates,
That shut our friends from light and air.

Piso. Not yet,

My haughty boy, for we have much to say
Ere you two pretty birds go free. Chafe not!
Ye are caged close, and can but flutter here
Till I am satisfied.

Miriam. How! hast thou changed-
Piso. Nay; but I must detain ye till I ask-
Miriam. Detain us if thou wilt. But look-
Piso. At what?

Miriam. There, through yon western arch! the moon sinks low.

The mists already tinge her orb with blood.
Methinks I feel the breeze of morn e'en now.
Know'st thou the hour?

Piso. I do but one thing more

I fain would know; for, after this wild night,
Let me no more behold you. Why didst thou,
Bold, dark-hair'd boy, wear in those pleading eyes,
When thou didst name thy boon, an earnest look

That fell familiar on my soul! And thou,
The lofty calm, and, O! most beautiful!
Why are not only that soul-searching glance,
But e'en thy features and thy silver voice
So like to hers I loved long years ago,
Beneath Judea's palms? Whence do ye come?
Miriam. For me, I bear my own dear mother's
Her eye, her form, her very voice are mine. [brow;
So, in his tears, my father oft hath said.
We lived beneath Judea's shady palms,
Until that saint-like mother faded, droop'd,
And died. Then hither came we o'er the waves,
And till this night have worshipp'd faithfully
The one, true, living God, in secret peace.

Piso. Thou art her child! I could not harm

thee now.

O wonderful! that things so long forgot-
A love I thought so crush'd and trodden down,
E'en by the iron tread of passion wild-
Ambition, pride, and, worst of all, revenge-
Revenge, that hath shed seas of Christian blood!
To think this heart was once so waxen soft,
And then congeal'd so hard, that naught of all
Which hath been since could ever have the power
To wear away the image of that girl-
That fair, young Christian girl! 'Twas a wild love!
But I was young, a soldier in strange lands,
And she, in very gentleness, said nay
So timidly, I hoped-until, ye gods!

She loved another! Yet I slew him not!
O, had I met him since!

I fled!

Euphas. Sister!

The hours wear on.

Piso. Ye shall go forth in joy

And take with you yon prisoners. Send my son,
Him whom she did not bear-home to these arms,
And go ye out of Rome with all your train.
I will shed blood no more; for I have known
What sort of peace deep-glutted vengeance brings.
My son is brave, but of a gentler mind
Than I have been. His eyes shall never more
Be grieved with sight of sinless blood pour'd forth
From tortured veins. Go forth, ye gentle two!
Children of her who might perhaps have pour'd
Her own meek spirit o'er my nature stern,
Since the bare image of her buried charms,
Soft gleaming from your youthful brows, hath power
To stir my spirit thus! But go ye forth!
Ye leave an alter'd and a milder man

Than him ye sought. Tell PAULUS this,
To quicken his young steps.

Miriam. Now may the peace

That follows just and worthy deeds be thine!
And may deep truths be born, mid thy remorse,
In the recesses of thy soul, to make
That soul e'en yet a shrine of holiness.

[men,

Euphas. Piso! how shall we pass yon steelclad Keeping stern vigil round the dungeon-gate!

Piso. Take ye my well-known ring--and herethe list-

Ay, this is it, methinks: show these--great gods! Euphas. What is there on yon scroll which shakes him thus?

Miriam. A name at which he points with stiffening hand,

And eyeballs full of wrath! Alas! alas!
I guess too well. My brother, droop thou not.
Piso. Your father, did ye say? Was it his life
Ye came to beg?

Miriam. His life: but not alone
The life so dear to us; for he hath friends
Sharing his fetters and his final doom.
Piso. Little reck I of them. Tell me his name!
[A pause.

Speak, boy! or I will tear thee piecemeal!
Miriam. Stay!

Stern son of violence! the name thou askest
IS-THRASENO!

Piso. Did I not know it, girl?

Now, by the gods! had I not been entranced,
I sooner had conjectured this. Foul name!
Thus do I tear thee out--and even thus
Rend with my teeth. O, rage! she wedded him,
And ever since that hated name hath been
The voice of serpents in mine ear! But now--
Why go ye not? Here is your list! and all,
Ay, every one whose name is here set down,
Will my good guard release to you!

Miriam. PISO!

He can but rend me where I stand. And here,
Living or dying, will I raise my voice

In a firm hope! The God that brought me here
Is round me in the silent air. On me
Falleth the influence of an unseen Eye!
And, in the strength of secret, earnest prayer,
This awful consciousness doth nerve my frame.
Thou man of evil and ungovern'd soul!
My father thou mayst slay! Flames will not fall
From heaven to scorch and wither thee! The earth
Will ope not underneath thy feet! and peace,
Mock, hollow, seeming peace, may shadow still
Thy home and hearth! But deep within thy breast
A fierce, consuming fire shall ever dwell.

Each night shall ope a gulf of horrid dreams
To swallow up thy soul. The livelong day
That soul shall yearn for peace and quietness,
As the hart panteth for the water-brooks,
And know that even in death is no repose!
And this shall be thy life! Then a dark hour
Will surely come-

Piso. Maiden, be warn'd! All this

I know. It moves me not.

Miriam. Nay, one thing more

Thou knowest not. There is on all this earth—
Full as it is of young and gentle hearts—
One man alone that loves a wretch like thee:
And he, thou sayst, must die! All other eyes
Do greet thee with a cold or wrathful look,
Or, in the baseness of their fear, shun thine;
And he whose loving glance alone spake peace,
Thou sayst must die in youth! Thou know'st not
The deep and bitter sense of loneliness, [yet
The throes and achings of a childless heart,
Which yet will all be thine! Thou know'st not yet
What 'tis to wander mid thy spacious halls,
And find them desolate! wildly to start
From thy deep musings at the distant sound
Of voice or step like his, and sink back sick-
Ay! sick at heart-with dark remembrances!
When, in his bright and joyous infancy,
His laughing eyes amid thick curls sought thine,
And his soft arms were twined around thy neck,
And his twin rosebud lips just lisp'd thy name-
Yet feel in agony 'tis but a dream!
Thou know'st not yet what 't is to lead the van
Of armies hurrying on to victory,
Yet, in the pomp and glory of that hour,
Sadly to miss the well-known snowy plume,
Whereon thine eyes were ever proudly fix'd
In battle-field! to sit, at deep midnight,
Alone within thy tent, all shuddering,
When, as the curtain'd door lets in the breeze,
Thy fancy conjures up the gleaming arms
And bright, young hero-face of him who once
Had been most welcome there! and, worst of all—
Piso. It is enough! The gift of prophecy
Is on thee, maid! A power that is not thine
Looks out from that dilated, awful form-
Those eyes, deep-flashing with unearthly light-
And stills my soul. My PAULUS must not die!
And yet, to give up thus the boon-

Miriam. What boon?

A boon of blood? To him, the good, old man,
Death is not terrible, but only seems
A dark, short passage to a land of light,
Where, mid high ecstasy, he shall behold
The unshrouded glories of his Maker's face,
And learn all mysteries, and gaze at last
Upon the ascended prince, and never more
Know grief or pain, or part from those he loves!
Yet will his blood cry loudly from the dust,
And bring deep vengeance on his murderer!

Piso. My PAULUS must not die! Let me revolve;
Maiden! thy words have sunk into my soul;
Yet would I ponder ere I thus lay down
A purpose cherish'd in my inmost heart,

That which hath been my dream by night, by day My life's sole aim. Have I not deeply sworn,

Long years ere thou wert born, that, should the gods
E'er give him to my rage-and yet I pause!
Shall Christian vipers sting mine only son,
And I not crush them into nothingness?
Am I so pinion'd, vain, and powerless?
Work, busy brain! thy cunning must not fail.
[Retires.

PRAYER.

WITHIN these mighty walls of sceptred Rome
A thousand temples rise unto her gods,
Bearing their lofty domes unto the skies, [shrines
Graced with the proudest pomp of earth; their
Glittering with gems, their stately colonnades,
Their dreams of genius wrought into bright forms,
Instinct with grace and godlike majesty,
Their ever-smoking altars, white-robed priests,
And all the pride of gorgeous sacrifice. [ascend
And yet these things are naught. Rome's prayers
To greet the unconscious skies, in the blue void
Lost like the floating breath of frankincense,
And find no hearing or acceptance there.
And yet there is an Eye that ever marks
Where its own people pay their simple vows,
Though to the rocks, the caves, the wilderness,
Scourged by a stern and ever-watchful foe!
There is an Ear that hears the voice of prayer
Rising from lonely spots where Christians meet,
Although it stir not more the sleeping air
Than the soft waterfall, or forest-breeze.
Think'st thou, my father, this benignant GoD
Will close his ear, and turn in wrath away
From the poor, sinful creature of his hand,
Who breathes in solitude her humble prayer?
Think'st thou he will not hear me, should I kneel
Here in the dust beneath his starry sky,
And strive to raise my voiceless thoughts to HIM,
Making an altar of my broken heart?

MIRIAM TO PAULUS.

EVER from that hour, when first
My spirit knew that time was wholly lost,
And to its superstitions wedded fast,
Shrouded in darkness, blind to every beam
Streaming from Zion's hill athwart the night
That broods in horror o'er a heathen world,
E'en from that hour my shuddering soul beheld
A dark and fathomless abyss yawn wide
Between us two! and o'er it gleam'd alone
One pale, dim-twinkling star! the lingering hope
That grace, descending from the Throne of Light,
Might fall in gentle dews upon that heart,
And melt it into humble piety.
Alas! that hope hath faded! and I see
The fatal gulf of separation still
Between us, love, and stretching on for aye
Beyond the grave, in which I feel that soon
This clay with all its sorrows shall lie down.
Union for us is none, in yonder sky:
Then how on earth?-so in my inmost soul,
Nurtured with midnight tears, with blighted hopes,
With silent watchings and incessant prayers,
A holy resolution hath ta'en root,

And in its might at last springs proudly up.
We part, my PAULUS! not in hate, but love,
Yielding unto a stern necessity.

THE history of a woman of genius, more than that of a man possessing the same intellectual qualities, is usually unmarked by events of the kind which interest the general readers of biography. Her life is but a succession of thoughts and emotions, and he who would understand these must study her writings.

Miss MANLEY, now Mrs. EMBURY, is a native of the city of New York, where her father has been for many years an eminent physician. She was educated in the best schools of that city, and, at twenty, was married to Mr. EMBURY, now of Brooklyn, a gentleman of liberal fortune and high attainments. At an early age she began to contribute to the periodicals, under the signature of "IANTHE," and soon after her marriage appeared

a collection of her writings, entitled "Guido, and other Poems." "Guido" is a story of passion, gracefully told, and some of the "Sketches from History," in the same volume, exhibit considerable dramatic and descriptive power. They are, however, much inferior to her later works, which are carefully finished and more original in their ideas and illustrations. She has a rich fancy, and much skill in the use of language, and her subjects are well chosen.

She has written several admirable prose works, of which "Constance Latimer, the Blind Girl,” is the most popular. Her contributions to the literary journals, in prose and verse, would form a number of volumes. They are all distinguished for delicate thought, pure sentiment, and elegant diction.

AUTUMN EVENING.

"And ISAAC went out in the field to meditate at eventide."

Go forth at morning's birth,
When the glad sun, exulting in his might,
Comes from the dusky-curtain'd tents of night,
Shedding his gifts of beauty o'er the earth;
When sounds of busy life are on the air,
And man awakes to labour and to care,
Then hie thee forth: go out amid thy kind,
Thy daily tasks to do, thy harvest-sheaves to bind.

Go forth at noontide hour,
Beneath the heat and burden of the day
Pursue the labours of thine onward way,

Nor murmur if thou miss life's morning flower;
Where'er the footsteps of mankind are found
Thou mayst discern some spot of hallow'd ground,
Where duty blossoms even as the rose,
Though sharp and stinging thorns the beauteous
bud enclose.

Go forth at eventide,

Commune with thine own bosom, and be still,- |
Check the wild impulses of wayward will,

And learn the nothingness of human pride;
Morn is the time to act, noon to endure;
But, O! if thou wouldst keep thy spirit pure,
Turn from the beaten path by worldlings trod,
Go forth at eventide, in heart to walk with God.

THE OLD MAN'S LAMENT.

O! FOR One draught of those sweet waters now That shed such freshness o'er my early life! O! that I could but bathe my fever'd brow

To wash away the dust of worldly strife! And be a simple-hearted child once more, As if I ne'er had known this world's pernicious lore! My heart is weary, and my spirit pants

Beneath the heat and burden of the day; Would that I could regain those shady haunts, Where once, with Hope, I dream'd the hours

away,

Giving my thoughts to tales of old romance, And yielding up my soul to youth's delicious trance! Vain are such wishes! I no more may tread

With lingering step and slow the green hill-side; Before me now life's shortening path is spread,

And I must onward, whatsoe'er betide; The pleasant nooks of youth are pass'd for aye, And sober scenes now meet the traveller on his way. Alas! the dust which clogs my weary feet

Glitters with fragments of each ruin'd shrine, Where once my spirit worshipp'd,when, with sweet And passionless devotion, it could twine Its strong affections round earth's earthliest things, Yet bear away no stain upon its snowy wings.

What though some flowers have 'scaped the tempest's wrath?

Daily they droop by nature's swift decay: What though the setting sun still lights my path? Morn's dewy freshness long has pass'd away. O! give me back life's newly-budded flowers, Let me once more inhale the breath of morning's hours!

My youth! my youth!-O,give me back my youth! Not the unfurrow'd brow and blooming cheek; But childhood's sunny thoughts, its perfect truth,

And youth's unworldly feelings,-these I seek; Ah, who could e'er be sinless and yet sage? Would that I might forget Time's dark and blotted page!

No! round her heart

Children of humbler, happier lineage twined: Thou couldst but bring dark memories to mind

Of pageants where she bore a heartless part; She who shared not her monarch-husband's doom Cared little for her first-born's living tomb.

Thou art at rest!

Child of Ambition's martyr:-life had been
To thee no blessing, but a dreary scene

Of doubt and dread and suffering at the best; For thou wert one whose path, in these dark times, Would lead to sorrows-it may be to crimes.

Thou art at rest!

The idle sword hath worn its sheath away;
The spirit has consumed its bonds of clay;

And they, who with vain tyranny comprest Thy soul's high yearnings, now forget their fear, And fling ambition's purple o'er thy bier!

PEACE.

O! SEEK her not in marble halls of pride,
Where gushing fountains fling their silver tide,
Their wealth of freshness toward the summer sky;
The echoes of a palace are too loud,-
They but give back the footsteps of the crowd

That throng about some idol throned on high,
Whose ermined robe and pomp of rich array
But serve to hide the false one's feet of clay.
Nor seek her form in poverty's low vale, [pale,
Where, touch'd by want, the bright cheek waxes

And the heart faints, with sordid cares opprest, Where pining discontent has left its trace Deep and abiding in each haggard face. [nest:

Not there, not there Peace builds her halcyon Wild revel scares her from wealth's towering dome, And misery frights her from the poor man's home. Nor dwells she in the cloister, where the sage Ponders the mystery of some time-stain'd page, Delving, with feeble hand, the classic mine; O! who can tell the restless hope of fame, The bitter yearnings for a deathless name, [twine! That round the student's heart, like serpents, Ambition's fever burns within his breast, Can Peace, sweet Peace, abide with such a guest? Search not within the city's crowded mart, Where the low-whisper'd music of the heart

Is all unheard amid the clang of gold; O! never yet did Peace her chaplet twine To lay upon base mammon's sordid shrine, Where earth's most precious things are bought

and sold; Thrown on that pile, the pearl of price would be Despised, because unfit for merchantry.

Go! hie thee to God's altar,--kneeling there,
List to the mingled voice of fervent prayer

That swells around thee in the sacred fane;
Or catch the solemn organ's pealing note,
When grateful praises on the still air float,

And the freed soul forgets earth's heavy chain; There learn that Peace, sweet Peace is ever found In her eternal home, on holy ground.