Borgia, (enraged.)—­Both wounded—­yet both living!

Concini.—­What avails the blood I have drawn, while a drop remains.

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 Marechale, 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 Marechale 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.