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Ay, what indeed ? He dropped aside to pray, the piteous Time is too short, e'en to o'errun them
Chasing the while down his averted face, To seek for love, there, where it might When suddenly was kneeling by his side not be ;
- Whence she did come I know not, nor And to o'erpass it, there, where it hath been;
Had oped her perilous road-one that To live long, watching hope which ne'er might seem could bloom ;
A vision from the skies ; so pure To die, with hope unlook'd for, yet ful
And so unseen her coming. Is’t not an hour of contrariety ?
Who was this? Answer me, Agnes, is it not ?
Villain-who could come there?
'Twas Agnes. What can I answer ?
Caitiff, Bab. What can'st thou, indeed ? Thou liest ! Nor would I have thee. Only answer Gif. Why, then, her pure and beautiful this,
spirit Ere darkness hath made vain the utte- Hath left its form of clay to wander thie rance
ther. Dost thou not love me?
By Heaven, they were her living lineaSee how forward, Fate
ments. Can make a reckless wretch.
Bal. (in a suppressed tone.) Go on. Agnes. Let my tears fall
Gif. That vision seemed to strike Believe me they are cold. Yes! I have
around loved thee;
A visible awe. It was most pitiful. That is the word, and will thy me- No sound broke in upon their parting mory.
prayer; Bab. I die content. I will not utter
The very ruffians that did do him dead, more;
They seem’d to wait his time. He came Fate and the hour forbid. I must not
to them. take
Yea, when his friends had pass'd, he Those thoughts that should be God's, not
calmly rose even to give them
And bent him to the executioner, To thee. So be't. Yet never, there
Whilst she remained still praying on her fore, deem
knees, That priceless love hath all been cast
Fair as the alabaster; and as fix'd away.
As is the marble-statue-like, all, save Half of my life thou hast preserved, which
Her lips, which faintly moved. else,
Why dost thou pause? Alas! perchance had died.
Gif. Because my voice is choked even The final catastrophe is thus de
with the thought scribed :
Thou bid'st me to give words to. Gif. I saw the noble Babington Bal.
Fool! go on. Stand on the scaffold with his dying Gif. When they had snatch'd him from friends.
the fatal beam, No man attended them. No pitying voice Still stirring with warm life even at the Did bid, “ God help them.' There they
noise stood, alone,
She turn'd her head, and faintly moved With serene countenances, as't had been
her hand; Some solemn festival; until the wretches And they did lay the dying Babington Whose callous hands were to wring forth
down, their breaths,
His head upon her lap. Laid bare their patient necks. They stood
I saw no more! together
Bel. What would'st thou say, then ? And silently join'd hands.
When the crowd recoil'd When Babington
In horror from the scene tbat tben was Saw the young, gallant Tichbourne, his
closed, dear friend,
I heard one saying through bis tears, that Submit him to the cord--for on him first
thus The villain hangman laid his horrid hand, He lay: and, seeming more like death -His manly visage changed, and on his
than e'en knees
The dying, she did look into his eyes,
And whisper'd comfort to his fading parts, we have not a doubt that Mr senses,
Doubleday is destined to produce And wiped the cold damps from his dying something infinitely superior--some
thing that will take its place, permaAnd held the crucifix before his gaze, nently and conspicuously, in English E'en till the speechless orbs were glazed literature. in death;
Now that our readers have been deAnd the last savage mandates were ful- lighted with so much true and powerfilled.
ful poetry, are not their minds dispoAgnes, in a delirium of unendura. sed to admit, that even in the drama ble grief, stabs the traitor Ballard to there is not only a noble course still to the heart, in the midst of his loath- be run, but men of genius enow in the some love, and dies of a broken heart world for the career? Put Shakspeare and the tragedy ends with the fol- out of existence, and what is there to lowing fine moral:
hinder a hundred living men from Wals. Such is the world; equalling or surpassing all our other So vanity doth end. Thou shalt serve dramatic writers? There is no want.
of penetrating and philosophical knowThough not i'the self-same way; for now, ledge of human life, and of the human inethinks,
heart; on the contrary, mental ana, Thy trade is out of tune. Is it not so ? tomy flourishes as a science. That the But be thou of my house-and, when. thews of life are now tame, its ongosoe'er
ings sluggish and monotonous, its spiI would give Pride a purge ; and lesson rit cold and unimaginative, are mere
Cockney dicta, fit for London magaHow fickle Fortune is, and Power how
zines, and arbours in tea-gardens. As vain,
magnificent events have « flung their Goodness how helpless, and Humanity shadows before," and then advanced How frail—how sinful and how full of in substance, during the last thirty tears—
years, as ever darkened or illuminated Be thou the minister and relate to me
the theatre of the world. There has All the sad turns of this sad history.
been no lack of terrible passions and Now look to thy dead mistress-cover
crimes. The peace of nations, famiher faceMine eyes fill even like thine.
lies, single bosoms, has been troubled.
Tears of blood have flowed, “ the Take up the body. She shall have fitting funeral and all duty.
voice of weeping heard and loud la
ment.” The surface of life is not so We have not attempted any regular smooth as many men-milliners have, analysis of this tragedy, but have pre- in various periodical works, asserted ferred giving copious extracts, which it to be ; but still continues to enjoy will speak for themselves, disjointed alternate calm and tempest, like the as they are, and reveal enough of the watery world. Poets yet feel towards plot to enable our readers to perceive life the same awful emotion that its drift and termination. The loves Wordsworth speaks of, as being felt of Babington and Agnes constitute, by all men towards the sea,
“ of the indeed, the soul of the story. No- old sea a reverential fear.” And therething can be more beautiful. The fore-in spite of all the prating of those pathos is simple, deep, and power- poor creatures about the exhaustion of ful. Without any apparent wish to the soil, the dearth of passion, the deexcite tears, tears are made to flow cay of fancy, the torpidity of imaginaover many a page. And passages there tion-year after year, ay, month after are containing thoughts and feelings month, is some new writer of power that thrill through the heart. Mr appearing, walking of his own accord Doubleday at all times writes like a into some fresh path and province, and scholar. His style is terse, concise, gathering laui els on spots where no and elegant, to a degree rather un- one suspected the growth of the sacred common in the writers of this age. tree. Since the first faint' light of He never overdoes anything. Con- Crabbe and Rogers, what a galaxy of scious of his powers, he puts them genius! Never, at any one period of forth with ease and command; and English literature, did so many grcat admirable as this composition is, both poets co-exist; and along with these as a whole, and in numerous detached so many lesser lights, each orb having Vol. XVIII.
its own beautiful satellites. There may such pictures. There all the beauty, be much dross mixed with the ore, and richness, splendour, magnificence of the glow of the metal may be some- external nature, might be kept before times dim ; but this is, beyond all our eyes from opening to catastrophe. doubt, the Golden Age of Poetry. Not meredescriptive poetry—not narra
Suppose that a man of genius were tion upon narration-but a peristrephic determined to write dramas about pri- panorama of hills, forests, and lakes, vate-domestic life, in cities, or in the with red deer, hunters, and barges, country-among peers, or peasants oreads and dryads of flesh and blood, What mighty scope! How delightful and, to please Barry Cornwall, Pan and might such a writer be, were he even Sylvanus, and “ the rest," climbing to confine himself to what has been Helvellyn, Snowden, or Bennevis. done already, contented with doing it Indeed, this last notion suggests anover again, as well or better, but diffe- other--that of the pastoral drama. rently! How much more delightful, Have Theocritus, Virgil, Allan Ramwere he not only to beautify the old, say, and Burns, exhausted—that is still but to invent the new ! To do so dra- the word—the shepherd's life? Why, matically in the drama is easier far, as they have done little more than say, we have already shown, than in any “ Behold an opening into another other form of poetry; and yet how nu- world !" In pastoral poetry we have merous are the original pictures of do- been accustomed to see a couple of mestic life, that have lately been paint- idiots sitting, “ sub tegmine
fagi," with ed in prose tales ! Could not the au- their pipes ; far better had it been their thors of those tales have produced— cigars. But what we wish to see, is the -may they not, will they not-pro- spirit of the pastoral and of the agri. duce domestic tragedies, in scenes and cultural life--shepherds and ploughacts, and according to all the rules of men people the earth. What signify the drama?
a few millions of individuals congreThere is one field of dramatic com- gated together in towns ? What is a position almost entirely unoccupied, street in comparison with a glen-a the romantic. Take for models, The square to a muir-boulevards to a Midsummer-Night's Dream, As You twenty-mile-square pine forest?—The Like it, The Tempest, the Winter's pastoral drama may be made to overTale, &c. and some of the works of flow with tenderness and beauty, like Ben Jonson and Fletcher. There the brightest dream ever broken by pure poetry may prevail. The exube- morning sunshine ; or to wail with rant imagination of this age may there universal grief, like the land of Rama wanton as in its prime. We have many when Rachel was weeping for her writers amongst us who would excel in children.
PLAGIARISM BY MR THOMAS CAMPBELL.
MR EDITOR-I admire Mr Campbell beyond almost any other living poet, and I admire Mr North beyond any other living critic. Your critique on Theodric was eloquent, just, and noble-minded. The truth is mighty, and, with such a champion as you, must prevail. Notwithstanding Theodric, Mr Campbell is an original poet, and he is very jealous of his originality; so much so, indeed, that he must needs vindicate his “ Last Man" from any imitation of Byron's “ Darkness.” No two copies of verses were ever more unlike. But I call on Mr Campbell to notice, in the next edition of his poems, the following plagiarism. Give me leave, in this place, to copy out for you his exquisite address to the Rainbow.
There, sir, is poetry-simple, fresh, glowing, magnificent poetry. But since Mr Campbell is fond of notes, illustrative or explanatory, why did he not give us in a note the following verses of Vaughan ?
“ Still young and fine; but what is still in view
When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair ;
If that be not plagiarism, what is ? “ The world's grey fathers" is a somewhat uncommon expression. But the thing speaks for itself.
Perhaps the author never saw Vaughan's poem. Let him look for it, there. fore, in Vol. IV. p. 349, of Campbell's Specimens, &c. There, too, he will find Mr Campbell's opinion of the poet thus plundered. “ Henry Vaughan was a Welch gentleman, born on the banks of the Uske, in Brecknockshire, who was bred to the law, but relinquished it for the profession of physic. He is one of the harshest even of the inferior order of the school of conceit ; but he has some few scattered thoughts, that meet our eye, amidst his harsh pages, like wild flowers on a barren heath.” That is soinewhat scurvy treatment of a writer, from whom you at the same time pillage his best thoughts and images, Mr Campbell.
LETTERS OF TIMOTHY TICKLER, ESQ. TO CELEBRATED LITERARY CHARACTERS.
To John Murray, Esq. Publisher of the Quarterly Review.
monger is as uncomplimentary as the Do you remember reading once on process itself is proverbially odious. a time a review of Mr Wordsworth's It may seem to you, that the Quarpoem, called the Excursion, in the terly is fixed on so firm a basis that no Edinburgh? That admirable and pro- mismanagement can shake it. Believe found critique came from the pen of me that is a dangerous mistake. The that admirable and profound critic, public, certainly, is long-suffering; Francis Jeffrey, and began with the but there is a point of reaction. Befollowing words." This will never sides, many a collector of libraries will do!!”
have just now a fair plausible excuse Mr Jeffrey, knowing nothing of the for discontinuing his set. He has thirty real principles of poetry, and being volumes of Mr Gifford's Review ala on that as on most other subjects, very ready on his shelves, -all that was shallow and flippant, is to be excused superintended by the author of the for such an opening of even a mock- Baviad and Mæviad-the translator criticism of one of the finest poems in of Juvenal--the commentator on Ben the world. But when I take up the
task Jonson, &c. &c. He may say, I am of review-dissecting, I cannot claim content with this,-so far is good ; the protection of shallowness, flip- why should I tie it to the dead bopancy, and ignorance, like Jeffrey, be- dies of Mr Murray? Now, I am not ing pretty generally considered as a saying that your corpora will be of very passable hand in doing up such necessity dead—but the wind of such concerns; and therefore it is with a word, such a joke, such a sneer, such grief I say, on the word of an old a piece of mere scurrility or ill-nature, practitioner, on looking over your last going afloat, will do no good. It will Quarterly
require no small degree of absolute MR JOHN MURRAY, THIS vitality to counteract the impression
it would make. Not even the former It is a bad thing for any
one to come vigorous pace of the Quarterly review after Gifford-still worse when the re- will do they must, as the song has sult of comparison with thatold article it, “ skip like a flea ;"_instead of