Was not bow'd down with a gray penitence.

Sir! I would say-kind host! most kind of men!
My friend and my preserver !-

Rondin.

So you think well of me!

Ginevra.

Say no more,

I could say on

And twenty times as much, so you would think it
Best, some day hence.-Speak not!

Rondin.

Yes! honour bids me :

Honour, above all doubts, even of poor self,
Whether to gain or lose, bids me say bravely-
Be wise while generous! Guard the best one's peace,
Whoe'er that is: her peace, the rights of goodness
And vindication of the o'erseeing heavens,

High above all wrong hearts,-his, or mine own!
Ginevra. Although you call me Best, who am not so,
I'll write that last and noblest admonition
Within the strongest memory of my soul,

For all our sakes. The way to him!

As she holds out to him her hand, he asks for a word at parting.
Antonio! may your noble heart be happy!—
Alas! alas! Why was that one word utter'd
To bear down the last patience of my soul,
And make me cry aloud to Heaven in misery?
I am most miserable. I am a creature

That now for fifteen years, from childhood upwards,
Till this hard moment when the heavens forbid it,
Have known not what it was to shed a tear
Which others met with theirs. Therefore mine eyes
Did learn to hush themselves, and young grow dry.
For my poor father knew not how I loved him,
Nor mother neither; and my severe husband
Demanded love, not knowing lovingness.
And now I cry out, wishing to be right,

And being wrong; and by the side of me

Weeps the best heart, which ought not so to weep,

And duty's self seems to turn round upon me,
And mock me by whose law nevertheless
Do I abide, and will I,—so pray Heaven
To keep me in my wits, and teach me better!
Turn me aside, sweet Saints! and let me go.

Meanwhile in another room where AGOLANTI waits, he is met by RONDINELLI'S two friends, COLONNA and DA RIVA. Angry words arise ; and AGOLANTI (in bitter wrath) and COLONNA stand with swords drawn when RONDINELLI enters with GINEVRA, followed by his mother and GINEVRA's friends, OLIMPIA and DIANA.

Rondin. Forbear! an angel comes! Take her, and pray
Just Heaven to make her happy as thyself!
Colonna. Antonio! thou art damn'd to think it. See!
Da Riva. He shrinks from her again in very fear,
Which in his rage of vanity he'll avenge.

Agolanti. I hear not what they say, my poor Ginevra!
Thinking of thee alone. Come, bear thee up,

And bravely!—as thou dost.

This way! So, so!

Da Riva.

We'll leave this place!

Antonio will you let him?

Think of herself! 'Tis none of yours, this business;
But the whole earth's.

Rondin.

She will not have me stay him.

I dare not. My own house too. See, she goes with him! Da Riva. Call in the neighbours!

Colonna.

Tell all!

Do! there's a right soul.

Agolanti. She's with me still! she's mine! Who stays us? Olimpia and Diana. Ginevra! Sweetest friend!

Agolanti.

Who triumphs now? who laughs? Who mocks at pandars, cowards, and shameless women? Ginevra (breaking from him). Loose me and hearken!

Madness will crush my senses in, or speak.

The fire of the heavenward sense of my wrongs crowns me;
The voice of the patience of a life cries out of me;

Every thing warns me. I will not return!
I claim the judgment of most holy Church.
I'll not go back to that unsacred house,
Where heavenly ties restrain not hellish discord,
Loveless, remorseless, never to be taught.

I came to meet with pity, and find shame;
Tears, and find triumph; peace, and a loud sword.
The convent walls-bear me to those! In secret,
If it may be; if not, as loudly as strife,-
Drawing a wholesome tempest through the streets!
And there, as close as bonded hands may cling,
I'll hide, and pray for ever, to my grave.

Come you! and you! and you! and help me walk.
Agolanti. Let her not stir! Nor dare to stir, one soul !
Lest in the madness of my wrongs I smite ye.
Ginevra (to Agolanti). Look at me and remember!
Think how oft

I've seen as sharp a point turn'd on thyself

To fright me,-how upon a weaker breast,-
And what a world of shames unmasculine

These woman's cheeks would have to burn in telling!
The white wrath festers in his face, and then
He's devilish.

Rondinelli.

Will you let her fall? She swoons.

He catches her in his arms.

Agolanti (offering to kill him). Where'er she goes, she shall not go there.

Colonna (with his drawn sword intercepting him). Dastard! Strike at a man so pinion'd!

Agolanti (turning upon Colonna). Die then for him!

Colonna. Die thou!

He runs him through.

Da Riva. He's slain! What hast thou done?

Colonna.

Of his own will. One must have perish'd.

The deed

SARAH FLOWER ADAMS.

1805-1849.

VIVIA PERPETUA.

At Carthage, A.D. 204. VIVIA PERPETUA, the widowed daughter of VVIUS, a noble Roman, has become a Christian, and is in prison, for the morrow's martyrdom. Her Christian friends, her brother ATTILIUS, and CECILIUS take leave of her. She detains CECILIUS.

Vivia. Cæcilius! go not thou !-Gaoler! give leave.

Nay! quench the lights,-my lamp will serve; and ere
The prison rounds are o'er, this youth shall meet thee
At the outer gate.

Gaoler.
Thy time, how long soe'er!
Vivia. I have not spoke with thee to-night, Cæcilius!
The slightest word had made the ready tears
Brim o'er their boundaries. Said I not-Weep on?
Thou hast wept to me before, and I with thee.
Ease thy full heart! then be thou strong to listen!
I need thee;-thou canst help me, if thou wilt.
Cæcil. Help thee?-and if I will?
Vivia.

But ere I speak

Of the one only thought 'twixt me and heaven,
Tell me of Nola! for my heart is yearning
To see her once again before I die.

Cæcil. She stays within her chamber; was forbid
To haste to you. She stays in sure belief
That you will be released, will come to her.
Vivia. Released I shall be! She must come to me.
She takes a golden arrow from her hair.

Give her this token! Say, our early love
Is fresh with me, as though 'twere yesterday
We wander'd, arm-encircled, gathering shells.-
Could it be yesterday she talk'd of it ?—
Tell her, that He for whom I die was one

Who taught all love to hope! so bid her thought

Soar up, to meet my blessing on the way,

Sure, unforgotten as she is in death,

I still may be her friend in heaven !-Your thoughts?—
They wander.

Cæcil.

They are still with thee !-with thee,

And with the morrow.

Vivia.

Mark me! many thoughts

In many morrows I now ask of thee.

Much has been said-too much-of loving kindness
Render'd to one who was left motherless ;-

This time to-morrow-Thascius-wilt thou-
Cæcil. Will I? O, find thy words to tell me what!
Vivia. Thou'rt young; hast many years-and be they bless'd!
Before thee. I have mark'd a strength in thee,

Seen most within these latter days of trial;
And Heav'n hath prosper'd so the thought that thou
Wilt come to hold the faith; I unto thee,
Commit in trust this child, my Thascius,-
In trust unto thy thought. It may be years-
Never, perchance-ere act of thine may serve ;
Still let him have a home within thy thought.

And thy good strength, and youth, and years to come,
And fate alike, so oft a loving bond,

And something for his mother's memory,

No! no! there needs no word of thine, Cæcilius!
That look has laid an answer at my heart!
Blessing of Heaven descend on thee and him!

Cæcil. I would I were your God, to give you wings
Now, now to bear you up! I would not stay you,
Though they would take you quite away from me.
But, O, that morrow's doom!

Vivia.

Why fear it thus?
The pain of martyrdom dwells not in death.
Think'st thou the love that dares it hath not joy
In loving, to make light the keenest pangs
That touch the body? No!-the torture comes,