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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!

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!

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 Matvcin

[A long pause. 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 composition, 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.

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 stilł 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 beings-
Yea, 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 Heaven-
Yet 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

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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,

ין

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?

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,

Bertram. [Turning on him suddenly.] Thy hand is I love you better-oh! far better than

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-

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 de

scribed :

[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 ?

Jul. None.

Lor. Then 'twas my fancy. Every passing hour

Is crowded with a thousand whisperers;
The night has lost its silence, and the stars
Shoot fire upon my soul. Darkness itself
Has objects for mine eyes to gaze upon,
And sends me terror when I pray for sleep
In vain upon my knees. Nor ends it here;
My greatest dread of all-detection-casts
Her shadow on my walk, and startles me
At every turn: sometime will reason drag
Her frightful chain of probable alarms
Across my mind; or, if fatigued, she droops,
Her pangs survive the while; as you have seen
The ocean tossing when the wind is down,
And the huge storm is dying on the waters.
Once, too, I had a dream-

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Jul. The shadows of our sleep should fly with sleep; Nor hang their sickness on the memory.

Lor. Methought the dead man, rising from his tomb, Frowned over me. Elmira at my side, Stretched her fond arms to shield me from his wrath, At which he frowned the more. I turned away, Disgusted, from the spectre, and assayed To clasp my wife; but she was pale, and cold, And in her breast the heart was motionless, And on her limbs the clothing of the grave, With here and there a worm, hung heavily. Then did the spectre laugh, till from its mouth Blood dropped upon us while it cried 'Behold! Such is the bridal bed that waits thy love!' I would have struck it (for my rage was up); I tried the blow; but, all my senses shaken By the convulsion, broke the tranced spell, And darkness told me sleep was my tormentor.

JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

The most successful of modern tragic dramatists is MR JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES, whose plays

Ukuowles

have recently been collected and republished in three volumes. His first appeared in 1820, and is founded

on that striking incident in Roman story, the death of a maiden by the hand of her father, Virginius, to save her from the lust and tyranny of Appius. Mr Knowles's Virginius had an extraordinary run of success. He has since published The Wife, a Tale of Mantua, The Hunchback, Caius Gracchus, The Blind Beggar of Bethnal Green, William Tell, The Love Chace, &c. With considerable knowledge of stage effect, Mr Knowles unites a lively inventive imagination and a poetical colouring, which, if at times too florid and gaudy, sets off his familiar images and illustrations. His style is formed on that of Massinger and the other elder dramatists, carried often to a ridiculous excess. He also frequently violates Roman history and classical propriety, and runs into conceits and affected metaphors. These faults are counterbalanced by a happy art of constructing scenes and plots, romantic, yet not too improbable, by skilful delineation of character, especially in domestic life, and by a current of poetry which sparkles through his plays, 'not with a dazzling lustre-not with a gorgeousness that engrosses our attention, but mildly and agreeably; seldom impeding with useless glitter the progress and development of incident and character, but mingling itself with them, and raising them pleasantly above the prosaic level of common life.'*

[Scene from 'Virginius.'] APPIUS, CLAUDIUS, and LICTORS.

Appius. Well, Claudius, are the forces At hand?

Claudius. They are, and timely, too; the people Are in unwonted ferment.

App. There's something awes me at
The thought of looking on her father!
Claud. Look

Upon her, my Appius! Fix your gaze upon
The treasures of her beauty, nor avert it
Till they are thine. Haste! Your tribunal!

Haste!

[Appius ascends the tribunal.

[Enter NUMITORIUS, ICILIUS, LUCIUS, CITIZENS, VIRGINIUS leading his daughter, SERVIA, and CITIZENS. A dead silence prevails.]

Virginius. Does no one speak? I am defendant here. Is silence my opponent? Fit opponent To plead a cause too foul for speech! What brow Shameless gives front to this most valiant cause, That tries its prowess 'gainst the honour of A girl, yet lacks the wit to know, that he Who casts off shame, should likewise cast off fearAnd on the verge o' the combat wants the nerve To stammer forth the signal?

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App. You had better,

Virginius, wear another kind of carriage;
This is not of the fashion that will serve you.

Vir. The fashion, Appius! Appius Claudius tell me

The fashion it becomes a man to speak in,
Whose property in his own child-the offspring
Of his own body, near to him as is

His hand, his arm-yea, nearer-closer far,
Knit to his heart-I say, who has his property
In such a thing, the very self of himself,
Disputed and I'll speak so, Appius Claudius;
I'll speak so-Pray you tutor me!

App. Stand forth

Claudius! If you lay claim to any interest In the question now before us, speak; if not, Bring on some other cause.

Claud. Most noble Appius

Vir. And are you the man

That claims my daughter for his slave? Look at me And I will give her to thee.

* Edinburgh Review for 1833.

Claud. She is mine, then : Do I not look at you?

Vir. Your eye does, truly, But not your soul. I see it through your eye Shifting and shrinking-turning every way To shun me. You surprise me, that your eye, So long the bully of its master, knows not To put a proper face upon a lie,

But gives the port of impudence to falsehood
When it would pass it off for truth. Your soul
Dares as soon show its face to me. Go on,

I had forgot; the fashion of my speech
May not please Appius Claudius.
Claud. I demand

Protection of the Decemvir!

App. You shall have it.

Vir. Doubtless!

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Vir. [Starting forward.] To be sure she will-a most wise question that!

Is she not his slave? Will his tongue lie for him-
Or his hand steal-or the finger of his hand
Beckon, or point, or shut, or open for him?
To ask him if she'll swear! Will she walk or run,
Sing, dance, or wag her head; do anything
That is most easy done? She'll as soon swear!
What mockery it is to have one's life
In jeopardy by such a bare-faced trick!
Is it to be endured? I do protest
Against her oath!

App. No law in Rome, Virginius,
Seconds you. If she swear the girl's her child,
The evidence is good, unless confronted
By better evidence. Look you to that,
Virginius. I shall take the woman's cath.
Virginia. Icilius!

Icilius. Fear not, love; a thousand oaths
Will answer her.

App. You swear the girl's your child,
And that you sold her to Virginius' wife,
Who passed her for her own. Is that your oath?

Slave. It is my oath.

App. Your answer now, Virginius.

Vir. Here it is!

[Brings Virginia forward.

Is this the daughter of a slave? I know

'Tis not with men as shrubs and trees, that by

The shoot you know the rank and order of

The stem. Yet who from such a stem would look
For such a shoot. My witnesses are these-
The relatives and friends of Numitoria,

Who saw her, ere Virginia's birth, sustain
The burden which a mother bears, nor feels
The weight, with longing for the sight of it.
Here are the ears that listened to her sighs
In nature's hour of labour, which subsides
In the embrace of joy the hands, that when
The day first looked upon the infant's face,
And never looked so pleased, helped them up to it,
And blessed her for a blessing. Here, the eyes
That saw her lying at the generous
And sympathetic fount, that at her cry

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I should have done my client unrequired,
Now cited by him, how shall I refuse?

Vir. Don't tremble, girl! don't tremble.
App. Virginius,

I feel for you; but though you were my father,
The majesty of justice should be sacred-
Claudius must take Virginia home with him!

[Aside.

[Aside.

Vir. And if he must, I should advise him, Appius,

To take her home in time, before his guardian
Complete the violation which his eyes
Already have begun.-Friends! fellow citizens!
Look not on Claudius-look on your Decemvir!
He is the master claims Virginia!
The tongues that told him she was not my child
Are these the costly charms he cannot purchase,
Except by making her the slave of Claudius,
His client, his purveyor, that caters for

His pleasures-markets for him-picks, and scents,
And tastes, that he may banquet serves him up
His sensual feast, and is not now ashamed,
In the open, common street, before your eyes-
Frighting your daughters' and your matrons' cheeks
With blushes they ne'er thought to meet to help

him

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You see how 'tis, we are deserted, left

Alone by our friends, surrounded by our enemies,
Nerveless and helpless.

App. Separate them, Lictors!

Vir. Let them forbear awhile, I pray you, Appius:

It is not very easy. Though her arms

Are tender, yet the hold is strong by which
She grasps me, Appius-forcing them will hurt them;
They'll soon unclasp themselves. Wait but a little
You know you're sure of her!

App. I have not time

To idle with thee; give her to my Lictors.

Vir. Appius, I pray you wait! If she is not
My child, she hath been like a child to me
For fifteen years. If I am not her father,
I have been like a father to her, Appius,
For even such a time. They that have lived
So long a time together, in so near
And dear society, may be allowed

A little time for parting. Let me take
The maid aside, I pray you, and confer

A moment with her nurse; perhaps she'll give me
Some token will unloose a tie so twined

And knotted round my heart, that, if you break it,
My heart breaks with it.

App. Have your wish. Be brief!

Lictors, look to them.

Virginia. Do you go from me? Do you leave? Father! Father!

Vir. No, my child

No, my Virginia-come along with me.

Virginia. Will you not leave me? Will you take me with you?

Will you take me home again? O, bless you! bless

you!

My father! my dear father! Art thou not
My father?

[VIRGINIUS, perfectly at a loss what to do, looks anxiously

around the Forum; at length his eye falls on a butcher's

stall, with a knife upon it.]

Vir. This way, my child-No, no; I am not going To leave thee, my Virginia! I'll not leave thee.

App. Keep back the people, soldiers! Let them not Approach Virginius! Keep the people back!

Well, have you done?

[Virginius secures the knife.

Vir. Short time for converse, Appius,
But I have.

App. I hope you are satisfied.
Vir. I am-

I am that she is my daughter!'
App. Take her, Lictors!

[Virginia shrieks, and falls half-dead upon
her father's shoulder.

Vir. Another moment, pray you. Bear with me
A little-'Tis my last embrace. 'Twont try
Your patience beyond bearing, if you're a man!
Lengthen it as I may, I cannot make it
Long. My dear child! My dear Virginia!

[Exit through the soldiers.

[From The Wife, a Tale of Mantua.'] LORENZO, an Advocate of Rome, and MARIANA.

Lorenzo. That's right-you are collected and direct
In your replies. I dare be sworn your passion
Was such a thing, as, by its neighbourhood,
Made piety and virtue twice as rich

As e'er they were before. How grew it? Come,
Thou know'st thy heart-look calmly into it,
And see how innocent a thing it is
Which thou dost fear to show-I wait your answer.
How grew your passion?

Mariana. As my stature grew,

Which rose without my noting it, until
They said I was a woman. I kept watch
Beside what seemed his deathbed. From beneath
An avalanche my father rescued him,

The sole survivor of a company

Who wandered through our mountains. A long time
His life was doubtful, signor, and he called
For help, whence help alone could come, which I,
Morning and night, invoked along with him;
So first our souls did mingle!

Lorenzo. I perceive: you mingled souls until you
mingled hearts?

You loved at last. Was't not the sequel, maid!
Mariana. I loved, indeed! If I but nursed a flower
Which to the ground the rain and wind had beaten,
That flower of all our garden was my pride:
What then was he to me, for whom I thought
To make a shroud, when, tending on him still
With hope, that, baffled still, did still keep up;
I saw, at last, the ruddy dawn of health
Begin to mantle o'er his pallid form,

And glow-and glow-till forth at last it burst
Into confirmed, broad, and glorious day!
Lorenzo. You loved, and he did love!
Mariana. To say he did,

Were to affirm what oft his eyes avouched,
What many an action testified-and yet-
What wanted confirmation of his tongue.
But if he loved, it brought him not content!
'Twas now abstraction-now a start-anon
A pacing to and fro-anon a stillness,
As nought remained of life, save life itself,
And feeling, thought, and motion, were extinct.
Then all again was action! Disinclined
To converse, save he held it with himself;
Which oft he did, in moody vein discoursing,
And ever and anon invoking honour,
As some high contest there were pending 'twixt
Himself and him, wherein her aid he needed.

Lorenzo. This spoke impediment; or he was bound
By promise to another; or had friends
Whom it behoved him to consult, and doubted ;
Or 'twixt you lay disparity too wide
For love itself to leap.

Mariana. I saw a struggle,

But knew not what it was. I wondered still,

[Kissing her. That what to me was all content, to him

There is one only way to save thine honour-
'Tis this.

[Stabs her, and draws out the knife. Icilius
breaks from the soldiers that held him,
and catches her.

Lo, Appius, with this innocent blood
I do devote thee to the infernal gods!
Make way there!

App. Stop him! Seize him!

Was all disturbance; but my turn did come.
At length he talked of leaving us; at length
He fixed the parting day-but kept it not-
O how my heart did bound! Then first I knew
It had been sinking. Deeper still it sank
When next he fixed to go; and sank it then
To bound no more! He went.
Lorenzo. To follow him

You came to Mantua?

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