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human or savage, native of the forest wild, or giddy air, around whose parent bosom thou hast not a chord entwined of power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and, at thy will, to draw them back to thee. On iron pinions borne, the bloodstained vulture cleaves the storm, yet is the plumage closest to her breast, soft as the cygnet's down, and o'er her unshelled brood the murmuring ring-dove sits not more gently. Yes, now he is beyond the porch, barring the outer gate! Alonzo! Alonzo! my friend; ah! in gentle sleep! Alonzo! rise !

Alonzo. How? is my hour elapsed? Well, I am ready.
Rol. Alonzo! know me.
Al. What voice is that?
Rol. 'Tis Rolla's.

Al. Rolla! my friend! Heavens! how couldst thou pass the guard? Did this habit

Rol. There is not a moment to be lost in words: this disguise I tore from the dead body of a friar, as I passed our field of battle: it has gained me entrance to thy dungeon; now, take it, thou, and fly.

Al. And Rolla
Rol. Will remain here in thy place.
Al. And die for me? No! Rather eternal tortures rack me.

Rol. I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro seeks, not Rolla's; and from my prison soon will thy arm deliver me; or, should it be otherwise, I am as a blighted plantain, standing alone amid the sandy desert. Nothing seeks or lives beneath


shelter. Thou art-a husband and a father—the being of a lovely wife and helpless infant hangs upon thy life. Go! go, Alonzo! Go, to save, not thyself, but Cora and thy child !

Al. Urge me not thus, my friend; I had prepared to die in peace.

Rol. To die in peace? devoting her thou hast sworn to live for, to madness, misery, and death? For, be assured, the state I left her in forbids all hope, but from thy quick return.

Al. Merciful heavens!

Rol. If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo, now heed me well. I think thou hast not known that Rolla ever pledged his word, and shrunk from its fulfillment. If thou art proudly obstinate to deny thy friend the transport of preserving Cora's life, in

thee, no power that sways the will of man shall stir me hence; and thou'lt but have the desperate triumph of seeing Rolla perish by thy side, with the assured conviction that Cora and thy child are lost forever.

Al. Oh, Rolla!

Rol. Begone. The dawn approaches. Fear not for me. I will treat with Pizarro, as for surrender and submission. ] shall gain time, no doubt, while thou, with a chosen band, passing the secret way, mayst, at night, return, release thy friend, and bear him back in triumph. Yes, hasten, dear Alonzo! Even now, I hear thy frantic wife, poor Cora, call thee! Haste, Alonzo! Haste! Haste! Al.

Rolla! you distract me. Wear you the robe, and, though dreadful the necessity, we will strike down the guard, and force our passage.

Rol. What, the soldier on duty here?
Al. Yes, else, seeing two, the alarm will be instant death.

Rol. For my nation's safety, I would not harm him. That soldier, mark me, is a man! All are not men that wear the human form. He refused my prayers, refused my gold, denying admittance, till his own feelings bribed him. I would not risk a hair of that man's head, to save my heart-strings from consuming fire.

But haste! A moment's further pause, and all is lost.

Al. Rolla, I fear thy friendship drives me from honor, and from right.

Rol. Did Rolla ever counsel dishonor to his friend?
Al. Oh! my preserver!

Rol. I feel thy warm tears dropping on my cheek. Go! I am rewarded. (Throwing a friar's garment over Alonzo.) There, conceal thy face; and that they may not clank, hold fast thy chains. Now, God be with thee !

Al. At night we meet again. Then, so aid me Heaven! I return to save, or perish with thee!

(Exit.) Rol. He has passed the outer porch! he is safe! he will soon embrace his wife and child! Now, Cora, didst thou not wrong me?

This is the first time, throughout my life, I ever deceived man. Forgive me, God of Truth! if I am wrong. Alonzo flatters himself that we shall meet again! Yes, there! (Lifting his hands to heaven.) Assuredly we shall meet again; there, possess in peace the joys of everlasting love and friendship-on earth, imperfect and imbittered.



FRIENDSHIP IN SCRIPTURE. Two very remarkable instances of friendship occur in the history of our Savior's life. It may not, perhaps, be altogether uninteresting to state them in all their striking circumstances. The Evangelist, in relating the miracles which Christ performed at Bethany, by restoring a person to life, who had lain some days in the grave, introduces his narrative by emphatically observing, that “ Jesus loved Lazarus;” intimating, it would seen, that the sentiments which Christ entertained of Lazarus, were a distinct and peculiar species of that general benevolence, by which he was actuated towards all mankind.

Agreeably to this application of the sacred historian's meaning, when the sisters of Lazarus sent to acquaint Jesus of the state in which their brother lay, they did not even mention his name, but pointed him out by a more honorable and equally notorious designation. The words of this message were, “Behold, he whom thou lovest is sick!" Accordingly, when he informs the disciples of the notice he had thus received, his expression is, “Our friend Lazarus sleepeth.”

Now that Christ did not, upon this occasion, use the word friend, in its loose, undistinguished acceptation, but in a restrained and strictly appropriated sense, is not only manifest from this plain account of the fact itself, but appears further evident from the sequel. For, as he was advancing to the grave, accompanied by the relations of the deceased, he evinced emotion like that which swelled in their bosoms, and sympathizing with their common sorrow, he melted into tears. " Jesus wept."

This circumstance was too remarkable to escape particular observation; and it drew from the spectators, what we think it must necessarily draw from every reader, this natural and obvious reflection, “Behold how he loved him.”

In the concluding catastrophe of our Savior's life, he gave a still more decisive proof, that sentiments of the strongest personal attachment and friendship, were not unworthy of being admitted into his sacred bosom. They were too deeply impressed, indeed, to be extinguished even by the most excruciating torments. In that dreadful moment, observing among the afflicted witnesses of his painful and ignominious sufferings, the faithful follower, who is described by the historian as “the disciple whom Jesus loved,” he distinguished him by the most convincing instance of superior confidence, esteem, and affection, that ever was exhibited to the admiration of mankind. For, under circumstances of the most agonizing torment, when it might be thought impossible for human nature to retain any other sensibility but that of its own inexpressible suffering, he recommended to the care and protection of this, his tried and approved friend, in terms of peculiar regard and endearment, the most tender and sacred object of his private affections.

But no language can represent this pathetic and affecting scene, with a force and energy equal to the sublime simplicity of the Evangelist's own narrative: “Now there stood by the cross of Jesus, his mother, and his mother's sister, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple standing by whom he loved; he saith unto his mother, · Behold thy son!' Then he saith to the disciple, Behold thy mother !' And from that hour, that disciple took her unto his own home.”





Now it came to pass, in the days when the judges ruled, that there was a famine in the land. And a certain man of Bethlehem-judah went to sojourn in the country of Moab, he, and his wife, and his two sons. And the name of the man was Elimelech, and the

) of his wife, Naomi, and the (. ) of his two sons, Mahlon and Chilion, Ephrathites of Bethlehem-judah. And they came into the (...)

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of Moab, and continued there. And Elimelech, Naomi's husband, died: and she was left, and her two sons.

And they took them wives of the women of Moab; the name of the one was Orpah, and the name of the other Ruth; and they (

) there about ten years. And Mahlon and Chilion died also, both of them; and the woman was left of her two sons and her husband. Then she (

), with her daughters-in-law, that she might return from the country of Moab; for she had heard in the country of Moab, how that the Lord had visited his people, in .) them bread. Wherefore she went forth out of the place where she was, and her two daughters-in-law with her; and they went on the way to (

) unto the land of Judah. And Naomi said unto her two daughters-inlaw, Go, return each to her mother's house; the Lord deal kindly with you, as ye have dealt with the dead, and with me. The Lord grant you that ye may find rést, each of you in the house of her husband. Then she kissed them; and they lifted up their voice and wept.

And they said unto her, Surely we will return with thee unto thy people. And Naomi said, Turn again, my daughters, why will ye go with me? It (. ) me much, for your sakes, that the hand of the Lord is gone out ( . ) me. And they lifted up their voice, and wept again; and Orpah kissed her mother-in-law, but Ruth clave unto her. And she said, Behold, thy sister-in-law is gone back unto her (

), and unto her gods; return thou after thy sisterin-law.

And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I ( . ); and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God; where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but (.. ) part thee and me. When she saw that she was steadfastly minded to go with her, then she left

) unto her. So they two went until they came to Bethlehem. And it came to pass, when they were come to Bethlehem, that all the city was (

) about them; and they said, is this Naomi? And she said unto them, Call me not Naomi, call me

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