her own survival of the disclosure by swallowing a dose of poi At this period of the drama
Lor. What terror reigns in every brow I meet!
Hark, Leonora-Ha! what means this dagger?
Has murder then been busy?-all is silent-
Whence is this casket, whose ensabled gloom
Seems like the monument of some fell deed?
"Lorenzo, open."-What new unknown tumult
Beats at my heart?-The hand is Leonora's-
[opening and seeing the picture.
I will obey it-Carlos, do we meet ?
Oh! much-loved friend, and ever welcome present!
Aye, on that brow I read thy well-known virtues!
But whence and how?" Lorenzo, further read.".
Having begun, I'll follow thee till death-
"Carlos to Leonora "-" Friend betray'd"-
My perfidy "" The crime was only mine."-
And didst thou know a crime! then hell is near;
Who was that friend? I know of none but me;
I shudder as it dawns upon my mind ;-
"This holds the story of my woes complete."-
Be firm, be firm, 'tis the same trembling character.-
"Thou may'st remember, that when Carlos fell,
"Twas told thee, that on ruin rudely bent,
He rush'd into the thickest of the foe,
Where soon he found that death, so fondly sought:
Now hear the cause-Returning home from Palestine,
Where rumor left thee dead, and where, indeed,
Thou lays't among the slain; humanity
Obliged him to condole thy loss with me:
In vain he tried to soothe me from affliction;
Told thy last prayer, when in the field together,
One common danger seemed to menace both :
That, to reward his former generous love,
He might assuage my sorrows with affection,
And be a consolation to my woes;
O'ercome with grief and senseless, on the earth
Ilay.-Oh! would that hour had been my last!
And only woke from grief to guilt eternal-
No more I stood a pure, unsullied matron,
The pride and idol of her injured lord,
But foul pollution all ;-'Tis true, he wept,
Entreated still, that I'd obey thy wish,
And join my hand to his. When radiant truth
Appear'd to say, that my Lorenzo lived,
For Leonora lived; while she, alas !"-
I can no more-Is then my treasure lost,
And all my life of bliss one guilty dream!-
Yet further-" Carlos never saw me more;
He fell in battle; but I soon perceived,
That I must use all arts to hide my shame :
The world and thou believed Constantia thine.
For what new trial am I next reserved !
As thou hast loved her once, curse her not now,
When tortures wring from me that dismal tale;
Farewell, farewell; ere this shall meet thine eye,
I am beyond the reach of earthly thoughts."-
My loved Constantia! oh! my child no more!
My Theodore, be near me all, to aid,
That I may bear this mortal blow; oh, save me!
'Twas there I thought that virtue sat enthron'd,
I knew not if more graced, or gracing her;
A pattern, where she learn'd to smile and soothe ;
But I deceived myself, to think on earth
Such excellence could be-pale, pale, and drooping!
[The doors of Leonora's apartment open, and she comes
forward, supported by Theodore and Constantia,
Leon. Oh! lead me forward, lay me at his feet,
And twine mine arms around them; trample on me,
Crush this foul bosom, where thou oft hast lain,
With lurking scorpions; rend these flowing locks,
And bid these hands root deep into my breast;
Tear, tear my limbs asunder! let me hear
Deep, well deserved curses, ere we part,
And bear them with me to the grave I merit.-
Lor. I dare not look-
Leon. I beg a little moment;
It is the last; if deaf to Leonora,
Bestow it, as a charity, on one,
A wandering sinner, or a dying stranger,
Who, hearing of thy virtues, comes from far,
To lay his load of misery at thy feet-
Canst thou refuse it? Is my hour of death
The first, wherein thou hast deny'd me aught?
'Lor. Oh, what rash, fatal act!
Leon. "Tis past, 'tis done,
The friendly potion's here--'twas a rash act;
I should have lived to expiate my guilt,
To be thy slave, and bear the scorn of infamy;
To tell my crimes, e'en in heaven's sacred light,
To listening multitudes, whose charity
Should not protect me from his righteous storm,
Roaring around my unhous'd head at night;
I should have seen another in thy arms,
Full bless'd and blessing, with most virtuous love,
Who might have join'd to execrate my name;
But, now, I cannot hope for tortures here;
And wilt thou not demand of God revenge?
Wilt thou not pray that I may meet its wrath,
And pay to heaven the forfeit due to thee?
• Lor. If aught my prayers avail, it is not vengeance
I'd ask of heaven; already hast thou bled
So long to hide —
Leon. Bless, bless thee, for that thought!
I've borne my hell within me-I am sinful,
Yet do not think me quite bereft of shame ;
Guilty I am, yet do not think me worthless;
Oh! strew some flattering wreaths upon my tomb,
When aggravating slander stains my memory
With blacker crimes; say, it enshrines a wretch,
Who never knew pollution in her heart;
Heavens! ye can tell how loud remorse apbraided,
To know caresses which long since I'd forfeited,
And list to praises which I could not merit ;-
I feel it here already; come, Constantia ;
Ha! canst thou take her to thine arms again!
I have deserved thy hate, but curse not her;
The wedded partner of thine only child,
She is thy daughter still.
Lor. Bless her, ye powers!
For she shall still be treasured in my heart;
And all her mother's sufferings shall atone
Whate'er of wrong be hers.
Leon. Then I've no thought
But of futurity. All-seeing power,
That know'st the heart of man, be now my judge!
If sixteen years of earthly sufferance,
Remorse ne'er sleeping, and upbraiding conscience,
Can aught avail me in my great account,
Let me some mercy find. They drag me down;
And haste the doom of a deserted wretch;
Oh! for some moments yet-I dread to leave you,
And shudder to appear at that tribunal;
But 'tis too late-my child-protect, protect her
Lor. Come to my arms, and be my daughter ever;
The story of this fatal day's mishap
19 yet unknown, and may be secret still; Sebastian only
Theo. He has justly paid
The forfeit of his long concerted crimes;
He fell beneath this arm-
• Lor. Then, while we go,
By holy intercession with the church,
To beg its pious ruler here on earth,
To sanction these thy nuptials; to the world
Be still the son of fortune, to whose worth
Lorenzo gives his daughter; let us spread
That gloss upon the guilt so sorely wept;
Which, though no work of foul corrupted will,
Could not escape th' avenging hand of heaven.'
The volume closes with a pastoral drama, in one act, entitled Etha and Aidallo, in the construction of which our author
seems still afraid of offending the ever present spirit of Aristotle. We wish he had occasionally been even more on his guard in this respect: we should then have had-what we have nota salutary moral in the first poem; and not have had what we actually have in the second-a catastrophe, equally outrageous to morality and religion, as well as to the nature of the case, and the supposed costume of nomadic life. Aidallo has, from infancy, been bound by the purest ties of affection to Zipha: on the eve of their marriage, he rescues, from the river Lura, a damsel named Etha: he transfers his love from the first to the second nymph, who meets his passion with an equal return; but, knowing the impossibility of gratifying it from Aidallo's prior engagement to Zipha-instead of endeavouring to conquer it by any strenuous exertions of her own mind-Etha again flies to the Lura, precipitates herself from its banks, and is drowned; and for this rash act of suicide, strange to relate! she is honoured with an apotheosis-her spirit appears in the presence of her disconsolate lover and his unjustly-deserted fair one, and, on his attempting to clasp her, thus addresses him with a promise to become the guardian goddess of Zipha and himself for future life.
• Etha. Move not, or I dissolve to empty air;
Seek not to touch this bodiless frail form;
The gossamer, or dew-drop, is less light;
But mark-'tis mine, unseen, to rove these hills,
And labour for thy bliss; where thy bees sip,
I'll plant them sweets, and set them honey-drops.
I'll strew the cowslips and the trefoil's bud,
Where batten thy fair flocks; I'll point thy arrow,
And guide its passage through the wounded air.
If, of the plains, that Lura's stream bedews,
Thy woodbine be the fairest, I am there:
If floods should sap, and lightnings cleave the oak,
The mountains topple, or the earth be riven
To swallow herds not thine, 'tis still my care;
If, thy vine team, though scant the summer sun,
'Tis, that I steal a ray from Phoebus' car
And fertile dews, at eve; if thou art bless'd,
'Tis that I strew the rose leaf in thy path,
Watch all thy thoughts by day, thy dreams by night.
Aid. Oh! if thy form-if any beam of heaven-
Etha. Yet hear me; for the winds will chide my stay,
And never can I rise again to view
A fruitful bed shall crown thy lawful nuptials,
And thou shalt turn to love thy gentle Zipha;
Not the west billows, to the weary sun,
After his daily course, shall be more dear;
And well she merits love.-I'll tend each birth,
And bear sweet magic to her suff'ring couch,
To lull all malady-both shall be bless'd;
Nor let a thought of me disturb your joys.
But yonder cloud fast flies-I must away,
For in its hollow womb I hear the thunder.
Farewell, Aidallo! 'tis my last farewell!
Smile and be joyful; for a happier life
Shall be thy journey to a happier home.
I come, ye winds, now waft me to eternity!'
Our readers will perceive, from this and the foregoing extract, that the versification flows smoothly upon the whole: yet there are two faults of precisely opposite character, which we cannot avoid noticing, even under the head of versification; the first is a very frequent indulgence of harsh and cacophonous elisions, such as neath for beneath, gainst for against, thou'st for thou hast, thou'dst for thou wouldest, 'thas for it has; as • 'Thas been my sole support in every trial.' P. 14.
And nought remains me.' P. 129.
The second error is an ungraceful and ungrammatical completion of the metre, by attributing two syllables to a word which, from custom or its own nature, is possest of but one:
Hear ye, eternal pow-ers-Doubtless so'- P. 34.
and the following, which is still worse
And pour out my soul. Thou know'st, oh! heaven!' p. 28. The verb mingle is never succeeded by to, but with: our author, however, writes
Let us receive the hero in our bosom,
And to our admiration mingle love.' r. 4.
There is, nevertheless, a considerable degree of general merit in these poems; and, after paying a due attention to the moral and literary errors we have taken the liberty of pointing out, we shall be happy to meet their author again. The volume terminates with the following paragraph :—
If the circumstances were known, under which the dramatic pastoral of Etha and Aidallo was written, they would plead in excuse of its many imperfections. It was wholly composed in a French prison, under the government of Robespierre, early in July 1794, in that very month, the 28th day of which terminated his existence, and
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