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Vestals immaculate, that pant to taste
Forbidden fruits, t' embrace, and be embrac❜d:
Young virgin-nuns, in sad seclusion pin'd,
Bound by restraints that love forbids to bind :
Voluptuous forms! delicious to behold!
What, what Elysium, to our breasts to fold!
Bosoms are there, than Mecca's dove more white;
And sparkling eyes in beauty's radiance bright:
Lips, luscious as the water-pools divine,
Where cups, bestud with stars, inviting shine;
Fond frenzies, that absorb the soul in bliss;
And the rich flavour of a woman's kiss!

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"Point me the craven! hold him up to scorn!
Better the miscreant never had been born,
Whose dastard blood our righteous cause disclaims,
Whose sluggish soul, the name of soldier, shames.
Doth love of gold within his bosom reign?
Who fall in battle walk the golden plain.
Doth dread of death constrain the wretch to fly?
Cowards in hell, undying, daily die:

Can woman charm him?-knows he not, above,
Boundless fruition waits on boundless love?
Through bow'rs of amaranth bright Sultanas stray,
Their alabaster limbs, on beds of roses, lay:
While, redolent with nard, his azure wings
Young Zephyr fans, and as he fans he sings:
Brisk, with each Houri's sun-gold tresses plays,
And o'er their beauties rolls an amorous gaze.
In that blest region joy perennial reigns,
And rills, refreshing, fructify the plains.

There are no cares; the tears that there are known,
Th' odorous tears of frankincense alone.

Yet, there, th' unmated Houri, listless, mourns,

And inly for her blooming warroir burns,
Beckons o'er Sirat's arch his rapid flight,
To realms of love and everlasting light.
Happy the man whom Azrael passes by;
Thrice happy he that's summon'd to the sky:
Terrestrial bliss, the living victor, waits,
The martyr'd hero, heav'n's expanding gates!
We offer but alternatives of joy,

Gain without loss, and hope without alloy;
Who join us prosper, who desert us die,
Though, on the wings of winds, the recreants fly.
Our righteous wrath, predestin'd to consume,
Hunts them to death, th' inexorable doom!

"Hear me once more, though promises be vain,;
Though threats, the coward's fears, no more restrain:
One awful spell around his soul be wrought,
And Fate's firm doctrine set his care at nought:
To me, that doctrine tenfold strength imparts,-
I see, I see it fortifies your hearts!
Soon shall the onset-cry your spirits fire,
To scale yon walls already ye aspire :-
Fair are the provinces our empire owns,
And vast the tribute of surrounding thrones :

The fairest province, soldiers, be his prize,
Who, on yon ramparts, first the foe defies:
Honour and wealth attend him all his days,
And our warm meed of gratitude and praise.
Warriors, depart! with prayer your souls refresh ;
With seven ablutions purify the flesh;

And be the war-cry, when we give the nod,

Wealth!-Beauty!-Vengeance !-Mohammed and God!”

The rogue who wrote the Cataract of the Ganges' has taken a happy idea from the last line, where the images are so beautifully and turally combined without being confused. Jack Robinson, talking of The Mariner of York's' adventures, says they have taught him to make

Beer, baskets, breeches, bird-cages, and boots."

The travesty is a sufficient proof (to us at least) that the Royal Society of Literature must have played Mr. Jones false in more respects than one: they must have let Mr. Moncrieff read the poem, or how could he have got that line?

The closing description is striking-it is what is called strong writing. Garlic is useful in cookery, but who ever eat a dish of it?

'See, bound in chains, and spit upon, and spoil'd,
Like a trail'd serpent's lifeless length uncoil'd,
Hanging the head, is dragg'd the abject throng,
With savage blows and menaces along.
Incongruous yok'd, as chance the lots assign'd,
Beauty to wrinkles, strength to weakness join'd;
There, grey-haired senators, with beggars class'd,
Shake their scant looks, and wish that hour their last;
Patrician dames, to coarse mechanics bound,
For lofty looks, dejected, eye the ground,
While pious nuns, and timid maids, abash'd,
Mix their weak plaints, to brutal strangers lash'd:
There, frigid Avarice weeps his darling gold,
Counts his own worth, and covets to be sold:
While, sad of soul, there, gentle Pity sighs,
And for the rest were fain herself to sacrifice.
Ah! could such ransom purchase their release,
How many a parent's heart would rest in peace.
How many a husband's agonies be still,
Matrons and maids beyond the reach of ill!
Alas! the parted parents see their child,
Horror! distraction! bought to be defil'd!
The mother faints beneath some ruffian's lust,
And the poor sire exclaims, "Jehovah is unjust !"
• Who that had seen him at his sovereign's side,
To share his counsels, and his fate abide;
The valiant, faithful, Phranza, could behold,
Nor curse the sight, a captive, fetter'd, sold?—
Nought now avails to shield him from disgrace,
The noblest virtues of a noble race;
Nought, that beside the lion of his tribe,
(Can mortal tongue immortal feats describe ?)

The worst reverse his courage could not tire,
Courage it would exalt a conqueror to admire:
With some poor, shivering thing, that weeps the wrong
He most deserves-the loudest of the throng-
Oh! shame to arms! amid the mourning train,
That generous spirit shares th' ignoble chain!
While his loved lady's wild, reverted stare,
Fix'd on her lord, grows maniac with despair.
Now, thro' the gates, disconsolate in woe,
Defiling long, the squalid exiles go:
By their own doors, departing, they perceive
The signs of rapine the marauders leave!
Start at the stains of blood upon the spot,
And miss their friends, and fancy "they are not."
'Tis done :-in triumph see the victor ride,
His chosen guards parading at his side;
With joyous pace explore the stumbling ways,
And on the sumptuous scene transported gaze:
Along the streets, with gore distain'd around,
The restive coursers spurn the clattering ground,
Snort at each corpse, rolled ghastly in the way,
Or, seeming conscious, proud-exulting, neigh.

Sad is the joy that springs from others' woe;
How brief its reign, be thine, proud worm! to know;
Tho' trumpets flourish, can they drown the cry
Of blood, gone forth against thee to the sky?


'Draw! draw the veil! the crescent floats in air,
The hoarse Muezzin calls the Turk to prayer,
For Jesu's name Mohammed's is ador'd:-

The imperial city bows, and owns a Moslem Lord!'

We take our leave of Mr. Jones with a quotation from a speech reported in the newspapers to have been made by Sir Richard Birnie to a youth who had been bubbled at blind hookey by some notorious sharpers: It seems quite clear that you will never get your money, so I recommend you to go home and bear the loss as well as you can. The sharpers with whom you have been playing are quite cunning enough to keep themselves without the reach of the law. I must, however, tell you, that you have your own inexperience and simplicity to thank for this disaster; for no man who knows the ways of the town would have had any thing to do with such persons; and I hope this will be a warning to you for the future.'

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MR. Knowles is already favorably known to the public by his tragedy of Virginius, which enjoyed considerable popularity for about that period usually assigned to the existence of the best of modern tragedies. The work before us is neither of so interesting a nature, nor is its execution quite so good, as that of its predecessor. It departs in no material respect from the well-known history of the Roman tribune whose name it bears; and of the poetry the best that can be said is that it is not bad enough to blame, nor good enough to praise. We like the courage of the man who, with no better provision for the task than Mr. Knowles has, ventures to write a tragedy in modern times. To our thinking, a good tragedy, if not above the reach of any of our living poets, can only be achieved by the best of them : is it, then, a disparagement to Mr. Knowles to say that he cannot write a tragedy? There is no, question of his being a very clever man: he can write a play very tolerably, as times go; but his flight is not lofty enough, nor his grasp sufficiently vigorous, for the pomp and state of tragedy. We cannot help thinking that much of the degradation of the modern drama may be attributed to the influence exercised over authors by the players. We hear constantly of the grateful and humble acknowledgments made by writers to the actors who have personated their heroes, and we are often obliged to blush for both parties. Mr. Knowles says he has simply to remark that there is not an act-hardly a scene--of it that is not indebted for improvement to the talents and taste of his friend, Mr. Macready.' May be so; but why not keep the secret to themselves? or, if they must be smelling to one nosegay, why not come out hand in hand in the title-page? As it is, we are obliged to suspect that Mr. Macready has had the inflating of his own character to the detriment of every other in the play; and that Mr. Knowles, knowing his best chance of success was to bottom it upon the actor's popularity, resolved to increase it as much as lay in his power.

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The following scene is among the best in the tragedy. Caius upbraids his treacherous colleague, Drusus, with imposing upon the people at the instigation of the Senate:

C. Gracc. Stay, Livius Drusus-let me speak with you.

Drusus. Your pleasure, Caius?

C. Gracc. Pleasure !-Livius Drusus,

Look not so sweet upon me!-I am no child
Not to know bitter, for that it is smear'd
With honey! Let me rather see thee scowl

A little; and when thou dost speak, remind me
Of the rough trumpet more than the soft lute.
By Jove, I can applaud the honest caitiff
Bespeaks his craft!

Drusus. The caitiff!


C. Gracc. Ah! ho! Now

You're Livius Drusus! You were only then
The man men took him for-the easy man,
That, so the world went right, car'd not who got
The praise; but rather from perferment shrunk
Than courted it. Who ever thought, in such
A plain and homely piece of stuff, to see
The mighty Senate's tool!

Drusus. The Senate's tool!

C. Gracc. Now, what a deal of pains for little profit! If you could play the juggler with me, Livius

To such perfection practise seeming, as

To pass it on me for reality

Make my own senses witness 'gainst myself,
That things I know impossible to be,

I see as palpable as if they were—

"Twere worth the acting; but, when I am master Of all your mystery, and know, as well

As you do, that the prodigy's a lie,

What wanton waste of labour !-Livius Drusus,
I know you are a tool!

Drusus. Well, let me be so!

I will not quarrel with you, worthy Caius!
Call me whate'er you please.

C. Gracc. What barefac'd shifting!

What real fierceness could grow tame so soon!

You turn upon me like a tiger, and,

When open-mouth'd I brave you, straight you play

The crouching spaniel! You'll not quarrel with me! I want you not to quarrel, Livius Drusus,

But only to be honest to the people.

Drusus. Honest!

C. Gracc. Ay, honest!-Why do you repeat My words, as if you fear'd to trust your own? Do I play echo? Question me, and see

If I so fear to be myself. I act

The wall, which speaks not but with others' tongues.—

I say you are not honest to the people.

I say you are the Senate's tool-their bait

Their juggler-their trick-merchant.-If I wrong you, Burst out at once, and free retort upon me

Tell me, I lie, and smite me to the earth!

I'll rise but to embrace you!

Drusus. My good Caius,

Restrain your ardent temper; it doth hurry you
Into madness.

C. Gracc. Give me but an answer, and'

I'll be content.-Are you not leagued with the Senate ? Drusus. Your senses leave you, Caius !

C. Gracc. 'Will you answer me?

Drusus. Throw off this humour!

C. Gracc. Give me an answer, Drusus!
Drusus. Madman!

C. Gracc. Are you the creature of the Senate?

Drusus. Good Caius!

C Gracc. Do you juggle with the people?

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