Hear And "God and the Prophet" rend the skies So melancholy are the cries, The trumpets thrice the signal sang, The horse-tails in the breezes danc'd And mingled in the fight. And urges on his foaming steed Which says, through Christian blood is giv'n Bears through th' opposing front of steel; Dismay'd the Turkish hosts retire. He gain'd the summit of the wall, One Greek alone has tried his might, But, like an ocean-beaten rock, The Christians bore the hostile shock, 66. On, Moslems, on! the Grecians yield, "Justiniani quits the field. "On, Moslems, on!" fierce Mahmoud cries, "Alla has will'd to us the prize; "Feel ye that pure, that madd'ning zeal, "Which none but Mussulmen can feel? REMARKS ON GIFFORD'S "FORD." (Continued from page 133.) Our limits will not allow us to be as lavish in our quotations, as the admiration we feel for genius, and the wish we have to communicate that admiration in our humble sphere to all those from whose libraries the early dramatists have hitherto been aliens, would prompt us to be. But, before we leave "The Broken Heart,” we must recommend to the reader of taste and feeling, the exquisite pathos displayed in the fifth Scene of the third Act, where Penthea bids a last farewell to "the stage of her mortality," and intrusts to Calantha, as to her executrix, the legacies of her youthful affection. Pen. I have left me Cal. Pen. Cal. Pen. Cal. But three poor jewels to bequeath. The first is To whom that? To virgin wives, such as abuse not wedlock A second jewel You mean to part with? 'Tis my Fame; I trust, By slander yet untouch'd; this I bequeath How handsomely thou play'st with harmless sport I strangely like thy Will. Pen. This jewel, madam, Is dearly precious to me; you must use Cal. Do not doubt me. 'Tis long agone since first I lost my heart : Cal. What saidst thou? &c. "The Lover's Melancholy," though beautiful in parts, will stand no comparison as a whole, with the two splendid dramas which have hitherto engaged our attention. The comic parts are deplorable, and generally disgusting. The character of Eroclea, however, is cast in the same mould of feminine delicacy and purity, which Nature seems to have broken in despair when it passed into the hands of those who, under the enervating influence of a vicious Court, "Profan'd the God-given strength, and marr'd the lofty line." Strada's charming apologue of the Nightingale, though frequently attempted, has never been rendered with so much grace and harmony into English, as in the opening scene of this play. To appreciate its merit rightly, we should remember that the original tale is not only cast in a narrative form, but designed as an imitation of a poet, whose great error was diffuseness: to preserve, therefore, the raciness of dramatic composition, without swerving from the easy elegance which characterizes Strada, was a task of no ordinary difficulty. "Perkin Warbeck" is endowed with a very different, though far more pleasing, interest. It is, perhaps, the only instance on record, in which an historical drama, since Shakspeare, has not proved an entire and hopeless failure. So completely has our immortal bard mono polized that province of his art, that the very name of an historical play has become inseparably connected in our minds with the rich humour of Falstaff, the morbid ambition of Richard, and the chivalrous gallantry of Hotspur. We insensibly confound the powerful colouring of the poet with the less brilliant, but more sober, tints thrown off from the pencil of the historian. The period of time which these plays embrace, is to us consecrated ground: the darts of criticism recoil from its portal; it stands alone, unhurt, undefiled, either by the sneer of the sceptic, or the plodding dulness of the biographer. Those times were the times of discord, of civil convulsion, of feudal tyranny, and unhallowed ambition yet, where the scene was darkened by the sullen gloom of the tempest, even there the spirit of Shakspeare sits "from verge to verge," like the Iris of the cataract, and sheds the full effulgence of poetical genius over the dim chaos of historical confusion. But, as with Shakspeare that pleasing illusion appeared, so with Shakspeare it must vanish. It is the bow of Ulysses, which none but Ulysses could bend. Nothing accordingly can exceed the wretchedness of those abortions which the vanity of new-fledged authors, or the pride of older ones, has occasionally palmed on the expectation of the public. And it is equally gratifying and unexpected, to find, as in the instance before us, a play, which even by the veriest bigots of the Shakspearian school must be perused with pleasure; a play which, if it no where presents to our view a masterly delineation of character, or a highly-wrought development of plot, yet contains nothing which can fairly be blamed, and much which must in justice be commended. What young and |