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The Marquis interposes, and urges the necessity of his grandson's accompanying him to Italy. The good Count implores him also to remain and seek' happiness in their mutual reunion; but the Marquis only answers by inviting his host in turn to Naples. He refers him to Leonhard for the charms of that bewitching country, and asks his grandson if he does not long to visit it. The youth, awaking as from a reverie, breaks out into the following beautiful passage :

This morning early did we climb yon rock
Deep hid in shadowy pall lay hill and dale
A Giant Glacier 'gan to rear alone
His lofty head amid night's dusky sea,
Like some vast beacon's dome! "what is yon"-
Appall’d I cried—" Doth earth here open, too,
Her fiery caverns-Hath Vesuvius found
A northern brother ?"-"Fear not,” said my friend,
“Yon is the Yungfrau !-wont her morning brow
Thus with fresh fiery lilies to adorn !"
Even while he spoke, began th' attendant tribe
Of circling glaciers with like fires to glow,
Illuming the dark heav'ns. To me it seem'd
As if beneath their cope high mass were held,
And their bright sacristans made duteous haste
Round the high altar, kindling all its blaze
Of hallow'd torches-Un my knees I sank—.
And while I pray'd, there waked within my breast,
Love, as of home, for wondrous Switzerland !

Marq. He whó but hears may know-thou art a painter.
Count. O! interrupt him not! say on, my son !
Leon. Dear grandsire, frown not--to a Switzer's soul
His country is a loadstone-I am one,
Since such my father was-shall not his cradle
Be dearer to me than fair Naples, where
His last was sadly breathed ?
Marg.

No more of this !
Leon. And think'st thou, when in princely state array'd,
Thy steed shall bear thee through proud Naples' streets,
I can attend thee where, like grisly ghost,
The column frowns whence hung my father's image?

Marq. Be silent, I command chee.
Count.

Oh! be moved
Art thou not happier here, where love is thine,
Than yonder, where even triumph's gilded cup
Is drugg'd with Memory's poison ?
Marq.

Well, in time
Perchance I may.

Leon. ob, aye! thou'lt be entreated.
But, dearest uncle, if you thus adopt
A son-bencath your roof I must bespeak
A second father's place--my darling master's :
For we are one, and were we sauly sever'd,
Both hearts would bleed to death!
Count.

Oh! he is welcome!
Fate, when she gave me father, sister, son,

Had but one gitt to add-a faithful friend! The youth flies to acquaint his master with the joyful tidings—but the proud Marquis strictly enjoins st crecy as to their names and ralik, until the arrival of the expected messenger from Naples. The disappointed Leonhard promises to contine himself to taking the votes of his mother and the painter, whether they do not prefer remaining in Switzerland. He is desired to sumá mon the latier to an interview with his grandfather.

During his absence, the old Marquis complains of the influence acquired by the painter over his grandson's mind, and speaks disparagingly of genius, as wholly dependent on wealthy patronage. He acknowledges, however, bis pride in attaching to him so celebrated an artist as Spinarosa, and announces his intention to set him a task which will put his vaunted skill to the test. The Count readily anticipates it to be the picture of his sightless daughter.

Count. A masterpiece indeed! but could he borrow
The pencil with which Spring enamels flowers
Dipt in ethereal blue, and the pure flood
Bright stars distil-yet never could be paint

Heaven's radiance in yon eyes' extinguish'd shrine. The father despairs of even partial success, as Camilla has positively refu. sed ever again to sit for her picture. The Count says,

Count. Ob I were I but a painter ! and mine easel
Rear'd in some distant chamber undisturb’d,
How could I draw each angel lineament
From my soul's deep-graved record !
Marq.

Ha! Sir Count,
Is this my daughter's image dear? Still glows,
Warm fancy in a dedicated breast ?

Count. The heart will live, even 'neath the sable pall
Of this dark cross. Father ! al length I'll speak,
Long have I silent suffer'd-now the time
Is come for confidence !

The Count proceeds to unfold, in a narrative whose beauties we reluctantly compress, that soon after the death of his mother, (by whom he was left an infant,) his father again married, and hail a second son, with whom, not withstanding the partiality of a stepmother, he grew in fraternal concord and af. fection. We cannot resist these sweet lines :

Count. I was a child of grief-a sorrowing cypress
Sprung from a mother's grave, and doom'd as such
To live a mourner! Soon my father's arms
Embraced a second son-he loved us both
Alike-for me alone there lived, alas !

No mother! yet in mutual love we grew ! The old Count, feeling his end approaching, had summoned both his sons, and informed thein of his intentions regarding their future prospects. Two offers had been made him ou their account. That of the band of Marquis Sorrento's heiress for the one--and for the other, the Grand Cross of the Teutovic Order. His love of justice, and knowledge of their characters, had determined him to choose as the bridegroom, and supporter of the fainily honours, his eldest son, (the present Count,) while the rash and headlong Con. rad, to whose fiery temper he would fear to commit the happiness of his friend's daughter, is to assume the cross. The Marquis naturally exclaims,

Marq. What dost thou tell me? Wherefore did he change
This wice resolve?
Count.

By him 'twas never changed.

The narrator proceeds to say, that his father being soon after seized with mortal illness, it fell to the lot of the Countess to write the letters of mutual acceptance; and that urged by pardonable maternal partiality, she substitue ted her own son's name in the marriage contract. The good Count himself thus excuses her.

Count. Is there a mother can forego the hope
To cradle her son's offspring in her arms?
Alas! I knew not that she bade me lose !
I look possession of my father's castle,
Already in my mind's eye, graced with her
I saw in dreains, and like a dreamer loved !
Then came a wakening! replies that wedded
Thy child to Conrad-aud ihe Cross to ine !

Marq. Fatal exchange! fatal alike to all!
Did ye not vindicate a parent's choice ?

Count. I saw my brother's love-illumined glance,
A mother's raptures-in my heart I dug

A grave for my dead hopes—and took the Cross ! This noble victim of fraternal generosity, (for whom we hope the reader begins to feel an adequate interest,) goes on to relate his presence at his brother's wedding, and the deep emotion he experienced on witnessing the touching beauty, and tearful reluctance of the bride.

Count. A voice rose whispering in my soul —" Perchance
On thy fond breast more gently yon fair head
Had sunk!” The pang shot icy through my heart,
Its wound bath never closed.
Marg.

Oh! were she not
Thy brother's sightless widow-yet I'd bid
Thee doff the Cross-Love hath as greatly dared.

Count. And what if on yon sightless orbs I gaze
With deeper, holier glance than e'er explored
Summer nights' starry heav'n? If all my life's
Fond aspirations be their darkling path,
With love to lighten-Is there then no power
These bonds to sever? Know'st thou none save Death?

Marg. Well do I know one-hard to be attain'd,
A papai dispensation !
Count.

Hard indeed!
But say 'twere mine?

Then by a father's blessing It soon were ratified ! The dispensation, though not actually arrived, is-from the great interest exerted to procure it-hourly expected; and the ambitious parent already views the desirable alliance as concluded. But the lover, rendered timid by years of suffering, hints that the costliest, as well as most important treasure, yet remains unattained- the love and consent of Camilla. For these the Marquis hastily and confidently answers, and the Count would fain be persuaded.

Marq.

Count. Dost think she loves me ? Once I hoped it too,
When in undoubting confidence, her soul

Open'd before me-Ah! but Lore is more ! The father's reiterated assurances that she has no will but his, encourage these bright anticipations.

Count. O hasten, blesseil moment, when mine own
I may enfold her ! 'when at length my heart
Upon a fellow mortal's answering breast
May shed its tears of joy. O might it please
Thee, their Creator ! to rekindle ihen
Thy spark within those eyes that they might rest,
First upon me—and drink my speechless bliss !

Marq. Thy prayer may be fulfill'd-by skilful men

It hath been said, if e'er some mighty shock
Of joy or grief awake the palsied nerve,

The pall of darkness may be rent aside! They are interrupted by Leonhard, who enters, followed by the Painter, and joyfully exclaims,

Leon. Grandfather / we remain ! alike my mother
And my dear master love to have it so.
You are out-voted.

Count. (Embracing him.) Mine own Leonhard !
Marq. 'Thou com'st too late ! The Count before had conquer'd !
Leon. Had he indeed ?
Paint.

Forgive the youth's impatience
If I disturb ye!

Marq. Nay, ye are most welcome. He then again tenders cold and stately gratitude to the tutor of his grande son, and hinis at pecuniary reimbursement. The Painter spurns the latter, while he accepts the proffered hand of the Marquis, as an earnest that his cares have been appreciated. The kind Count invites him, as a beloved and valued member of the family circle, to remain with him, if not summoned elsewhere by ties of country.

Paint. My country is with thee-for there alone
Where I can be a father-is my home!

Count. Thou speak'st our language as it were thine own.

Paint. I prize it highest--for the German tongue
Is rich and noble, as the German heart!
Besides, I look'd to Germany for home,
Thinking it Leonhard's.
Leon.

No! dearest master!
Here is my home. Within these ancient walls
A secret rests--Forgive me, if to thee

I dare not yet reveal it! The Marquis now alludes to the works which, in the leisure and solitude of the castle, may be achieved by the Painter.

Paint. Yes! if God will-much shall be finish'd here.
Sometimes I feel as if I must be brief,
And for mankind bright visions body forth
That live within-ere Death its sable pall
Across the mirror fling! What I achieve
In life's late holiday-will live before ye;

What the veil shrouds--will be, as now-a dream. On the proposal to paint Leonhard's blind, yet beautiful mother, the artist demurs, exclaiming,

Paint. Had I but once the living spirit hail’d,
That from her eyelids beam'd !
Count.

Oh! ye may traće Its angel footsteps, ev'n though half effaced ! The artist, admonished that he must catch the likeness unknown to his fair subject, steadily refuses to attempt it on such terms; but suggests that her son may possibly procure his mother's consent to sit to himself. This Leonbard gladly undertakes, bespeaking his master's cheerfully accorded counsels and assistance.

We have next a téte-à-tête scene between the artist and his noble host, in which the former modestly questions his own right to form one of so privileged a family cirele; while the other eagerly acknowledges the joint claims of kindness, worth, and genius, The Painter, urged by a spirit of independence, insists on depositing in the Count's hands those ample fruits of his past laa bours, which he had laid up with the view of assisting his pupil's indigent relatives; and the Count, with true delicacy of mind, grants, though reluctantly, a request whose motive he appreciates. The artist further bespeaks indul. gence and sympathy

Paint. Think not, if oft my upward eye explore
The sailing clouds, that in fond pride of art
These glances soar!-No! loftier as they rise,
Purer and humbler do they leave my soul.
Nor deem when oft in silent musing sinks
My downward head, that sordid thoughts of earth
Press on mine eyelids. No! 'tis then that forms,
Statelier than human, gathering round me stand
Sketching immortal thoughts--for mortal pencil.
'Tis unto such, not unto man, I bow.

Count. Fear not! I'll understand thee.
Puint.

We are quits
Life's stormy passions !--for in tears I've paid
My mortal tribute to ye—with my heart
Yé lie entom b' and yet to Fancy's eye,
If she but lift your pall aside, ye seem
But like enchanted dreamers, who, in frowns
Still ominous, or strange unconscious smiles,
Reveal the slumbering life-Yet I'll not fear
Ye cannot wake again !
Count.

0! happy thou,
Thus thine own victor!
Paint.

Let this solemn hour
Excuse the question-Hast thou ever loved ?

Count. Loved, say'st thou ? -Aye!
Paint.

Then does the sable Cross
Upon thy breast reveal me all thy love's
Sad story-1, too, bear a broken heart !
Nought binds its fragments to this icy world,
Save love for Leonhard !
Count.

And that love shall bind
Us, too, together--Are we not both fathers ?
Let us then tend with mutual care the growth
Of one beloved plant, and fondly mark
Alike its proud stems rise, until its crest
Spreads friendly shelter, and beneath its shade
We lay us down to sleep. Fate pillow'd once
A brother on my breast-vindictive foes,
And the base pencil of an hireling, robb’d
That blessing from me. Oft in vain I oped
My arms to win him to a brother's heart-
Duce more I open them, my friend, to thee.
Paint. And not in vain! I hail the boon with joy.

(They embrace, and exeunt.

We have been thus diffuse in these earlier scenes, (comprising, notwithktanding their length, only the first act of this immeasurable drama,) that the requisite interest might be awakened for the subsequent incidents by a full developement of the generous and noble characters of the Count, the artist, and his pupil, all so finely conceived, and so brightly contrasted with the commonplace votary of wealth and ambition in that of the Marquis.

The nexi act is about to claim the sympathy of the reader for another per

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