_Borgia_.--O! were I but beside thee! _Enter_ Vitry, _followed by the Guards walking slowly. He holds the young_ Count de la Pene _by the hand; the boy leads his sister_. _Vitry_, (_a pistol in his hand_.)--Well, my child, which is your father? _Count de la Pene_.--Oh! protect him, sir,--that is he leaning against the pillar. _Vitry_, (_aloud_.)--Draw tip--remain at that gate--Guards! (_The Guards advance with lanterns and flambeaux_.) Sir, I arrest you--your sword. _Concini_, (_thrusting at him_.)--Take it. (Vitry _fires his pistol_--Du Hallier, D'Ornano, _and_ Person _fire at the same time_--Concini _falls dead_.) The malice of Du Luynes, the inveterate enemy of the D'Ancres, and afterwards the minion of Louis, contrives that the Maréchale, in her way to execution, shall be conducted to this scene, where her husband lies dead, on the spot which had been stained with the blood of Henry, like Caesar at the foot of Pompey's statue; and the play concludes with her indignant and animated denunciation of this wretch, who stands calm and triumphant, while the Maréchale exacts from her son, over the body of Concini, an oath of vengeance against the destroyer of her house." * * * * * THE MARTYR-STUDENT. I am sick of the bird, And its carol of glee; It brings the voices heard In boyhood back to me: Our old village hall, Our church upon the hill, And the mossy gates--all My darken'd eyes fill. No more gladly leaping With the choir I go, My spirit is weeping O'er her silver bow: From the golden quiver The arrows are gone, The wind from Death's river Sounds in it alone! I sit alone and think In the silent room. I look up, and I shrink From the glimmering gloom. O, that the little one Were here with her shout!-- O, that my sister's arm My neck were roundabout! I cannot read a book, My eyes are dim and weak; To every chair I look-- There is not one to speak! Could I but sit once more Upon that well-known chair, By my mother, as of yore, Her hand upon my hair! My father's eyes seeking, In trembling hope to trace If the south wind had been breaking The shadows from my face;-- How sweet to die away Beside our mother's hearth, Amid the balmy light That shone upon our birth! A wild and burning boy, I climb the mountain's crest, The garland of my joy Did leap upon my breast; A spirit walk'd before me Along the stormy night, The clouds melted o'er me, The shadows turn'd to light. Among my matted locks The death-wind is blowing; I hear, like a mighty rush of plumes, The Sea of Darkness flowing! Upon the summer air Two wings are spreading wide; A shadow, like a pyramid, Is sitting by my side!