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so, I do not know why this drama has not a most excellent moral. And after all the cant and slang that can be uttered, if people will read books, in which the devil is introduced, they must not, as the author himself says, expect to hear him talk like a clergyman. I do not, however, uphold the propriety of writing such books; and should be sorry to quote one or two passages from this, in which the Stranger speaks of some of the holiest mysteries of revelation, in a manner not a whit the less blasphemous, because it is appropriate to the character. It is therefore to be hoped, that many, even of those who are capable of relishing fine poetry, will not read this drama. The moral sense very soon becomes dull, by the familiarity of the mind with images and sentiments, at first strange and revolting. Jupiter cuts such a sorry figure in the Prometheus Vinctus, even though invested as yet with all the terrors of his power, that his worshippers, while they bowed in spirit to the towering grandeur and indomitable spirit of his victim, who was the benefactor of mankind, must have lost all respect, save that accompanying fear, for the father of Gods and men.' And Manfred, Cain, and the Deformed Transformed,' (the last is least exceptionable of the three,) are certainly calculated to shake our faith in the wisdorn and compassion of the Deity, and mislead our ideas as to the operations of divine providence in the moral government of the world.

For the sake of such persons of tender conscience, as may read this poem, I advise you to make some extracts, of parts not liable to censure. The phantoms that pass before Arnold, for his selection, the shadows of beauty, and shadows of power,' are designated with great felicity of expression. First appears the form of Julius.

The black eyed Roman, with
The gle's beak between those eyes, which ne'er
Beheld a conqueror, or looked along
The lands he made not Rome's, wbile Rome became
His, and all theirs who heired his very name.

Arn. The phantom's baldStrang. His brow was girt with laurels more than hairs. Next rises the curled son of Clinias, the fairest and the bravest of Athenians;' who is soon followed by his preceptor, whose outward semblance does not, as may be supposed, prove very inviting to the Hunchback.

Arn. What! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round-eyed satyr,
With the wide nostrils and Silenus aspect,
The splay feet, and low stature! I had better
Vol. I. No. 1.


Remain that which I am. Strang. And yet he was
The earth's perfection of all inental beauty,
And personification of old virtue.
The luxurious triumvir then follows.

Arn. What's here? whose broad brow and whose curly beard
And manly aspect look like Hercules,
Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus
Than the sad Purger of the infernal world,
Leaning dejected on his club of conquest,
As if he knew the worthlessness of those
For whom he had fought. Strang. It was the man who lost
The ancient world for love.

Demetrius Poliorcetes succeeds him, to gratify Arnold's desire to look on beauty.

Arn. Who is this?
Who truly looketh like a demigod,
Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and stature,
If not more high than mortals, yet immortal
In all that nameless bearing of his limbs,
Which he wears as the sun his rays--a something
Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashing
Emanation of a thing more glorious still.

Strang. The shame
Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war-
Demetrius the Macedonian and
Taker of cities- -Get thee to Lamia's lap!
Arnold fixes on the last phantom the shade of Achilles.

The godlike son of the sea goddess,
The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks
As beautiful and clear as the amber waves
Of rich Pactolus rolled o'er sands of gold,
Softened by intervening chrystal, and
Rippled like flowing waters by the wind,
All vowed to Sperchius as they were-behold them!
And him-as he stood by Polixena,
With sanctioned and with softened love, before
The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride,
With some remorse within for Hector slain
And Priam weeping, mingled with deep passion
For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young hand
Trembled in his who slew her brother So
He stood i' the temple ! Look upon him as
Greece looked her last upon her best, the instant
Ere Paris' arrow flew !

The incantation, by virtue of which the soul of Arnold passes into a tangible form, moulded after the semblance of Achil. les, is exceedingly beautiful. But I pass to the second part. During the assault on the eternal city, conducted by the Bour

bon, 'a chorus of spirits in the air is introduced, chanting a song, for the spirit and energy of which we might seek in vain, in the efforts of any of Byron's reviewers. Take, for example, the first and last verses.

"Tis the morn, but dim and dark.
Whither flies the silent lark ?
Whither shrinks the clouded sun ?
Is the day indeed begun?
Nature's eye is melancholy
O’er the city high and holy :
But without there is a din
Should arouse the Saints within,
And revive the heroic ashes
Round which yellow Tiber dashes,

ye seven hills! awaken,
Ere your very base be shaken!

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Yet once more, ye old Penates !
Let not your quenched hearths be Ate's!
Yet again, ye shadowy heroes,
Yield not to these stranger Neros !
Though the Son who slew his mother,
Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother ;
'Twas the Roman curbed the Roman ;-
Brennus was a baffled foeman.
Yet again, ye Saints and Martyrs,
Rise! for yours are holier charters.
Mighty Gods of temples falling,
Yet in ruin still appalling!
Mightier founders of those altars,
True and Christian,-strike the assaulters!
Tiber! Tiber! let thy torrent
Show even Nature's self abhorrent.
Let each breathing heart dilated
Turn as doth the lion baited!
Rome be crushed to one wide tomb,

But be still the Roman's Rome! The third part, of which we have but three pages, opens with mountain scenery. Arnold, it should seem, is a bridegroom. A chorus of peasantry is introduced ; and we have presented to our mind's eye, at once, all the beauties of a picturesque country, with its associations, in the smiling season of the year, of life, and love, and freshness. All this, perhaps, like the short pause before the gates of Macbeth's castle, is intended but to throw into deeper shadow the dark events that are to follow, in scenes of stormy passion, treachery, and murder.


The spring is come; the violet's gone,
The first-born child of the early sun;
With us she is but a winter's flower,
The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower,
And sbe lifts up her dewy eye of blue
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue.
And when the spring comes with her host
Of flowers, that flower beloved the most
Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse
Her heavenly odour and virgin hues.
Pluck the others, but still remenber
Their Herald out of dim December-
The morning star of all the flowers,
The pledge of day-light's lengthened hours;
Nor, 'midst the roses, e'er forget
The virgin, virgin Violet.

But the hound bayeth loudly, Since Nimrod, the Founder
The Boar's in the wood,

Of empire and chace,
And the Falcon longs proudly Who made the woods wonder
To spring from her hood:

And quake for their race.
On the wrist of the Noble

When the Lion was young:
She sits like a crest,

In the pride of his might,
And the air is in trouble

Then 'twas sport for the strong With birds from their nest.

To embrace him in fight; Cosar.-Oh! shadow of glory! To go forth, with a pine [moth, Dim image of war!

For a spear, 'gainst the Mam-
But the chace hath no story, Or strike through the ravine
Her hero no star,

At the foaming Behemoth;
While man was in stature

As towers in our time,
The first born of nature,

And, like her, sublime! All this may be beneath Mr. Walsh's criticism, but it is, nevertheless, fine poetry.

I intended to have made some remarks on the Albigenses, and some half dozen other works, which I must postpone, now, to a more convenient season. My letter is already treble. Remember me to all inquiring friends, if any such there be.

Yours, &c.

(The following verses, addressed to a Lady,' were written by O. W.

Helme, who died of the fever in this City, in 1821.]

To weep o'er hopes departed
When life hath lost its bloom,
To wither broken hearted,
May such be ne'er thy doom!
May no rude tempest toss thee
Upon the waves of ill,
Misfortunes never cross thee,
And sorrows voice be still.
Oh! fortune's frown can preverite
The bad to grief consign;
Thou never

cans't be lonely,
For innocence is thine,
Heaven fondly watches o'er thee,
To shield thy soul from harm;
Heaven's power extends before they
A strong and mighty arm.
Then if the world forsake thee,
And if its voice belie,
If sorrows overtake thee
Do thou their rage defy.
They never can o'erpower
The innocence that's thine
'Tis heaven's fair lily flower,
Its blossoms cannot pine.


Real or supposed injustice, to the character of the late Colonel Henry Lee, on the part of Judge Johnson, the biographer of General Greene, has produced from Mr. Lee, a son of the colonel, a critique, in the shape of an octavo, of more than five hundred pages. The work demands notice, as it is American, on a subject of great interest, and written with great spirit and ability. We regret, however, its publication, and that a conflict, like that which it is calculated to provoke, should be waged above the ashes of the illustrious dead. They have long ago fought their good fight, and have sunk into the grave,

*“ The campaign of 1781, in the Carolinas ; with remarks historical and critical on Johnson's life of Greene; to which is added an appendix of original documents relating to the history of the revolution. By H. Lee. Philadelphia. E. Littell."

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