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Returned the forfeit sword, which, so returned,
You did refuse to use against him more;
And then, as says report, you parted friends.

De Mon. When he disarmed this cursed, this worthless hand

Of its most worthless weapon, he but spared
From devilish pride, which now derives a bliss
In seeing me thus fettered, shamed, subjected
With the vile favour of his poor forbearance;
Whilst he securely sits with gibing brow,
And basely baits me like a muzzled cur,
Who cannot turn again.

Until that day, till that accursed day,

I knew not half the torment of this hell

Which burns within my breast. Heaven's lightnings blast him!

Jane. Oh, this is horrible! Forbear, forbear! Lest Heaven's vengeance light upon thy head For this most impious wish.

De Mon. Then let it light.

Torments more fell than I have known already
It cannot send. To be annihilated,
What all men shrink from; to be dust, be nothing,
Were bliss to me, compared to what I am!

Jane. Oh! wouldst thou kill me with these dreadful words?

De Mon. Let me but once upon his ruin look,
Then close mine eyes for ever!-

Ha! how is this? Thou'rt ill; thou'rt very pale;
What have I done to thee? Alas! alas!

I meant not to distress thee-O, my sister!
Jane. I cannot now speak to thee.

De Mon. I have killed thee.

Turn, turn thee not away! Look on me still!
Oh! droop not thus, my life, my pride, my sister!
Look on me yet again.

Jane. Thou, too, De Montfort,

In better days was wont to be my pride.

De Mon. I am a wretch, most wretched in myself, And still more wretched in the pain I give. O curse that villain, that detested villain! He has spread misery o'er my fated life; He will undo us all."

Jane. I've held my warfare through a troubled world, And borne with steady mind my share of ill; For then the helpmate of my toil wast thou. But now the wane of life comes darkly on, And hideous passion tears thee from my heart, Blasting thy worth. I cannot strive with this. De Mon. What shall I do?

[Female Picture of a Country Life.]

Even now methinks

Each little cottage of my native vale
Swells out its earthen sides, upheaves its roof,
Like to a hillock moved by labouring mole,

And with green trail-weeds clambering up its walls,
Roses and every gay and fragrant plant
Before my fancy stands, a fairy bower.
Ay, and within it too do fairies dwell.
Peep through its wreathed window, if indeed

The flowers grow not too close; and there within
Thou'lt see some half a dozen rosy brats,
Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk-
Those are my mountain elves. Seest thou not
Their very forms distinctly?

I'll gather round my board
All that Heaven sends to me of way-worn folks,
And noble travellers, and neighbouring friends,
Both young and old. Within my ample hall,
The worn out man of arms shall o' tiptoe tread,
Tossing his gray locks from his wrinkled brow
With cheerful freedom, as he boasts his feats
Of days gone by. Music we'll have; and oft
The bickering dance upon our oaken floors

Shall, thundering loud, strike on the distant ear
Of 'nighted travellers, who shall gladly bend
Their doubtful footsteps towards the cheering din.
Solemn, and grave, and cloistered, and demure
We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels ?
Every season

Shall have its suited pastime even winter
In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow,
And choked up valleys from our mansion bar
All entrance, and nor guest nor traveller
Sounds at our gate; the empty hall forsaken,
In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire,
We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court,
Plying our work with song and tale between.

[Fears of Imagination.]

Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast,
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud
In the sunned glimpses of a stormy day,
Shiver in silvery brightness?

Or boatmen's oar, as vivid lightning flash
In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake?
Or lonely tower, from its brown mass of woods,
Give to the parting of a wintry sun

One hasty glance in mockery of the night
Closing in darkness round it? Gentle friend!
Chide not her mirth who was sad yesterday,
And may be so to-morrow.

[Speech of Prince Edward in his Dungeon.]
Doth the bright sun from the high arch of heaven,
In all his beauteous robes of fleckered clouds,
And ruddy vapours, and deep-glowing flames,
And softly varied shades, look gloriously?

Do the green woods dance to the wind? the lakes
Cast up their sparkling waters to the light?
Do the sweet hamlets in their bushy dells
Send winding up to heaven their curling smoke
On the soft morning air?

Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound
In antic happiness? and mazy birds
Wing the mid air in lightly skimming bands?
Ay, all this is-men do behold all this-
The poorest man. Even in this lonely vault,
My dark and narrow world, oft do I hear
The crowing of the cock so near my walls,
And sadly think how small a space divides me
From all this fair creation.

[Description of Jane de Montfort.]

[The following has been pronounced to be a perfect picture of Mrs Siddons, the tragic actress.]

Page. Madam, there is a lady in your hall Who begs to be admitted to your presence. Lady. Is it not one of our invited friends? Page. No; far unlike to them. It is a stranger. Lady. How looks her countenance?

Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so noble, I shrunk at first in awe; but when she smiled, Methought I could have compassed sea and land To do her bidding.

Lady. Is she young or old?

Page. Neither, if right I guess; but she is fair,
For Time hath laid his hand so gently on her,
As he, too, had been awed.

Lady. The foolish stripling!

She has bewitched thee. Is she large in stature?
Page. So stately and so graceful is her form,
I thought at first her stature was gigantic;
But on a near approach, I found, in truth,
She scarcely does surpass the middle size.
Lady. What is her garb?

75

Page. I cannot well describe the fashion of it:
She is not decked in any gallant trim,
But seems to me clad in her usual weeds
Of high habitual state; for as she moves,
Wide flows her robe in many a waving fold,
As I have seen unfurled banners play
With the soft breeze.

Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy;
It is an apparition thou hast seen.

Freberg. [Starting from his seat, where he has been sitting during the conversation between the Lady and the Page.]

It is an apparition he has seen,

Or it is Jane de Montfort.

WILLIAM GODWIN-WILLIAM SOTHEBY.

in 1813, aided by fine original music, but it has not since been revived. It contains, however, some of Coleridge's most exquisite poetry and wild superstition, with a striking romantic plot. We extract the scene in which Alhadra describes the supposed murder of her husband, Alvar, by his brother, and animates his followers to vengeance.

[Scene from Remorse."]

The Mountains by Moonlight. ALHADRA alone, in a
Moorish dress.

Alhadra. Yon hanging woods, that, touched by
autumn, seem

As they were blossoming hues of fire and gold;
The flower-like woods, most lovely in decay,
The many clouds, the sea, the rocks, the sands,
Lie in the silent moonshine; and the owl
(Strange, very strange !)—the screech-owl only wakes,
Sole voice, sole eye of all this world of beauty!
Unless, perhaps, she sing her screeching song
To a herd of wolves, that skulk athirst for blood.
Why such a thing am I? Where are these men!
I need the sympathy of human faces,
To beat away this deep contempt for all things,
Which quenches my revenge. Oh! would to Alla
The raven or the sea-mew were appointed
To bring me food! or rather that my soul
Could drink in life from the universal air!
It were a lot divine in some small skiff,
Along some ocean's boundless solitude,
To float for ever with a careless course,
And think myself the only being alive!
My children!-Isidore's children!-Son of Valdez,
This hath new strung mine arm. Thou coward tyrant!
To stupify a woman's heart with anguish,
Till she forgot even that she was a mother!

MR GODWIN, the novelist, attempted the tragic drama in the year 1800, but his powerful genius, which had produced a romance of deep and thrilling interest, became cold and frigid when confined to the rules of the stage. His play was named Antonio, or the Soldier's Return. It turned out a miracle of dulness,' as Sergeant Talfourd relates, and at last the actors were hooted from the stage. The author's equanimity under this severe trial is amusingly related by Talfourd. Mr Godwin, he says, 'sat on one of the front benches of the pit, unmoved amidst the storm. When the first act passed off without a hand, he expressed his satisfaction at the good sense of the house; "the proper season of applause had not arrived;" all was exactly as it should be. The second act proceeded to its close in the same uninterrupted calm; his friends became uneasy, but still his optimism prevailed; he could afford to wait. And although he did at last admit the great movement was somewhat tardy, and that the audience seemed rather patient than interested, he did not [She fixes her eyes on the earth. Then drop in, one after lose his confidence till the tumult arose, and then he another, from different parts of the stage, a considerable numsubmitted with quiet dignity to the fate of genius, ber of Morescoes, all in Moorish garments and Moorish armour. too lofty to be understood by a world as yet in its They form a circle at a distance round ALHADRA, and remain childhood.' The next new play was also by a man silent till the second in command, NAOMI, enters, distinguished of distinguished genius, and it also was unsuccessful. by his dress and armour, and by the silent obeisance paid to Julian and Agnes, by WILLIAM SOTHEBY, the trans-him on his entrance by the other Moors.] lator of Oberon, was acted April 25, 1800. In the course of its performance, Mrs Siddons, as the heroine, had to make her exit from the scene with an infant in her arms. Having to retire precipitately, she inadvertently struck the baby's head violently against a door-post. Happily, the little thing was made of wood, so that her doll's accident only produced a general laugh, in which the actress herself joined heartily.' This 'untoward event' would have marred the success of any new tragedy; but Mr Sotheby's is deficient in arrangement and dramatic art. We may remark, that at this time the genius of Kemble and Mrs Siddons shed a lustre on the stage, and reclaimed it from the barbarous solecisms in dress and decoration which even Garrick had tolerated. Neither Kemble nor Garrick, however, paid sufficient attention to the text of Shakspeare's dramas, which, even down to about the year 1838, continued to be presented as mutilated by Nahum Tate, Colley Cibber, and others. The first manager who ventured to restore the pure text of the great dramatist, and present it without any of the baser alloys on the stage, was Mr Macready, who made great though unavailing efforts to encourage the taste of the public for Shakspeare and the legitimate drama.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

The tragedies of Coleridge, Scott, Byron, Procter, and Milman (noticed in our account of these poets), must be considered as poems rather than plays. Coleridge's Remorse was acted with some success

Naomi. Woman, may Alla and the prophet bless
thee!

We have obeyed thy call. Where is our chief!
And why didst thou enjoin these Moorish garments?
Alhad. [Raising her eyes, and looking round on the

circle.]

Warriors of Mahomet! faithful in the battle!
My countrymen! Come ye prepared to work
An honourable deed? And would ye work it
In the slave's garb? Curse on those Christian robes!
They are spell-blasted; and whoever wears them,
His arm shrinks withered, his heart melts away,
And his bones soften.

Naomi. Where is Isidore?

Alhad. [In a deep low voice.] This night I went from
forth my house, and left

His children all asleep; and he was living!
And I returned, and found them still asleep,
But he had perished!

All Morescoes. Perished?
Alhad. He had perished!—
Sleep on, poor babes! not one of you doth know
That he is fatherless-a desolate orphan!
Why should we wake them? Can an infant's arm
Revenge his murder?

One Moresco to another. Did she say his murder?
Naomi. Murder! Not murdered!

Alhad. Murdered by a Christian! [They all at once
draw their sabres.

Alhad. [To Naomi, who advances from the circle.]
Brother of Zagri, fling away thy sword;
This is thy chieftain's! [He steps forward to take it.]

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Alhad. Yes, the mouth of yonder cavern.
After a while I saw the son of Valdez
Rush by with flaring torch; he likewise entered.
There was another and a longer pause;

And once methought I heard the clash of swords!
And soon the son of Valdez reappeared:

He flung his torch towards the moon in sport,
And seemed as he were mirthful; I stood listening,
Impatient for the footsteps of my husband!
Naomi. Thou calledst him?

Alhad. I crept into the cavern

'Twas dark and very silent. [Then wildly.] What
saidst thou?

No, no! I did not dare call Isidore,
Lest I should hear no answer. A brief while,
Belike, I lost all thought and memory
Of that for which I came. After that pause-
O Heaven! I heard a groan, and followed it;
And yet another groan, which guided me
Into a strange recess, and there was light,
A hideous light! his torch lay on the ground;
It's flame burned dimly o'er a chasm's brink.
I spake; and whilst I spake, a feeble groan
Came from that chasm! it was his last-his death-

groan!

Naomi. Comfort her, Alla.

Alhad. I stood in unimaginable trance, And agony that cannot be remembered, Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan!

But I had heard his last, my husband's death-groan!

Naomi. Haste! let us onward.

Alhad. I looked far down the pit

My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment;

And it was stained with blood. Then first I shrieked,
My eyeballs burned, my brain grew hot as fire!
And all the hanging drops of the wet roof
Turned into blood-I saw them turn to blood!
And I was leaping wildly down the chasm,
When on the farther brink I saw his sword,
And it said vengeance! Curses on my tongue!
The moon hath moved in heaven, and I am here,
And he hath not had vengeance! Isidore,
Spirit of Isidore, thy murderer lives!
Away, away!

All. Away, away! [She rushes off, all following. The incantation scene, in the same play, is sketched with high poetical power, and the author's unrivalled musical expression:

Scene-A Hall of Armory, with an altar at the back of the stage. Soft music from an instrument of glass or steel.

And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep,
His head upon the blind boy's dog. It pleased me
To mark how he had fastened round the pipe
A silver toy his grandam had late given him.
Methinks I see him now as he then looked-
Even so! He had outgrown his infant dress,
Yet still he wore it.

Alv. My tears must not flow!

I must not clasp his knees, and cry, My father!

Enter TERESA and Attendants.

Ter. Lord Valdez, you have asked my presence here,
And I submit; but (Heaven bear witness for me)
My heart approves it not! 'tis mockery.

Ord. Believe you, then, no preternatural influence?
Believe you not that spirits throng around us?

Ter. Say rather that I have imagined it

A possible thing: and it has soothed my soul
As other fancies have; but ne'er seduced me
To traffic with the black and frenzied hope
That the dead hear the voice of witch or wizard.
[To Alvar.] Stranger, I mourn and blush to see you

here

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Hear our soft suit, and heed my milder spell:
Cease thy swift toils! Since haply thou art one
So may the gates of Paradise, unbarred,
Of that innumerable company

Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainbow,
Girdle this round earth in a dizzy motion,
With noise too vast and constant to be heard:
And rapid travellers! what ear unstunned,
Fitliest unheard! For oh, ye numberless
What sense unmaddened, might bear up against
The rushing of your congregated wings? [Music.]
Even now your living wheel turns o'er my head!
[Music expressive of the movements and images
that follow.]

Ye, as ye pass, toss high the desert sands,
That roar and whiten like a burst of waters,
A sweet appearance, but a dread illusion
To the parched caravan that roams by night!
And ye build up on the becalmed waves
That whirling pillar, which from earth to heaven
Stands vast, and moves in blackness! Ye, too, split
The ice mount! and with fragments many and huge
Tempest the new-thawed sea, whose sudden gulfs
Suck in, perchance, some Lapland wizard's skiff!
Then round and round the whirlpool's marge ye dance,
Till from the blue swollen corse the soul toils out,
And joins your mighty army. [Here, behind the scenes,
a voice sings the three words, Hear, sweet spirit.']
Soul of Alvar!
Hear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker charm!

VALDEZ, ORDONIO, and ALVAR in a Sorcerer's robe are dis- By sighs unquiet, and the sickly pang

covered.

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Of a half dead, yet still undying hope,
Pass visible before our mortal sense!
So shall the church's cleansing rites be thine,
Her knells and masses, that redeem the dead!
[Song behind the scenes, accompanied by the same
instrument as before.]

Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell,
Lest a blacker charm compel!
So shall the midnight breezes swell
With thy deep long lingering knell.

And at evening evermore,
In a chapel on the shore,
Shall the chanters, sad and saintly,
Yellow tapers burning faintly,
Doleful masses chant for thee,
Miserere Domine!

Hark! the cadence dies away

On the yellow moonlight sea:
The boatmen rest their oars and say,
Miserere Domine!

[A long pause.
Ord. The innocent obey nor charm nor spell!
My brother is in heaven. Thou sainted spirit,
Burst on our sight, a passing visitant!
Once more to hear thy voice, once more to see thee,
O'twere a joy to me!

Alv. A joy to thee! What if thou heardst him now? What if his spirit Re-entered its cold corse, and came upon thee With many a stab from many a murderer's poniard? What if (his steadfast eye still beaming pity And brother's love) he turned his head aside, Lest he should look at thee, and with one look Hurl thee beyond all power of penitence? Vald. These are unholy fancies!

Ord. [Struggling with his feelings.] Yes, my father, He is in heaven!

Alv. [Still to Ordonio.] But what if he had a brother,

Who had lived even so, that at his dying hour
The name of heaven would have convulsed his face
More than the death-pang?

Val. Idly prating man!

Thou hast guessed ill: Don Alvar's only brother Stands here before thee-a father's blessing on him! He is most virtuous.

Alv. [Still to Ordonio.] What if his very virtues Had pampered his swollen heart and made him proud? And what if pride had duped him into guilt? Yet still he stalked a self-created god, Not very bold, but exquisitely cunning; And one that at his mother's looking-glass Would force his features to a frowning sternness ? Young lord! I tell thee that there are such beingsYea, and it gives fierce merriment to the damned To see these most proud men, that loathe mankind, At every stir and buz of coward conscience, Trick, cant, and lie; most whining hypocrites! Away, away! Now let me hear more music.

[Music again. Ter. 'Tis strange, I tremble at my own conjectures! But whatsoe'er it mean, I dare no longer Be present at these lawless mysteries, This dark provoking of the hidden powers! Already I affront-if not high HeavenYet Alvar's memory! Hark! I make appeal Against the unholy rite, and hasten hence To bend before a lawful shrine, and seek That voice which whispers, when the still heart listens, Comfort and faithful hope! Let us retire.

REV. CHARLES ROBERT MATURIN.

The REV. CHARLES ROBERT MATURIN, author of several romances, produced a tragedy named Bertram, which, by the influence of Lord Byron, was brought out at Drury Lane in 1816. It was well received; and by the performance and publication of his play, the author realised about £1000. Sir Walter Scott considered the tragedy 'grand and powerful, the language most animated and poetical, and the characters sketched with a masterly enthusiasm.' The author was anxious to introduce Satan on the stage, a return to the style of the ancient mysteries by no means suited to modern taste. Mr Maturin was

curate of St Peter's, Dublin. The scanty income derived from his curacy being insufficient for his comfortable maintenance, he employed himself in assisting young persons during their classical studies at Trinity college, Dublin. The novels of Maturin (which will be afterwards noticed) enjoyed considerable popularity; and had his prudence been equal

CR Matwin

to his genius, his life might have been passed in comfort and respect. He was, however, vain and extravagant-always in difficulties (Scott at one time generously sent him £50), and haunted by bailiffs. When this eccentric author was engaged in compo sition, he used to fasten a wafer on his forehead, which was the signal that if any of his family entered the sanctum they must not speak to him! The success of Bertram' induced Mr Maturin to attempt another tragedy, Manuel, which he published in 1817. It is a very inferior production; the absurd work of a clever man,' says Byron. The unfortunate author died in Dublin on the 30th of October 1824.

[Scene from 'Bertram.']

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[A passage of great poetical beauty, in which Bertram is represented as spurred to the commission of his great crimes by the direct agency of a supernatural and malevolent being. -Sir Walter Scott.]

PRIOR-BERTRAM.

Prior. The dark knight of the forest,

So from his armour named and sable helm,
Whose unbarred vizor mortal never saw.
He dwells alone; no earthly thing lives near him,
Save the hoarse raven croaking o'er his towers,
And the dank weeds muffling his stagnant moat.

Bertram. I'll ring a summons on his barred portal Shall make them through their dark valves rock and ring.

Prior. Thou'rt mad to take the quest. Within my memory

One solitary man did venture there-
Dark thoughts dwelt with him, which he sought to

vent.

Unto that dark compeer we saw his steps,
In winter's stormy twilight, seek that pass--
But days and years are gone, and he returns not.
Bertram. What fate befell him there?
Prior. The manner of his end was never known.
Bertram. That man shall be my mate. Contend
not with me-

Horrors to me are kindred and society.

Or man, or fiend, he hath won the soul of Bertram.

[Bertram is afterwards discovered alone, wandering near the fatal tower, and describes the effect of the awful interview which he had courted.]

Bertram. Was it a man or fiend? Whate'er it was,
It hath dealt wonderfully with me-
All is around his dwelling suitable;
The invisible blast to which the dark pines groan,
The unconscious tread to which the dark earth echoes,
The hidden waters rushing to their fall;
These sounds, of which the causes are not seen,
I love, for they are, like my fate, mysterious!
How towered his proud form through the shrouding
gloom,

How spoke the eloquent silence of its motion,
How through the barred vizor did his accents
Roll their rich thunder on their pausing soul!
And though his mailed hand did shun my grasp,
And though his closed morion hid his feature,
Yea, all resemblance to the face of man,
I felt the hollow whisper of his welcome,

I felt those unseen eyes were fixed on mine,
If eyes indeed were there-

Forgotten thoughts of evil, still-born mischiefs,
Foul fertile seeds of passion and of crime,
That withered in my heart's abortive core,
Roused their dark battle at his trumpet-peal:
So sweeps the tempest o'er the slumbering desert,
Waking its myriad hosts of burning death:
So calls the last dread peal the wandering atoms
Of blood, and bone, and flesh, and dust-worn fragments,
In dire array of ghastly unity,

To bide the eternal summons

I am not what I was since I beheld him-
I was the slave of passion's ebbing sway-
All is condensed, collected, callous, now-
The groan, the burst, the fiery flash is o'er,
Down pours the dense and darkening lava-tide,
Arresting life, and stilling all beneath it.

Enter two of his band observing him.

That brightness all around thee, that appeared
An emanation of the soul, that loved

To adorn its habitation with itself,
And in thy body was like light, that looks
More beautiful in the reflecting cloud
It lives in, in the evening. Oh, Evadne,
Thou art not altered-would thou wert!

In the same year with Mr Sheil's 'Evadne' (1820) appeared Brutus, or the Fall of Tarquin, a historical tragedy, by JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. There is no originality or genius displayed in this drama; but, when well acted, it is highly effective on the stage.

In 1821 MR PROCTER'S tragedy of Mirandola was brought out at Covent Garden, and had a short but enthusiastic run of success. The plot is painful (including the death, through unjust suspicions, of a prince sentenced by his father), and there is a want of dramatic movement in the play; but some of the passages are imbued with poetical feeling and

First Robber. Seest thou with what a step of pride vigorous expression. The doting affection of Miran

he stalks?

Thou hast the dark knight of the forest seen;

For never man, from living converse come,

Trod with such step or flashed with eye like thine. Second Robber. And hast thou of a truth seen the dark knight?

Bertram. [Turning on him suddenly.] Thy hand is

chilled with fear. Well, shivering craven,
Say I have seen him-wherefore dost thou gaze?
Long'st thou for tale of goblin-guarded portal?
Of giant champion, whose spell-forged mail
Crumbled to dust at sound of magic horn-
Banner of sheeted flame, whose foldings shrunk
To withering weeds, that o'er the battlements
Wave to the broken spell-or demon-blast
Of winded clarion, whose fell summons sinks
To lonely whisper of the shuddering breeze
O'er the charmed towers

dola, the duke, has something of the warmth and the rich diction of the old dramatists.

Duke. My own sweet love! Oh! my dear peerless
wife!

By the blue sky and all its crowding stars,
I love you better-oh! far better than
Woman was ever loved. There's not an hour
Of day or dreaming night but I am with thee:
There's not a wind but whispers of thy name,
And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon
But in its hues or fragrance tells a tale
Of thee, my love, to thy Mirandola.
Speak, dearest Isidora, can you love
As I do? Can-but no, no; I shall grow
Foolish if thus I talk. You must be gone;
You must be gone, fair Isidora, else
The business of the dukedom soon will cease.

First Robber. Mock me not thus. Hast met him of I speak the truth, by Dian. Even now

a truth?

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RICHARD L. SHEIL-J. H. PAYNE-B. W. PROCTER-
JAMES HAYNES.

Another Irish poet, and man of warm imagination, is RICHARD LALOR SHEIL. His plays, Evadne and The Apostate, were performed with much success, partly owing to the admirable acting of Miss O'Neil. The interest of Mr Sheil's dramas is concentrated too exclusively on the heroine of each, and there is a want of action and animated dialogue; but they abound in impressive and well-managed scenes. The plot of Evadne' is taken from Shirley's Traitor, as are also some of the sentiments. The following description of female beauty is very finely expressed :

But you do not look altered-would you did!
Let me peruse the face where loveliness
Stays, like the light after the sun is set.
Sphered in the stillness of those heaven-blue eyes,
The soul sits beautiful; the high white front,
Smooth as the brow of Pallas, seems a temple
Sacred to holy thinking-and those lips
Wear the small smile of sleeping infancy,
They are so innocent. Ah, thou art still
The same soft creature, in whose lovely form
Virtue and beauty seemed as if they tried
Which should exceed the other. Thou hast got

Gheraldi waits without (or should) to see me.
In faith, you must go one kiss; and so, away.
Isid. Farewell, my lord.

Duke. We'll ride together, dearest,

Some few hours hence.

[Exit.

Isid. Just as you please; farewell.
Duke. Farewell; with what a waving air she goes
Along the corridor. How like a fawn;
Yet statelier.-Hark! no sound, however soft
(Nor gentlest echo), telleth when she treads;
But every motion of her shape doth seem
Hallowed by silence. Thus did Hebe grow
Amidst the gods, a paragon; and thus-
Away! I'm grown the very fool of love.

About the same time Conscience, or the Bridal Night, by MR JAMES HAYNES, was performed, and afterwards published. The hero is a ruined Venetian, and his bride the daughter of his deadliest enemy, and the niece of one to whose death he had been a party. The stings of conscience, and the fears accompanying the bridal night, are thus described:

[LORENZO and his friend JULIO.]
I had thoughts

Of dying; but pity bids me live!
Jul. Yes, live, and still be happy.
Lor. Never, Julio;

Never again: even at my bridal hour

Thou sawest detection, like a witch, look on

And smile, and mock at the solemnity,
Conjuring the stars. Hark! was not that a noise?
Jul. No; all is still.

Lor. Have none approached us?

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