In Hara's cave he weaves his artful net The arch Impostor first his wife deceives; And hell's Incarnate builds a monarch's throne. Conquest, and Spoil, and Power, confirm his lies- From whose green alleys in the wanton dance No! not from clay were formed those shapes of light, Up pon whose cheeks, clear-shining as they move, Loud shouts of triumph shake the battle-field: Ye nymphs of Georgia, veil your captive shames! How much he loved thee-and adorned how well! The scarlet City feared her time was come, And Dread congealed the heart of Christendom: But Charles, the Hammer, tamed the dangerous scorn Of the Eastern Antichrist--and broke his horn. The banks of Tigris now the Caliph frets With Bagdad's towers, and mosques, and minarets; And grateful Europe still a wreath decrees Empires have risen and ceased: where'er we range, We see the ruins of defacing Change. Some mighty Babylon, that swells to-day, Still puts the mock on that renowned decay. Let Balbec speak, or let Palmyra tell Who failed to keep them, or who built them well. In columned fane or ruined theatre The toad where beauty smiled or beauty wept- Corruption and the worm, to flesh allied The ghosts of Empire, sneer at human pride. Empires have changed, will change, and change again; The Arabs, still unchanged, their place maintain. The Caliph must his broken sceptre rue But Ishmael fears not Tartar Hulaku. Now from the cradle of the Parthian name Had grown the terror of a fiercer fame. His roar has shattered down th' Ephesian shrines; By his assault Laodicea fell; His hoof has trod the pride of Sardis down; From Pergamus he stripped her virgin dress, Death his attendant, Terror in the van, He spoils, slays, tortures, desolates, and burns, And Courage oft has gold and laurels won; Now through the gap the tide of conquest streams; There for his written time the Turkish Lord The sceptre, and the dead Arabian reigns. Amid the wrecks of Empire, still unchanged, The Arab ranges where his fathers ranged. Over the sandy wolds of Araby. Some few have found the joy that Conquest yields, Still does he hold in legendary lore The names and fortunes of his sires of yore; For him each Syrian flower that blooms and dies- The hill of Jebus, lake of Galilee; To Belka's pasture loves his flock to drive, No. X. LAMENT FOR SAUL AND JONATHAN. The blood of Israel's beauty slain Oh, be it told in Gath by none, For there on that disastrous day From men of might, whose life-blood ran, Lovely they lived, and loving ever, Daughters of Israel! weep for Saul - How are the mighty fallen low! I never heard of love like thine, How is the place of Warriors void, J. SHERIDAN KNOWLES' PLAYS. "THE stage and its great drama" has lately become a theme of speculation with critics of highest pretension; and many opinions, with more or less judgment, have been volunteered as to the actibility of certain unacted plays, chiefly of the tragic kind. The writer of this article had the honour, some years ago, to direct public attention to the subject of dramatic poetry, by means of a paper in the Quarterly Review, in which he took the liberty to point out the absurd nature of what was called the dramatic poem, as distinguished from an acting play. He dared then to remark that the "dramatic poem is a modern species of composition, which has sprung up amongst us in consequence of the degraded state of our theatre which state is, again, consequent upon, or productive of, the decline of dramatic genius in this country. We pretend not to inquire which is the cause, which the effect; it is probable that there have been an alternate action and reaction, and that either, at different periods, may have been both cause and effect. Whatever was the original occasion, it is notorious that our recent men of genius have not written for the stage. We do not think that there is a want of dramatic genius: indeed, there is a manifest preference for that form of composition; and, in some instances, the spirit has not been neglected. This has, however, been more evident in works not assuming the corresponding form (such as the Waverley novels, for instance), than in such as arrogate the external manner, -dramatic poems, for example. The authors of the latter appear to us to have proceeded upon an erroneous principle. Writing for the closet, and not for the stage, they commence their work with a decided determination to violate all the proprieties of the theatre, and make it as unfit for representation as possible; as if there were so wide a distinction between what was intended to be read, and what was intended to be acted, that an acting play never could be readable, nor a readable production endured upon the boards. The fact is clearly otherwise. We believe that most readers of taste acknowledge, that the plays of Shakespeare are better for the closet than the stage: yet how fit are they for the stage! At the same time, it is observable that his best plays are most difficult of representation; not, however, from any dramatic defect in themselves, but from the general inefficiency of the corps du théatre to represent any play that is not expressly written to suit the peculiar genius, or knack, of the different performers, and the strength or weakness of the company. The necessity of doing this, we are aware, is uncongenial with a great dramatic effort, and precludes the possibility of one being made with an immediate view to representation. Such another tragedy as Lear, it is obvious, would be written in vain with any such view. Yet surely it would not be impossible to compose a dramatic poem upon the model of Othello, Hamlet, Lear, or any other play of Shakespeare, that we would rather read than see; thus preserving the dramatic spirit, as well as the form. But our writers, under the title of a dramatic poem, divide a didactic essay into dialogue, and, giving themselves no trouble to create in their own minds the idea of human character and passion, content themselves with defining the outlines of an abstract or general notion of historical persons or events, interrupted with luxuriant descriptions of scenery and climate, and digressions of fanciful extravagance or impertinence. In all this, there is frequently much talent displayed. But we read without emotion we shed no tears, because the writer shed none; we feel no sympathy, because he felt no sorrow. Let this, then, be reformed altogether.' Let the taste of an audience at a theatre be what it will, the inefficiency of the company what it may, and the defects of management what they must; but there can be no reason for an author, who does not intend to subject himself to the ordeal of these predicaments, so to write that the best-instructed audience, the most efficient actors, and the most accomplished management, could not, for a moment, entertain his production. Rather let it be these external conditions that are faulty, than the intrinsic arrangement and contents of the poem. A dramatic poem' |