The daily republic. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1853-1853, 1853-07-23

There was spiritual loveliness emanating from
her face, as if she had caught glimpse of the
glores of her heavenly home, and heard faint
echo of the harpings of an immortal hymn. W.
The mute agony of the weeping attendants who
knelt at her feet-the grim exccutioner, with the
glittering axe uplifted. 1t was too perfect--al-
most painfully SO. There was superhuman re-
atty about the picture which made us tremble,
and it was with a sense of relief that we saw the
curtain fall.
Miss C--'s personation Of Mary was a
''chef d'eurre, and her conception of the charac-
ter perfect.
The concluding picture was slave market in
Constantinople The unwilling of young Greek
girl before her buyer, fierce Turk, who sits
cross limbed, surveying with admiring eyes the
unconscious being before him. She is a fair
young creature, with lovely face faultless in its
classical proportions The clear cheek was color
less as marbles and the expression of the full soft
mouth ineffaby mournful and touching. She
seemed totally distracted from all around, her
eyes cast down in earnest thought upon with
cred flower in her hand.
Reader, she was dreaming-such dream, in
deed, as adds years to the Sinner lUs"-dreaming
of the past and of her far-away home.
Yes! those wthered blossoms, by the power of
association, brings back with lifelike force to the
beautiful Greek her own sunny land. Its moon
light nights, its broad terraces, its graceful urns its
slender cypress spires all rise up before her like
delicate shadows piercing the violet sky with
their infinite combinations of natural and artificial
beauty! Sacred to her are the paths her foot
steps trod in the mellowing spring time, in the
summers soft twilight, and in the glowing au-
tumn. But alas blended with these scenes rise
the memory of parents and friends. She dreams
of her mother-how she had faded day by day,
and how she had laid her thin hands lovingly up
on the forehead of her only child and talked to
her Of the dark, dark future, when there would
be coffin and a heap Of earth between them.
And then she dreamed of the hour when that
loved and angel mother was laid in her last rest
ng-place.
1t rolls by her dead mother grave,
That blue Italian river;
The tall white lilies moaning wave, .t
The ripples, sadly chanting, lave
The moss-grown tomb forever.
And she, alone--alone in foreign land, and
in slavery worse than death. Heavy tears fall
upon the clasped fingers. The glittering bubble,
which in her childish days she had grnsped closely
was crushed within her hand. All that was
bright, all that was gladstone; the roses that had
clustered about her path-all, all receded as her
present degradation rose up, and the world lay
stretched out before her wilderness.
Lost lost Precious one!
In thy fresh spring-time growing up alone,
Ne warmth enfolds thee-no sweet dews are shed,
Like love and patience, over thy young head;
No holy springs feed thy deep inner life,
Nor shelter thee from passions deadly strife:
Oh Thou--who by this awful fate
Hast Topped and stripped, and made her desolate,
In the dark. bitter floods that o er her soul
Their pillows of despair triumphant roll,
Let her not be overwhelmed!
So keep her that the blossoms of her youth
Shall, in gracious growth of love and truth,
With an abundant harvest honor Thee!
So from her fate shall grow .
The palm branch for her hand and for her brow,
With which, a hopeful pilgrim, she may tread
The shadowy path where rest awhile the dead,
Fer they rise up, glorious company,
To find their lost one and to worship Thee!