Hear
ye the sounds that are borne on the gale,
The shout of joy, and the shriek of wail;
Hear the songs of the Faithful rise,

And "God and the Prophet" rend the skies
Hear, with cadence sad and slow,
Resound the Christian's notes of woe;

So melancholy are the cries,
They seem the city's obsequies.

The trumpets thrice the signal sang,
With "Alla" thrice the welkin rang,
The Moslem's cry of might;

The horse-tails in the breezes danc'd
As Anatolia's bands advanc'd,

And mingled in the fight.
The strife begins. Amid the lines
Each Janissary's falchion shines,
As on they rush'd, with eager course,
To stem the charging Christian's force.
Then vain was Grecian sword and spear
Against the Moslem's wild career;
As leaves before the breath of heav'n,
Back to their gates the foe is driv❜n.
But who is he, whose giant form
Seems like a beacon midst the storm?
Who, through the war's conflicting wave,
O'erthrows the bravest of the brave,

And urges on his foaming steed
Obedient to his Prophet's creed,

Which says, through Christian blood is giv'n
The Moslem's surest path to heav'n.
"Tis Hassan-he whom eager zeal

Bears through th' opposing front of steel;
Who burns in fiercer fight to close
With those, the Crescent's deadliest foes.
He flies, where from the Grecian fire

Dismay'd the Turkish hosts retire.
Quick from his hand the reins he flings,
Quick from his charger's back he springs,
One bound he gave-unseen by all,

He gain'd the summit of the wall,
And midst a thousand hostile brands
Alone, yet undismay'd, he stands ;

One Greek alone has tried his might,
And dared the Moslem to the fight ;
Nor dared in vain. In Hassan's eyes
The flames of anger sparkling rise;
With flashing course his falchion sped-
The Greek is number'd with the dead.
But fiercer soon their vengeance glows,
Thicker the Christian squadrons close.
Still Hassan fights, until a dart
Has drunk the life-blood of his heart.
Meantime each turban'd band appears,
And nearer gleam the Turkish spears;
Then peal'd the cannon's echo loud,
Then widely roll'd war's sulphurous cloud,
As sword to sword, and breast to breast,
Upon the foe the Moslem prest.

But, like an ocean-beaten rock,

The Christians bore the hostile shock,
And firm remain'd, though myriads bled,
Until proud Genoa's leader fled.

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?
"See ye the dark-hair'd Houris wave
"Their welcome to the slaughter & brave?"
But then was seen the Christian's rout,
Then peal'd the conquering Moslem's shout;
While worthy of his former name
Amidst his native city's flame,
Deserted by his recreant bands,
The last of all the Cæsars stands :
With brow serene, unmov'd by fear,
He saw the victor's fierce career;
Unmov'd he view'd the tottering wall,
Unmov'd he mark'd each soldier's fall
Then, dashing madly through the strife
Resign'd the worthless boon of life.

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
My Youth; for tho' I am much old in griefs,
In years I am a child.

To whom that?

To virgin wives, such as abuse not wedlock
May those be ever young!

A second jewel

You mean to part with?

'Tis my Fame; I trust,

By slander yet untouch'd; this I bequeath
To Memory, and Time's old daughter, Truth,
If ever my unhappy name find mention,
When I am fall'n to dust, may it deserve
Beseeming charity without dishonour!

How handsomely thou play'st with harmless sport
Of mere imagination! speak the last;

I strangely like thy Will.

Pen. This jewel, madam,

Is dearly precious to me; you must use
The best of your discretion to employ
This gift as I intend it.

Cal.
Pen.

Do not doubt me.

'Tis long agone since first I lost my heart :
Long have I lived without it, else for certain
I should have given that too: but instead
Of it, to great Calantha, Sparta's heir,
By service bound, and by affection vowed,
I do bequeath, in holiest rites of love,
Mine only brother, Ithocles.

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