ed by an experience of some length; but a longer trial than has yet been made, would, we apprehend, be requisite to establish its safety.

II. Manfred; a Dramatic Poem.By Lord BYRON. 8vo. 5s. Murray. London, 1817.

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DRAMA announced from the pen of Lord Byron was an event which could not fail to excite a lively sensation in the poetical world. Splendid success in departments closely allied did not ensure the possession of those arduous and peculiar talents which fit their possessor for the production of a regular drama. Manfred, how ever, when it appeared, was found to contain nothing which could solve this problem. It was justly denominated only a Dramatic Poem; since, with the exception of being composed in dialogue, it differs in nothing from that series of powerful and striking narratives which have already issued from his Lordship's pen. There is neither plot, incident, nor character; and even the dialogue is carried on chiefly between personages who are never accustomed to appear on any mortal stage; so that it has nothing in common with our idea of a thea trical performance.

The character of all Lord Byron's poems is sufficiently bold and original; but Manfred may be considered as leaving them all in this respect very far behind it. The scene lies in the inmost recesses of the Alps: the actors belong almost entirely to the in visible world; they comprehend seven spirits the three Destinies, Nemesis, a witch, and Arimanes, as lord over all. Manfred himself, the hero, is only half a mortal. He has long abandoned the society of men, driven from it by remorse; but for what crime is not fully explained. It only appears that he had given way to a guilty

June 1817.

passion, which involved its object in destruction. To relieve his miseries, he seeks intercourse with the world of spirits, and by science and long experience, acquires the power to make them attend at his bidding. The drama before us consists chiefly in his successively summoning before him the members of this mysterious world, and endeavouring to obtain from them the only boon which he now craves---forgetfulness and death. These are long denied to him; but at length it is announced that his last hour is

come. As the manner of this annunciation, however, appears to imply his subjection to the beings by whom it is made, he indignantly drives them away, and dies alone. The only other human personages are, a chamoishunter, and an abbot, who endeavour, but in vain, to soothe his agonies.The spirit of Astarte, the object and victim of his fatal passion, makes her appearance for a moment.

Nothing presents a more arduous task to the poet than the introduction of supernatural beings, who must be delineated, not according to any visible model, but after the forms with which it is natural for Imagination to invest her visions. Shakespeare, who drew so admirably all the actors on this real scene, was not less happy when he soared into these mysterious creations;

But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be; Within that circle none durst walk but he.

an

Lord Byron will not, we fear, form exception to this rule. His thoughts display often, indeed, an energy almost more than human ; but it is rather hu man passion raised to a preternatural pitch; it has something solid, deep, and real: it is not that aerial play of fancy, which enables its possessor to wing his flight through regions that exist only in fancy's eye. The sole interest of the poem resides in the person of Manfred. This leading character is the very same with that of the Corsair, of Lara, and of every other poem

of

of which Lord Byron is the author, and its features must now be so familiar as require no delineation. It is here, however, much more imperfectly developed than in most of the other pieces: its darkness is much deeper; it has few of those bright redeeming touches, upon which its interest essentially depends. There is displayed, however, the same depth of feeling, the same wide stretch of thought, the same terrible energy of passion and suffering, which give the rest so striking a grandeur. The following soliloquy may be given as a specimen

My mother Earth!

And thou, fresh breaking Day, and you, ye
Mountains,

Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye.
And thou, the bright Eye of the universe,
That openest over all, and unto all,
Art a delight-thou shin'st not on my heart.
And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme
edge

I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs
In dizziness of distance; when a leap,
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed
To rest for ever-wherefore do I pause?
I feel the impulse-yet I do not plunge;
I see the peril yet do not recede;

And my brain reels-and yet my foot is firm:

There is a power upon me which withholds,
And makes it my fatality to live;
If it be life to wear within myself
This barrenness of spirit, and to be
My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased
To justify my deeds unto myself-
The last infirmity of evil. Ay,
Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister,
[An eagle passes.
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven,
Well may'st thou swoop so near me-I
should be

Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets; thou

art gone

Where the eye cannot follow thee; but thine

Yet pierces downward, onward, or above
With a pervading vision.-Beautiful!
How beautiful is all this visible world!
How glorious in its action and itself!
But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns,

we,

Half dust, half deity, alike unfit

To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make

pines,

Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless,

A blighted trunk upon a cursed root,
Which but supplies a feeling to decay-
And to be thus, eternally but thus,
Having been otherwise! Now furrow'd o'er
With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not
by years;

And hours-all tortur'd into ages-hours Which I outlive!-Ye toppling crags of ice!

Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me!

I hear ye momently above, beneath,

Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass, And only fall on things which still would live;

On the young flourishing forest, or the hut And hamlet of the harmless villager.

Afterwards, to one of his supernatural visitants, he gives a full exposition of his habits and train of life:

From my youth upwards My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, Nor look'd upon the earth with human

eyes;

The thirst of their ambition was not mine, The aim of their existence was not mine; My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers,

Made me a stranger; though I wore the form,

I held but slight communion; but instead, My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe The difficult air of the iced mountain's top, Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing

Flit o'er the herbless granite; or to plunge
Into the torrent, and to roll along

On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave
Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow.
In these my early strength exulted; or
To follow through the night the moving
moon,

The stars and their developement; or catch The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim;

Or to look, list'ning, on the scattered leaves, While Autumn winds were at their evening song.

These were my pastimes, and to be alone;
For if the beings, of whom I was one,-
Hating to be so-cross'd me in my path,
I felt myself degraded back to them,

And was all clay again. And then I dived, In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death,

Searching its cause in its effect; and drew From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd. up dust,

Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd
The night of years in sciences untaught,
Save in the old-time; and with time and
toil,

And terrible ordeal, and such penance
As in itself hath power upon the air,
And spirits that do compass air and earth,
Space, and the peopled infinite, I made
Mine eyes familiar with Eternity.

Man. I could not tame my nature down; for he

Must serve who fain would sway-and soothe and sue

And watch all time-and pry into all place,
And be a living lie-who would become
A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such
The mass are; I disdain'd to mingle with
A herd, though to be leader-and of wolves.
The lion is alone, and so am I.

Abbot. And why not live and act with
other men?

Man. Because my nature was averse
from life;

And yet not cruel; for I would not make,
But find a desolation :-like the wind,
The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom,
Which dwells but in the desart, and sweeps
o'er

The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast,

And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, But being met is deadly; such hath been The course of my existence; but there came Things in my path which are no more.

Abbot.

Alas! I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid From me and from my calling; yet so young,

I still wouldMan.

Look on me! there is an order Of mortals on the earth, who do become Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, Without the violence of warlike death; Some perishing of pleasure-some of study, Some worn with toil-some of mere weariness

Some of disease-and some insanity-
And some of withered, or of broken hearts;
For this last is a malady which slays
More than are numbered in the lists of
Fate,

Taking all shapes, and bearing many names.
Look upon me! for even of all these things
Have I partaken; and of all these things
One were enough; then wonder not that I
Am what I am, but that I ever was,
Or, having been, that I am still on earth.

She is not of our order, but belongs

The following scene will give a pretty full idea of the character and

is vain.

Than I am chang'd for thee. Thou lovedst me

Too much, as I lov'd thee: we are not made

To torture thus each other, though it were The deadliest sin to love as we have lov'd. Say that thou loath'st me not-that I do bear

This punishment for both-that thou wilt be

One of the blessed-and that I shall die,
For hitherto all hateful things conspire
To bind me in existence-in a life
Which makes me shrink from immortality-
A future like the past. I cannot rest.
I know not what I ask, nor what I seek:
I feel but what thou art-and what I am;
And I would hear yet once before I perish
The voice which was my music-Speak to
me!

For I have call'd on thee in the still night, Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd boughs,

And woke the mountain wolves, and made

the caves

Acquainted with thy vainly-echoed name,

And this most steep fantastic pinnacle,
The fretwork of some earthquake-where
the clouds

Pause to repose themselves in passing by-
Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ;
Here do I wait my sisters, on our way
To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night
Is our great festival-'tis strange they come

not.

A Voice without, singing, The Captive Usurper,

Hurl'd down from the throne,
Lay buried in torpor,
Forgotton and lone ;

I broke through his slumbers,
I shiver'd his chain,

I leagued him with numbers———

He's Tyrant again!

With the blood of a million he'll answer my care,

With a nation's destruction-his flight and despair.

Second Voice, without.

The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast,

But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast; There is not a plank of the hull or the deck, And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck;

Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the

hair,

And he was a subject well worthy my care;
A traitor on land, and a pirate on sea-
But I saved him to wreak further havoc for
me!

First Destiny, answering.
The city lies sleeping;

The morn, to deplore it,
May dawn on it weeping:
Sullenly, slowly,

The black plague flew o'er it-
Thousands lie lowly;

Tens of thousands shall perish-
The living shall fly from
The sick they should cherish;
But nothing can vanquish
The touch that they die from.

Sorrow and anguish,
And evil and dread,

Envelope a nation

The blest are the dead,
Who see not the sight

Of their own desolation.--
This work of a night-

This wreck of a realm-this deed of my doing

For ages I've done, and shall still be renewing!

Enter the Second and Third Destinies.

Hast thou to do? I tremble for thy sake;
Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him?
Ah! he unveils his aspect; on his brow
The thunder-scars are graven; from his eye
Glares forth the immortality of hell-
Avaunt!

Man. Pronounce-what is thy mission?
Spirit,
Come.!
Abbot. What art thou, unknown being?
answer!-speak!

Spirit. The genius of this mortal.
Come! 'tis time.

NEW WORKS PUBLISHED IN EDIN

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ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA Sup plement, Vol. II. Part II £.1.5. The principal Treatises in this Part are the following, which, by the marks annexed, appear to be written by the authors mentioned

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