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SAWY.---Dare any swear I ever tempted maiden,
These scenes certainly justify the very highest encomiums; but they are not in our mind so entirely natural and lovely as the two following between young Thorney and Susan, bis second wife. The gloom and restlessness---the uneasiness which a troubled conscience produces, are displayed in his character, in a manner that is extremely beautiful, but without any apparent effort. And what can equal the ardent devotedness of affection which is displayed by the confiding girl? We know nothing in our language that can be at all compared to it. Susan remarks--
Why change you your face, sweetheart?
SUS.---Dear, say not so: a spirit of your constancy cannot endure this change for nothing. I have observed strange variations in you.
Y. THOR.--- In me?
Sus.---In you, sir. Awake, you seem to dream: and in your sleep you seem to utter sudden and distracted accents, like one at enmity with peace. Dear, loving husband, if I may dare to challenge any interest in you, give me the reason fully: you may trust my heart as safely as your own.
Y. THOR.---With what? You half amaze me, prithee.
Sus.---Come, you shall not, indeed you shall not, shut me from partaking the least dislike that grieves you. I am all yours.
Y. THOR.--- And I all thine.
SUS.---You are not, if you keep the least grief from me : but I find the cause ; it grew from me.
Y. Thor.--- From you?
SUS.---Prom some distaste in me, or my behaviour : you are not kind in the concealment. 'Las, sir, I am young, silly, and plain, more strange to those contents a wife should offer. Say but in what I fail, I'll study satisfaction.
Y. THOR.---Come, in nothing.
SUS.---I know I do. Knew I as well in what, you should not long be sullen. Prithee, love, if I have been immodest or too bold, speak 't in a frown : if peevishly too nice, shew 't in a smile. Thy liking is the glass by which I'll habit my behaviour.
Y. THOR.---Wherefore dost weep now?
Sus.---You, sweet, have the power to make me passionate as an April day: now smile, then weep; now pale, then crimson red. You are the powerful moon of my blood's sea, to make it ebb or flow into my face, as your looks change.
Y. THOR.---Change thy conceit; I prithee
The next extract is where he is about to leave her for a short time. Y. THOR.
We have no other
SUS.---And will not that, sweetheart, ask a long time?
Fie, fie! why look ?
Y. THOR.---What a thorn this rose grows on! parting were sweet,
SUS.---And that nothing is more hard than any thing,
Y. THOR.--- What is it?
Y. THOR.---Why 'tis granted : come, walk then.
SUS.---Nay, not too fast.
Y. THOR.---Your request is out : will you leave me?
SUS.---What! so churlishly? You'll make me stay for ever,
Nor is the play wanting in lessons of morality---good, true sentiments boldly expressed; not that maudlin and pharasaical sentimentality which passes current in the present day.' We have only room for three extracts.
Thou art never so distant
MOURNING FOR THE DEAD.
He is not lost
THE PRESENT LIFE NOT THE ONLY STATE OF EXISTENCE.
For when a man has been a hundred years
Now let it be asked, when was any new play, containing scenes, writing, or sentiments like these, submitted to the public in our days? Until such an one is brought before them, it is useless to talk of bad taste : the public will go to the theatre ; and if the managers cannot, or will not, bring well written dramas before them, there is no other alternative than to accept such as are presented to notice. The truth is,“ public taste" is formed by the managers; and the conduct of the managers is much less influenced by it than is usually imagined. The man who pampers his appetite with delicacies, at last loses all enjoyment of wholesome food ; and if the public have lost their relish for good plays (which we do not believe), it is the consequence of the vicious treatment in which the managers have indulged them.
TO AN EOLIAN HARP.
And Cupid was a blythesome boy ;
The strains which breathe of Love and Joy.
And Hope and Love are seen no more ;
For all my fancied joys are o'er.
Ah! let one note but reach my ear:---
The songs of former days to hear!
(Dear harp, the winds awake thy sighs)
More mournful do thy tones arise.
Discordant then would be thy sounds ;
Touch'd by ungentle hand, rebounds. ISABELLA.
PEARLS OF POESY.
Myra! but listen to thy poet yet,
The Persian poets, in their ultra-figurative style, denominate poetical composition the “ stringing of pearls.” The allusion is apt and expressive; but frequently the pearls are far apart, and the space between is occupied with imitation paste, or vacantly extended in the loose stringing. I have thought that a valuable volume might be made of these pearls, which would be thus composed of the genuine poësy, and nothing else. In time, perhaps, I may be induced to transform the ideal into the real, and supply the desideratum. Meantime, the pages of “ The NationAL MAGAZINE” may be found convenient media for the trial of the experiinent; and if they please there, the plan at some future opportunity may be extended.
We commence our selection with some extracts from the voluminous poetry of Dr. Southey, not because he is Poet Laureate, but that he was among the first who endeavoured to restore poetic taste to the simplicity and energy of nature. The poetry of this author is original in design, in structure, style, and sentiment: it is as inimit. able as original. He has completely occupied whatever ground he has ventured upon.
If another master in the sister art were to arise, and determine to personify poetry in some immortal work, and were to take his idea of poetry from the productions of Southey; wherein would it differ from Raphael's sublimely conceived and beautifully executed painting of“ Poetry personified ?" Crowned with the eternal laurel, her shoulders winged, her bosom modestly invested with white raiment, and thence to her feet overspread with a sky-colored mantle, emblematic of her chastity, her sublimity, and heavenly origin; in one hand holding the harmonious lyre, and with the other expanding on her knee a volume of heroic song. Inspired with divine fury, and elevated with sacred emotion, she arrests herself in this position, and deigns not to descend from her majesty as of a prophetess, and from her station as of a divinity. So chaste---s0 sublime---thus divinely derived ; so harmonious---so heroic---thus inspired, and thus arrested, is the genius of poetry, as illustrated in the poems of Southey. Had he written but one of his great works, his astonishing merits would have remained unquestioned. But the world unwillingly permits a man to multiply demands on its admiration, and substantiate repeated claims to its applause and gratitude.
“ Below a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen ;
Can reach to wound;
Harsh and austere,
Reserved and rude,
Some harshness show,
Would wear away,
So bright and green,
Less bright than they ;
The thoughtless throng,
“Oh! he is worn with toil! the big drops run