and sorrows too much; scarce has a stanza closed of exquisite pathos, which draws forth almost the tears of sensibility, than the next commences by a cold-hearted jest on the woes it pourtrayed, and the sorrows it occasioned. The" Ode or Hymn to Grecian Liberty," is one of the finest any language ever yet produced; it is in itself alone sufficient to give immortality to any poet; how prophetically, yet truly, does it warn the hapless Greeks against foreign promises and desertion, and remind them that every chance of freedom rests on them selves alone !--

"Trust not for freedom to the Franks;
They have a king who buys and sells;
In native swords and native ranks,
The only hope of freedom dwells."

But his last drama, or mystery, as he terms it, of Cain," has drawn upon him the whole directed battery of indignant piety and religion; it has been more virulently assailed than any other production of this distinguished writer. Some critics have been almost breathless with holy horror, while others, distrusting the powers

of the pen, have at once called on the legal authorities to prosecute. The noble poet has replied to all by unqualified defiance; he dares them to the legal assault, and expresses his determination at once to appear and take on himself the whole results; this is at least bold and manly, and worthy of his high and chivalrous bearing. For ourselves, we will not deny that we would have preferred seeing the genius of Lord Byron exercised on any other subject; England is a religious nation, its glory and prosperity have gone hand in hand with its religious institutions; were its faith founded on a less firm basis than the immoveable rock on which Christianity stands, yet linked as it is with all the charities of social life,

14

its best feelings and affections, and including, as it does, all the great practical moral duties, it is not well to impeach it in the eyes of the people- with them discontent and doubts often arise together; they are not sufficiently educated to forms accurate conceptions, or think at any depth, and their minds once loosened from the anchor of belief,

and the tenets to which they have been taught to give a reverential trust and confidence, all the moral virtues and duties soon part also, Those who employ themselves in the praiseworthy task of sapping the faith, and undermining the foundations of all religion, have accordingly gladly seized on the latter works of Lord Byron to aid their purposes; they appear in cheap editions, and "Don Juan" and "Cain" are thus circulated among thousands of comparatively ignorant beings, carrying doubt and infidelity with them, where all was confidence and assurance before. But blasphemy is a term of late d sweepingly applied, and certainly days much too quite unmerited by any thing in this mystery or drama; like many of the casuists and fathers of former days who were celebrated for their piety, Lord Byron has gone to the origin of sin and evil, and sounded all the depths of fate, free-will, necessity, and knowledge; but it is utterly unfair to load speculative or metaphysical disquisition, either in prose or poetry, with the appalling names of impiety and blasphemy. The great Milton was singularly pious, and yet the exclamations of his Satan against the Deity are fierce and frequent. The Lucifer of Lord Byron is not the lofty, proud, etherial spirit of Milton; he is more mundane, more apparently conversant in the ways of this former world and its new inhabitants; but if the most daring flights into the regions › of doubt and impiety of the noble >> poet's Lucifer, are compared with those of the Satan of the pious Mil ton, it will be seen that the lattere fully equal them in force of alan-lo guage, levelled as aspersion and^; defiance against the triumphant Godheader) for 95 38 1, F028301 deceas We give a passage from both asiye "I DR „swor 9.216,105.11

Lucifer. "Souls who dare use their Souls who dare look the omnipotent tyrant in

His everlasting face, and tell him that
His evil is not good, if he has made
As he saith which I know not, "nor{}
believe,

But if he made us. He cannot unmake, i
We are immortal. Nay, held have us }/

So,

This is stronger and more powerful language, than any in the Mystery of Lord Byron, yet, how ridiculous to think of converting it into a charge of blasphemy against Milton. Again, in the Address of Satan to the deluded Eve, the dark spirit uses all the sceptic sophistry of glossing doubt and infidelity, to persuade his victim to the fated crime. Yet, who would be weak enough to select it as a proof of that splendid poet's disbelief, for a moment, of the power and infallibility of the Great Creator.

Them nothing-if they all things, who inclosed.

Knowledge of good and evil, in this tree,

That whoso eats thereof, forthwith attains

Wisdom without their leave,and wherein lies

Th' offence, that man should thus attain to know

What can your knowledge hurt him, or

this tree?

Impart against his will if all be his.
Or is it envy? and can envy dwell
In heav'nly breasts?

We are pressed for space, or we could select other and stronger passages from the "Paradise Lost," which would confirm our confutation of the weak and unfounded ac cusations levelled against the noble poet. There is some very animated and beautiful writing in this Drama, we shall give one passage more from it as an instance. Cain borne by the dark Dæmon into the vast abyss of space, surveys the multiplying succession of worlds, and bursts into admiration!

in this hour

Unworthy what I see, tho' my dust is Spirit, let me expire, or see them nearer."

"

-vey of lo v3109. osoqari o This is highly poetic, and worthy of the noble author, but there are ob many other passages of prosaicon ruggedness throughout. There is great force and originality about Lord Byron as a dramatic writer,

but no variety, even Cain is but a darker portrait of Manfred. He is drawn with the same unbounded aspirations after the secrets of immortality; he holds the same communion with spirits of another world, the same troubled mind and brooding discontent absorb him, he rushes on from doubt to defiance, until, in an hour of sudden fury, at the rejection of his sacrifice, his meeker brother falls by his hand. It would be idle to compare this mystery either as a whole, or in any part, with the great poem of Milton, whose powers were of an order, no second poet has since shewn. The genius of Milton soars to the highest heaven of sublimity, while other poets only "wing the mid-way air." We wish Lord Byron would devote his great genius to regular and legitimate poetry, that he would select subjects worthy of illustration by his muse; subjects which would hand his name with the associated band of England's greatest poets to the latest posterity. We should be happy to see his mind more tempered, and his writings breathe the spirit of more equable feelings, less of the darker passions of human life, and more of calm and rational happiness: continual bursts of mental wildness are like the headlong rays of his own eastern sun, too powerful for lengthened endurance; while softer feeling and description, like moonlight stealing through the clustering foliage into the bower of retirement, bring luxury of thought and pleasure in their train. The Dramatic efforts of Lord Byron will not purchase for him permanent fame; we would recommend him to resign that walk of literature, and not to try and force nature into an existence foreign to her, while in the fertile soil of his splendid genius the choicest flowers of poetry will rise in spontaneous abundance, and flourish with only gentle care and cultivation, in rich and delightful profusion.

Our subject has grown upon us, until we fear, it has exceeded all bounds; in fact, the limits of an essay are too narrowed to permit a review of all the Tragic Dramas of the day; we may, perhaps, return to them at a future period. The "Remorse," of Mr. Coleridge, is, as we before stated, written with

great powers, but unfitted to the stage; Fazio is simply and beantifully drawn. The jealousy which incites the hapless Bianca, to accuse her husband of the murder, as the only means of withdrawing him from her hated rival, Aldabella, and her subsequent dreadful contrition and remorse, are powerfully depicted. This play has all the marks of genius, without the pomp and splen dour of diction, which distinguish the Fall of Jerusalem," "Samer,' "The Martyr of Antioch," and other dramatic poems of the same author. "The Mirandola," of Mr. Proctor; "Conscience," by Mr. Haynes; and Mr. Croly's late fine Tragedy of "Cataline," are before us, but we have not present space to devote to them as they deserve. "Mirandola," has great powers of poetry, and some very affecting scenes. The exclamation of the horrified Duke, on the execution of his son, “I want to die!" possesses great force and nature. The play of "Conscience," is chastely and equably written some very charming passages may be selected from it, but its undeviating adherence to the unities of the ancient masters, and its want of plot and incident, render it (howe ver classical) as a whole, cold and ineffective; its author, Mr. Haynes, has displayed unquestionable powers of composition, and great purity of taste; we have been glad to hear that he has another Tragedy in preparation. Cataline," it is said, is to be brought out at Drury-lane Theatre. The character of the bold and reckless conspirator is pour trayed with great effect; but varying essentially in feature from the re cord left of him by the historian Sallust. His wife, the daughter of the terrible Marius, like the guilty partner of Macbeth, is always re buking his irresolution, and seeking "to screw his courage to the stick ing point." She recalls to his me mory the bloody entry of her san guinary father into trembling Rome, and "his horses hoofs wet with patrician blood," until Cataline at length appears in arms against his country. We question whether the softened character of irresolution, given him by the Dramatist, adds to his effect, the portrait drawn of him, by Sallust, is most striking. “ Namque animus impurus diis homini

This is a striking likeness, drawn by a masterly hand of the agitated and remorseless conspirator, and cannot be improved.

The two great faults of tragedy, in general, are inflated dialogue, and want of real pathos and passion. Writers of latter days look less to the feelings which should agitate their personages, than to the pomp of words. It has been often observed, that the deepest agitation of the mind is such, as no language can describe; words can only paint ideas, and not the silent, utter excess of grief or rage, which the soul at times feels with such energy as to be bereft of all distinct perceptions. The look of mute reproach with which the indignant Dido returns the address of Æneas, and then flies into the gloomy shades, and the same reproachful silence with which Ajax stalks away from his enemy, mark the great discrimination of the poet. Passion, however, will often call forth expression of the strongest description, by rousing every faculty, and exciting images suitable to the situation of the moment. Anger, which inflames the mind, inspires bold and daring images; those of grief and sorrow, are more broken and subdued :when passion sleeps, and real genius is wanting to produce it, an unnatural fancy appears as the substitute, and often errs, in creating figures and language utterly unsuited to the scene.

It has been doubted, whether the rejection of the chorus of the Greek tragedians, supported by the authority, in ancient days, of Aristotle and Horace, and, in later ones, of Shakspeare, Milton, and Racine,

has been an improvement to modern tragedy. There are several objections to it, but it certainly, also, has many advantages to recommend it. It fills up the vacuity between the acts, often so sensibly felt on the stage; it gives an air of probability and real life, by interposing in the action, and bearing a part in it.-It is, beside, a perpetual moral commentary on the Drama itself, enforcing every virtuous sentiment, and rectifying every vicious one, and points out the great moral to be drawn from the progress and catastrophe..

Without claiming any peculiar moral merit for the Drama, we may assert, that it has a powerful influence on the manners and feelings of a people, generally. In barbarous nations, we have seldom seen the Drama prevail; while, in free and polished countries, it is always cherished. The moral influence of the Drama does not perish with the feelings of the moment. We do not attempt to say, it incites at once to the emulation of any distinguished character, or the attainment of any peculiar virtue; but, it ultimately blends itself with the mass of our feelings, and becomes incorporated with our general ideas. To it, we owe some of the noblest productions in our language, and many of our proudest recollections. It is indissolubly linked with the most perfect of our arts and sciences; Music, Painting, and Architecture have all combined to illustrate and adorn it. Tragedy now appears on our stage in natural and classical costume. Cato no longer dies in a full-bottomed wig, nor is Macbeth seen in a tarnished court-suit. The days of Booth and Quin are gone by; Garrick introduced a permanent reform on the stage, by his exertions, and it was perfected by the fine taste and discriminating judgment of Mr. Kemble.

Eur. Mag. Vol. 82.

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