plighting of her hand to Jason, become envenomed to her thoughts, appearing to her now only wily and deceitful blandishment, is the vessel spoken of in the first scene, among the contents of the chest, as filled with flames, ready to break forth and prey upon the unwary opener of it. Even as Gora holds it, supporting it awkwardly in part by the lid, from the slight aperture a tongue of flame darts out, which Medea sings back into its place. She places this vessel on a golden salver, and, covering it with the wished-for Fleece, and this with a rich mantle, gives it to Gora to

carry in, who, shuddering with her anticipations, obeys.

The children are now brought, and left with her, and her spirit darkens towards its last horrible act. Their replies discover the same sort of alienation from her, and love for her rival, which has before distracted her;

but which, as the future impressed with her own will draws on, she bears, it seems, more tranquilly. It is growing late, and the younger boy is sleepy. She directs them to lie down on the steps of her house. The following lines, thrown in here, are very affecting:

How carefully he leads along his brother,
And takes his own cloak off, wrapping it warm
Around the shoulders of the little one;

And now, their little arms enfolded close,

Lies down with him to sleep.-Ill was he never !

The lines immediately subsequent, in which, in a sudden dream-like rest from her perturbations of anguish and passion, the vision of her former self, as of another, with other departed forms, shews itself to her, are full of genius. She is sitting opposite to her children, who sleep. Night is gradually coming on.

Med. The night hath fall'n: the glittering stars come forth,
Looking down on us with their still soft light,
The same to-day that yesterday they were,
As if all, to-day, were such as yesterday;
Whereas, between them lies a gulf as wide,
As betwixt happiness assured,-and ruin.
So changeless, self-resembling, Nature is,
So full of changes, Man and his wild lot.

When I think over to myself the tale
Of my past life, I could believe another
Spake, while I listen'd, interrupting him

With Friend! that cannot be ! She to whose soul

Thou givest thoughts of death-lo! thou, erewhile,

Didst let her wander in her own loved land,

Lit with the gleam of even these gentle stars,

As mild, as pure, as naked of all sin,

As a child upon its mother's breast at play.
Whither goes she?-Tis to the poor man's hut,
Whose green-ear'd tilth her father's chase trode down,
To bear him gold, and in his trouble joy.

-What will she on the forest-paths? She hies,
Seeking her brother, who i' the wood awaits her;
Till met, they, like twin-stars on the dusk heaven
Glide on, in radiance, their accustom'd way.
Now joins them One, gold-diadem'd his brow,
It is their Sire, the Monarch of the land!
His hand on her he lays, her and her brother!
Welcome! O, welcome! friendliest, gracious forms;
Visit ye me in my dark solitude.

Come nearer, let me look you in the face,

Thou kind, good brother. Dost thou smile on me?
How art thou fair, thou my sick soul's glad light?
My father's look is grave; but he too loves me,
Loves his good daughter. Ha! good! good!

[Starting from her seat.

The tongue
Lies that hath said it. Old man, she will betray-
She hath-thee-and herself. But thou didst spread
The hovering of thy curses o'er her paths.

-Thou shalt be outcast, said'st thou, driven to roam
Like the wild beast of the desert. No friend left thee,
Of earth no place to lay thy faint head down.
And he, for whom thou fliest me, he shall be
The avenger-shall forsake thee-cast thee forth-
Then kill-thee and himself. It hath befallen!

On fire with her thoughts, she seeks to allay them in her children's embraces, whom she therefore, for that purpose, wakens. To remove what is to follow from the eyes of "the people," she bids them return to sleep within a colonnade, which opens obliquely upon the stage. A cry is heard from the palace:-a light is seen - and Medea knows that the first part of her vengeance is taken; which Gora, rushing out in horror, confirms. Apprehensive of interrup tion from longer delay, she now enters to where her children sleep. What has passed there appears, in the next instant, by the agony in which Gora, who, on missing, has followed her,

returns; and by Medea herself immediately after crossing the stage with a dagger in one hand, with the other uplifted, enjoining silence.

The concluding Act, which shows the Palace of Creon burnt to the ground, dismisses Gora to death, as guilty, in part, of that of Creusa,-and Jason, as a presence waited on by misfortune, into banishment from the Corinthian territory. Creon, from pronouncing these judgments, turns to the care of his daughter's obsequies, and "then, to everlasting mourning."

We refrain from disturbing, with any remarks, the judgment of the singular scene, which shuts up together this Third Drama, and the Poem.

A wild, solitary place, surrounded by wood and rocks, with a hut.
The Countryman entering.

How beautiful day rises!Bounteous Gods!
After the tumult of this fearful night,

In freshen'd beauty lifts your Sun his head.

[Goes into the hut.

JASON (who, in the conflagration of the Palace, has been wounded on the head
with a fulling brand) enters, with unsteadfast steps, leaning upon his sword.
Jas. I can no farther.-Woe! my head!—it burns!
My blood's on fire. The tongue cleaves to my mouth.
None near?-Must I draw my last gasp alone?

Lo! here, the hut, which lent its sheltering roof,
When I, a rich man, lately a rich father,

Came hither, full of new-awaken'd hopes.

Only a drink!-only a place to die!

The Countryman comes out.

[Knocking.

Countryman. Who knocks?-Poor man!-what art thou,-death

like faint?

Jas. But water!-Give me but to drink!-I am Jason.

The Conqueror of the Fleece !—A prince: a king.

The Argonauts' famed leader :-Jason I!

Countryman. Jason thou art?-Betake thee quickly hence!

Nor with thy foot pollute mine innocent house.

The daughter of my king thou hast brought to death:

Ask thou not succour at his people's door.

[He goes in, and shuts the door.

Jas. He goes, and leaves me lying by the way-side,
For the wayfaring foot to trample on.

Come, Death! I call thee. Take me to my children.

He sinks upon the ground.

MEDEA, entering past a rock, stands suddenly before him.-She wears the Golden Fleece as a mantle over her shoulders.

Med. Jason!

Jas. (supporting himself.) Who calls ?-Ha! do I see?—Is it thou? Horrible One!-Again appear'st thou to me?

-My sword!-My sword!

[He attempts to spring to his feet, but falls back. O grief!-My strengthless limbs

Refuse their office!-Shatter'd!-crush'd!-o'erthrown!

Med. Cease!for thou touchest me not. I am reserved
A victim to another hand than thine.

Jas. What hast thou done with my children?
Med.

Jas. Where hast thou them?-Speak!
Med.

They are mine.

They have found the place

Where better 'tis with them than thee and me.

Jas. Dead!-they are dead!-
Med.

Worst ill to thee seems death.

I know a sharper :-to live miserable.

Had'st thou not prized life higher than life's worth,
Our lot were other. Therefore, now we bear.

-To them 'tis spared.

Jas.

Thou say'st it, and art calm?

Med. Calm?-Calm !-Were not to thee this bosom shut

Still, as it ever was, thou shouldst see pain,
Endlessly tossing, like a surging sea;
That all the several parcels of my grief

Swallowing, in desolate night and horror wrapt,
Sweeps forth with them into the infinite deep.
-I weep not that our children are no more:
That they were ever, that we are, I mourn.
Jas. Woe is me!-Woe!
Med.

Thou, what falls on thee bear!

For, sooth! not undeserved it falls on thee.
As thou, before me, on the bare earth liest,
So lay I once in Colchis, thee before,
Beseeching thee forbearance ;-and in vain.
Guiltily, blindly, was thy hand put forth
To seize, albeit I forewarn'd thee, death.
So take, what proudly, lightly, thou hast will'd,—
DEATH.-But from thee asunder now I go,

For evermore. Lo! 'tis the last time, in all

The ever-flowing ages, the last hour,

That we two may change word with word, my husband!

O, farewell!-After all our earliest joy,

'Mid the thick woes now night-like round us stretch'd,

To the strange anguish, which the future bears,

I say, farewell! Thou once espoused, and mine!

A life of gloom and care is risen upon thee;

But whatsoever may betide, endure:

And be to suffer mightier than in deed.
Should pain go near to kill thee, think on me!
And in my more affliction, comfort thee,-
Me, who have done, where thou but left'st to do.
Now go I forth, my huge and peerless grief
Carrying with me into the world's wide room.
A dagger's stroke were solace !-But not so!
Medea dies not by Medea's hand.
Mine earlier life hath of a better judge
Made me deserving, than she, fallen, is.
And I toward Delphi turn my steps-on the altar,
Whence erst the unhappy Phryxus ravish'd it,
To hang, to the dark God his own restoring,

The Fleece, on which not the dread flames had power,
Which issued whole, unscorch'd, and nothing dimm'd,
When fiery death o'er Corinth's princess rose.
Myself presenting to the Priests, there ask
If they receive this head in sacrifice,
Or bid me to the wilderness remote,

And longer punishment of longer life.

See! knowest thou the sign for which thou hast striven,
That was thy glory, and that seem'd thy bliss?
-What is the bliss of this poor earth?-A shade.
-What is all glory of the earth?-A dream.
Unfortunate! that hast of shadows dream'd.
The dream is at an end, and not the night.
-I leave thee, and am gone.
We two, for mutual bale and
In dolour and in bale depart.

Farewell, my husband!
dolour met,
Farewell!

Jas. Bereaved and desolate! O my children!

THE Star of Evening glitters in the West→→→
Look'st thou upon it from thy home afar?
Yes, look upon it-'tis the Lover's Star,
And speaks to all of beauty, bliss, and rest;
Oh, loveliest of earth's creatures, to my heart
Bound by a thousand cords more dear than life,
When Day hath hush'd its labours and its strife,
Thus doth it soothe me, thus to roam apart,
From all, and muse on thee,-for oh, more sweet
It is to ponder on thee, though unseen,-
It is to wander where thy steps have been
Than any other breathing form to meet.

Seest thou the clear Star, 'mid the blue serene,
Lone sitting thoughtful in thy green retreat?

'Tis midnight, and I stand beneath the stars,
Light of my life, musing on love and thee,
All-beautiful in thought thou comest to me,
Heralding happiness 'mid Earth's loud jars :-
Yes, as the soldier, on the field of war,
In visions of the night, delights to see

The hallow'd fields of his nativity,

From which broad waves and lands his step debar

So turn I to thee, my beloved-more dear

To my lorn heart, since thou art far away

More dear to me in absence, grief, and fear,

Than e'er thou wert in Fortune's sunniest day;

Yearning I pine, (would Heaven that thou wert near!)
Thy voice to list, thy blue eyes to survey!