Rage like the wild despair, 'twere worse

than vain

Sometimes to cast an anchor.

I would not meet them

With trace of aught remorseful in mine

eyes,

hard

To chase the bosom's shadows from the brow.

They say, that when the Ocean's surface stirs,

The depths are still at rest; but when below

All is commotion, where's the power can bid

The waves keep down their heads, and to a calm

Smooth the blue superficial? Yet must I Essay this task, and with sad bosom go To welcome pleasure, while the heart says

no.

[BABINGTON goes out.

The character which Mr Doubleday has most elaborated, is Ballard a Jesuit, who, if we mistake not, was a true conspirator, and died on the scaffold, but who is here represented as a traitor. Great knowledge of human nature, and admirable powers of composition, are exhibited in the delineation of this subtle villain. The scenes, too, in which he figures, are all essentially dramatic, and convince us that Mr Doubleday is the man to write a good acting tragedy. We quote the following passage, however, rather for its poetical than dramatic power.

Bal. Speak low.-Art thou sure?
Gif. As sure as one well-crafted poli-
tician

Is of another. What I did impart
They swallow'd, as you'd have them.

Bal.
Art thou sure
They traced thee not? If thou hast been
a trail

To draw their bloodhounds hither, woe to thee mark me, Art sure they track'd thee not? Gif. I'll pawn my soul on't. Bal. Pawn something better! noted'st thou of any

That met thee on the way, or else outrode?

Gif. No one have I beheld,-except,
e'en now,

A squinting fellow in the corridor;
A falconer of Master Charnock.

In this momentous chase, and can unleash

My hounds on whom I will. Eye sees them not.

Darkly they sweep, like the wild Indian dog,

Through trackless forests and eternal shades;

Aghast the trav'ller hears th' approaching bay,

The savage rush, and headlong flying game, And all is still again; nor sees he whence It came, nor whither it goes--no matter whither,

So that the spoil be mine.

I have two paths Before me, and but pause which I must take.

There was a time when, if I were but high, I would have sat me on the rugged rock As soon as the soft sward; 'tis not so now. I have drank new passion since I saw this

house:

Ambition stoops to take a yoke-fellow; And the strong speed of iron Resolution Lags for a flower i' th' way. Why should it not?

Say that there be two heights which I may scale,

Still shall I choose the greenest; and

where'er

The flowers of dalliance shall the soonest bud.

There do I fix my climate. (A clock strikes. 'Tis the hour;And now to govern the hot fiery spirits

That stoop to be mine instruments; to

blow

Their flames on high, as doth the cunning smith

Until his work be forged-then-quench them, haply

With blood instead of water.-Fools! but ask them

What brings them to this venture; one

shall talk

Of loyalty, another whine of love, Another friendship, and a fourth religion; Ay, marry,-even so. If they will play Without a stake, they get their rubs for nothing.

Of all Love's, Loyalty's, or Religion's jokes,

Your martyrs are the sorriest. I must be gone. [BALLARD goes out.

The fraudful hypocrisy of the Jesuit, and the fiendlike joy, heightened by jealousy, (for he too loves Agnes,) with which he lures on Babington to destruction, are depicted with the hand of a master-but the web he weaves cannot be judged of without more "verge" than we can well afford to give. Babington, in a converse with Ballard, thus speaks,

Bab. Sir, this is too lowly

You are my bosom friend and counsellor, Nor shall be counted less: no more of this;

It grieves me more than I shall speak of

now.

My friends, this cloud being happily o'erpast,

We will to business. Wherefore we meet is known unto you all;

A general wrong needs no interpreter. Have we not seen the ruin that hath roll'd

O'er our dear country; Pestilent heresy Flame like a brand cast in the autumn

corn,

Till all the goodly harvest is burn'd up;
Holy Religion turn'd to robbery!
Her sacred shrines unroof'd, and made
the haunts

Of th' unclean fox and owl; Penanceworn Age

Chased forth to die beside some bypath ditch;

And stainless Innocence turn'd loose to shiver,

And starve i' the causeway-Destitution nipt;

Honour betray'd for of her sister Faith; Beauty oppress'd, because she is not false;

Goodness proscribed, because it will not change?—

Is this not so? If then, or blood will quench

This fiery pestilence, or fire burn out The hideous reptiles that infest our fields, Why should we pause or start? If that your veins

Have ta'en a feverish, or an aguish taint, Do ye not lance them? If a rabid tooth Hath torn ye, sear ye not the wound? My friends,

Which of us here shall not do for his country

What for himself he doth?

We have said that Ballard loves Agnes, and certainly he urges his suit in a most Jesuitical spirit.

Agnes.

What mean you, Father?

Bal. He that hath drunk new wine in

Might bought the rubied hills of Samar

cand,

Ay, or the golden bosom of Peru;
Rifest of sweets, since our first mother,
Eve;

Save, haply, one: but she, as thou, was humble;

And all these charms did dedicate to God. -But not the sanctity of holy walls; Nor the heaven-melting breath of choral praise;

No; nor the awful shadow of the Cross, Could drown her accents in one eager ear, Nor blind the gaze of an unhallow'd eye. Ay; for the sake of those rare lineaments, The sight of which had palsied Phidias' hand,

And hue, at which the roses might out

Was torn and trampled on, and made the pandar

Of the fierce passion of that aweless monk,

Who drank his frenzy from her eyes-his name ?

What was't?-come, tell thou me.
I know not, Father.

Agnes.

What mean you?

Bal. Thou dost know his name was
LUTHER!

(He pauses.) What follows upon this? If 'twas permitted

For evil is permitted, even as good
If 'twas permitted that one fatal face
Should be the cause why sacrilegious

hands

Have broken the communion of the Faith,

And bent the very word of God himself, Unto the impious glosses of bold men,Who dare cross-question the Redeemer's self,

And make his laws a peg, whereon to hang

Blasphemous cavils-If 'twas so permit

ted,

What glory shall be hers who brings the

balm

To heal the wound again? Who would not pledge

Her soul, however priceless, for the hope Of such a ransom ?Thou do'st answer

not

Deem that the fate of millions may be set Upon that brow-thine eyes two constellations

That tell of change and herald destiny.Oh! but methinks that I could foot the

waves,

-Sit there-nay, sit, I say-I will be plain,

Since Flattery's out of fashion-Do not tremble

(He seats himself at a little distance.) Now what d'ye think me, lady?

The plot is discovered-the conspirators betrayed, and Babington, with the others, doomed to die. What can be more beautiful than the following dialogue between the orphan Agnes and Plasket?

SCENE II.-A mean Apartment in a House in London:

Agnes, (alone.) Darkness draws onHath not the ruthful day Sunk faster than bis wont from out the sky,

Because he would not look upon our

tears?

-Yet am I calm-Methinks, these gen

tle elves,

(If, as they tell, such are our guardians,) That love the ripple of the moonlight

sea,

Or silver bosom of the sleeping lake; Or stilly grot that shades some sacred spring,

How is it that presentiments of blessing So oft are vain, and presages of horror Be evermore fulfilled?

Plask. Madam, be calm, Beseech you--

Agnes. I am calm--I have been calm— Yet who can choose but shrink whom the

red brand

Hath dazzled almost blind? 'Tis over

now

Plask. It is past now ;

I could not bear to see the cruel herd

-fear not.

Now I am calm enough. Do ye not see? Look on my hand methinks it trembles

not. (She holds out a miniature.) Mark ye-Thou know'st that brow? 'Tis Babington's.

In the fell shock and agony of his fate, Did he look aught like this?

Plask. Madam, he did.

Nor did his cheek blench colour. When his judges

Did tell him he must die, he answer'd calmly,

And mock the patience of his gentle

ness.

Stir not, dear lady. Oh! beseech ye, stir not,

It is a needless pang, and there's enough
Of cruelty already. I beseech ye,
Be patient now.

Agnes. Yes, I am calm.-'Tis past. Thou see'st that I am firm; and, were I not,

How should I bear that which is yet to come?

that,

How much!