Ful. Yet won it shall be. If but this thou fear'st, Then be at peace.

Caius. I understand thee not.

Ful. Thou wilt ere long. But here we vainly waste Our time and words. Soon will the morning break, Nor know thy friends as yet of thy return;

I fly to cheer them with the tidings.

Caius. Stay!

Ful. And wherefore?

Caius. To reveal thy meaning.

Ful. Peace!

I hear the sound of steps.

This conversation is interrupted by the entrance of Cornelia, with the wife and child of Caius. They are about to seek an asylum in the house of Emilianus, by whom Cornelia has been warned of the imminent danger which menaces the family of her son from the fury of the patricians, who intend, on the following day, to abrogate the laws enacted by the Gracchi in favor of the plebeians. The joy and emotion of Gracchus, on thus meeting with his family, may appear somewhat inconsistent with his having remained so long engaged in political discussion, on the threshold of their abode, without ever having made an enquiry after their welfare; but it would be somewhat unreasonable to try the conduct of a Roman (particularly in a tragedy) by the laws of nature. Before, however, we are disposed to condemn the principles which seem to be laid down for the delinea tion of Roman character in dramatic poetry, let us recollect that the general habits of the people whose institutions gave birth to the fear ful grandeur displayed in the actions of the elder Brutus, and whose towering spirit was fostered to enthusiasm by the contemplation of it, must have been deeply tinctured by the austerity of even their vir tues. Shakspeare alone, without compromising the dignity of his Romans, has disencumbered them of the formal scholastic drapery which seems to be their official garb, and has stamped their features with the general attributes of human nature, without effacing the impress which distinguished "the men of iron," from the nations who "stood still before them."

The first act concludes with the parting of Caius and Fulvius in wrath and suspicion, Cornelia having accused the latter of an attempi to seduce her daughter, the wife of Scipio, and of concealing the most atrocious designs under the mask of zeal for the cause of liberty.

Of liberty

What speak'st thou, and to whom? Thou hast no shameNo virtue and thy boast is, to be free!

Oh! zeal for liberty! eternal mask

Assumed by every crime !

In the second act, the death of Emilianus is anr sunced to Opimius the consul, in the presence of Gracchus, and the intelligence is accompanied by a rumor of his having perished b assassination. The mysterious expressions of Fulvius, and the accusation of Cornelia, immediately recur to the mind of Caius. The following scene, in which his vehement emotion, and high sense of honor, are well contrasted with the cold-blooded sophistry of Fulvius, is powerfully wrought up.

Caius. Back on my thoughts the words of Fulvius rush, Like darts of fire. All hell is in my heart! (Fulvius enters. Thou com'st in time. Speak, thou perfidious friend! Scipio lies murdered on his bed of death!—

Who slew him?

Ful. Ask'st thou me ?

Caius. Thee! thee, who late

Did'st in such words discourse of him, as now
Assure me thou'rt his murderer. Traitor, speak!
Ful. If thus his fate doth weigh upon thy heart,
Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest!
More grateful praise, and warmer thanks might well
Reward the gen'rous courage which hath freed
Rome from a tyrant, Gracchus from a foe!
Caius. Then he was slain by thee?
Ful. Ungrateful friend!

Why dost thou tempt me? Danger menaces
Thy honor. Freedom's wavering light is dim;
Rome wears the fetters of a guilty senate;
One Scipio drove thy brother to a death
Of infamy, another seeks thy fall;

And when one noble, one determined stroke,
To thee and thine assures the vict'ry, wreaks

The people's vengeance, gives thee life and fame,
And pacifies thy brother's angry shade,

Is it a cause for wailing? Am I call'd

For this a murderer? Go!-I say once more,

Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest!

Caius. I know thee now, barbarian! Would'st thou serve

My cause with crimes?

Ful. And those of that proud man

Whom I have slain, and thou dost mourn, are they

To be forgotten? Hath oblivion then

Shrouded the stern destroyer's ruthless work,
The famine of Numantia? Such a deed,
As on our name the world's deep curses drew!
Or the four hundred Lusian youths betray'd,
And with their bleeding, mutilated limbs,
Back to their parents sent? Is this forgot?
Go, ask of Carthage!-bid her wasted shores
Of him, this reveller in blood, recount
The terrible achievements!-At the cries,
The groans, th' unutterable pangs of those,

The more than hundred thousand wretches, dooin'd
(Of every age and sex) to fire, and sword,
And fetters, I could marvel that the earth
In horror doth not open!-They were foes,
They were barbarians, but unarm'd, subdued,
Weeping, imploring mercy! And the law
Of Roman virtue is, to spare the weak,
To tame the lofty! But in other lands,
Why should I seek for records of his crimes,

If here the suffering people ask in vain
A little earth to lay their bones in peace?
If the decree which yielded to their claims
So brief a heritage, and the which to seal
Thy brother's blood was shed; if this remain
Still fruitless, still delusive, who was he

That mock'd its power?-Who to all Rome declared
Thy brother's death was just, was needful ?-Who
But Scipio ?-And remember thou the words
Which burst in thunder from thy lips e'en then,
Heard by the people! Caius, in my heart
They have been deeply treasured. He must die,
(Thus did'st thou speak) this tyrant! We have need
That he should perish!-I have done the deed;
And call'st thou me his murderer? If the blow
Was guilt, then thou art guilty. From thy lips
The sentence came-the crime is thine alone.
I, thy devoted friend, did but obey

Thy mandate.

Caius. Thou my friend! I am not one,
To call a villain friend. Let thunders fraught
With fate and death, awake, to scatter those,
Who bringing liberty through paths of blood
Bring chains!-degrading Freedom's lofty self
Below e'en Slavery's level!-Say thou not,
Wretch that the sentence and the guilt were mine!
I wish'd him slain!-'tis so-but by the axe
Of high and public justice; that whose stroke
On thy vile head will fall. Thou hast disgraced
Unutterably my name-I bid thee tremble!

Ful. Caius, let insult cease, I counsel thee,
Let insult cease! Be the deed just or guilty,
Enjoy its fruits in silence. Force me not
To utter more.

Caius. And what hast thou to say?
Ful. That which I now suppress.
Caius. How are there yet,

Perchance, more crimes to be reveal'd?
Ful. I know not.

Cuius. Thou know'st not!-Horror chills my curdling veins. I dare not ask thee farther.

Ful. Thou dost well,

Caius. What saidst thou?

Ful. Nothing.

Caius. On my heart the words

Press heavily. Oh! what a fearful light

Bursts o'er my soul!-Hast thou accomplices?

Ful. Insensate! ask me not.

Caius. I must be told.

Ful. Away!-thou wilt repent.

Caius. No more of this, for I will know.
Ful. Thou wilt?

Ask then thy sister.

Caius (alone). Ask my sister!-What!

Is she a murderess?-Hath my sister slain

Her lord?-Oh! crime of darkest dye!-Oh! name
Till now unstain'd, name of the Gracchi, thus
Consign'd to infamy!-to infamy?

The very hair doth rise upon my head,

Thrill'd by the thought!-Where shall I find a place
To hide my shame, to lave the branded stains
From this dishonor'd brow?-What should I do?
There is a voice whose deep tremendous tones
Murmurs within my heart, and sternly cry,

Away!-and pause not-slay thy guilty sister!" Voice of lost honor of a noble line

Disgraced, I will obey thee !-terribly

Thou call'st for blood, and thou shalt be appeased.

PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS

OF THE ITALIAN POETS.

WHOEVER has attentively studied the works of the Italian poets, from the days of Dante and Petrarch to those of Foscolo and Pindemonte, must have been struck with those allusions to the glory and the fall, the renown and the degradation, of Italy, which give a melancholy interest to their pages. Amidst all the vicissitudes of that devoted country, the warning voice of her bards has still been heard o prophesy the impending storm, and to call up such deep and spiritstirring recollections from the glorious past, as have resounded through the land, notwithstanding the loudest tumults of those dis cords which have made her

Long, long, a bloody stage
For petty kinglings tame,
Their miserable game
Of puny war to wage."

There is something very affecting in these vain, though exalted aspirations, after that independence which the Italians, as a nation, seem destined never to regain. The strains in which their hightoned feelings on this subject are recorded, produce on our minds the same effect with the song of the imprisoned bird, whose melody is fraught, in our imagination, with recollections of the green woodland, the free air, and unbounded sky. We soon grow weary of the perpetual violets and zephyrs, whose cloying sweetness pervades the sonnets and canzoni of the minor Italian poets, till we are ready to "die in aromatic pain ;" nor is our interest much more excited even by the everlasting laurel which inspires the enamored Petrarch with so ingenious a variety of concetti, as might reasonably cause it to be doubted whether the beautiful Laura, or the emblematic tree, are the real object of the bard's affection; but the moment a patriotic chord is struck our feelings are awakened, and we find it easy tc sympathize with the emotions of a modern Roman, surrounded by the ruins of the capitol; a Venetian when contemplating the proud trophies won by his ancestors at Byzantium; or a Florentine

amongst the tombs of the mighty dead, in the church of Santa Croce It is not, perhaps, now, the time to plead, with any effect, the cause of Italy; yet cannot we consider that nation as altogether degraded, whose literature' from the dawn of its majestic immortality, has been consecrated to the nurture of every generous principle and ennobling recollection; and whose "choice and master spirits," under the most adverse circumstances, have kept alive a flame, which may well be considered as imperishable, since the "ten thousand tyrants" of the land have failed to quench its brightness. We present our readers with a few of the minor effusions, in which the indignant though unavailing regrets of those, who, to use the words of Alfieri, are "slaves, yet still indignant slaves,"* have been feelingly portraye

The first of these productions must, in the original, be familiar to every reader who has any acquaintance with Italian literature.

VINCENZO DA FILICAJA.

'Quando giù dai gran monti bruna bruna," &c.

WHEN from the mountain's brow, the gathering shades
Of twilight fall, on one deep thought I dwell:
Day beams o'er other lands, if here she fades,
Nor bids the universe at once farewell.

But thou, I cry, my country! what a night
Spreads o'er thy glories one dark sweeping pall;
Thy thousand triumphs won by valor's might,
And wisdom's voice-what now remains of all?

And see'st thou not th' ascending flame of war
Burst through thy darkness, redd'ning from afar?
Is not thy misery's evidence complete ?
But if endurance can thy fall delay,
Still, still endure, devoted one! and say,
If it be victory thus but to retard defeat!

CARLO MARIA MAGG1.

"Io grido, e grideró finche mi senta," &c.

1 CRY aloud, and ye shall hear my call,
Arno, Sessino, Tiber; Adrian deep,

And blue Tyrrhene! Let him first roused from sleep
Startle the next! one peril broods o'er all.
It nought avails that Italy should plead,
Forgetting valor, sinking in despair,

* "Schiavi siam, ma schiavi ognor frementi."-ALFIERI.