Ful. A breeze, a passing breeze, now here, now
there,

Borne on light pinion-such the people's love!
Yet have they claims on pardon, for their faults
Are of their miseries; and their feebleness
Is to their woes proportion'd. Haply still
The secret sigh of their full hearts is thine.
But their lips breathe it not. Their grief is mute;
And the deep paleness of their timid mien,
And eyes in fix'd despondence bent on earth,
And sometimes a faint murmur of thy name,
Alone accuse them. They are hush'd-for now
Not one, nor two, their tyrants; but a host
Whose numbers are the numbers of the rich,
And the patrician Romans. Yes! and well
May proud oppression dauntlessly go forth,
For Rome is widow'd! Distant wars engage
The noblest of her youth, by Fabius led,
And but the weak remain. Hence every heart
Sickens with voiceless terror; and the people,
Subdued and trembling, turn to thee in thought,
But yet are silent.

Caius. I will make them heard.
Rome is a slumbering lion, and my voice

[waves

Shall wake the mighty. Thou shalt see I came
Prepared for all; and as I track'd the deep
For Rome, my dangers to my spirit grew
Familiar in its musings. With a voice
Of wrath the loud winds fiercely swell'd; the
Mutter'd around; heaven flash'd in lightning forth,
And the pale steersman trembled: I the while
Stood on the tossing and bewilder'd bark,
Retired and shrouded in my mantle's folds,
With thoughtful eyes cast down, and all absorb'd
In a far deeper storm! Around my heart,
Gathering in secret then, my spirit's powers
Held council with themselves; and on my thoughts
My country rose,-and I foresaw the snares,
The treacheries of Opimius, and the senate,
And my false friends, awaiting my return.

Fulvius! I wept; but they were tears of rage!
For I was wrought to frenzy by the thought
Of my wrong'd country, and of him, that brother
Whose shade through ten long years hath sternly
cried

"Vengeance !”—nor found it yet.
Ful. It is fulfill'd.

Caius. And how?

Ful. Thou shalt be told.

Caius. Explain thy words.

Ful. Then know-(incautious that I am!)
Caius. Why thus

Falters thy voice? Why speak'st thou not?

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 favour 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 inquiry 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 delineation of Roman character in dramatic poetry, let us recollect that the general habits of the people whose institutions gave birth to the fearful 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 virtues. 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 attempt 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 shame

No 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 announced to Opimius the consul, in the presence of Gracchus, and the intelligence is accompanied by a rumour of his having perished by 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 honour, 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 comest in time. Speak, thou perfidious
friend!

Scipio lies murder'd on his bed of death!-
Who slew him?

Ful. Ask'st thou me?

Caius. Thee! thee, who late

Didst 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 generous 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 honour. 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 victory, 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,
doom'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 [clared
That mock'd its power-Who to all Rome de-
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.

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 dishonour'd brow? What should I do?
There is a voice whose deep tremendous tones
Murmur within my heart, and sternly cry,
"Away!--and pause not-slay thy guilty sister!"
Voice of lost honour, 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 to prophesy the impending storm, and to call up such deep and spirit-stirring recollections from the glorious past, as have resounded through the land, notwithstanding the loudest tumults of those discords which have made her"Long, long, a bloody stage For petty kinglings tame, Their miserable game

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 enamoured 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 to sympathise 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 con secrated 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 portrayed.

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

VINCENZO DA FILICAJA.

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, cry, my country! what a night

Spreads o'er thy glories one dark sweeping pall! Thy thousand triumphs, won by valour'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, reddening 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.

ALESSANDRO MARCHETTI.

ITALIA! oh, no more Italia now!

Scarce of her form a vestige dost thou wear: She was a queen with glory mantled-thou, A slave, degraded, and compell'd to bear. [care Chains gird thy hands and feet; deep clouds of Darken thy brow, once radiant as thy skies;

And shadows, born of terror and despairShadows of death have dimm'd thy glorious eyes. Italia! oh, Italia now no more!

For thee my tears of shame and anguish flow; And the glad strains my lyre was wont to pour

Are changed to dirge-notes: but my deepest woe Is, that base herds of thine own sons the while Behold thy miseries with insulting smile.

ALESSANDRO PEGOLOTTI.

SHE that cast down the empires of the world, And, in her proud triumphal course through Rome,

Dragg'd them, from freedom and dominion hurl'd, Bound by the hair, pale, humbled, and o'ercome: I see her now, dismantled of her state,

Spoil'd of her sceptre, crouching to the ground Beneath a hostile car-and lo! the weight Of fetters, her imperial neck around! Oh! that a stranger's envious hands had wrought This desolation! for I then would say, Vengeance, Italia !"-in the burning thought Losing my grief: but 'tis th' ignoble sway Of vice hath bow'd thee! Discord, slothful ease, Theirs is that victor car; thy tyrant lords are these.

CARLO MARIA MAGGI.

[sleep

I CRY aloud, and ye shall hear my call,
Arno, Sessino, Tiber, Adrian deep,
And blue Tyrrhene! Let him first roused from
Startle the next! one peril broods o'er all.
It nought avails that Italy should plead,

Forgetting valour, sinking in despair,
At strangers' feet !---our land is all too fair;
Nor tears, nor prayers, can check ambition's speed.
In vain her faded cheek, her humbled eye,
For pardon sue; 'tis not her agony,

Her death alone may now appease her foes.
Be theirs to suffer who to combat shun !
But oh, weak pride! thus feeble and undone,
Nor to wage battle nor endure repose!

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

FRANCESCO MARIA DE CONTI.

THE SHORE OF AFRICA.

PILGRIM! whose steps those desert sands explore, Where verdure never spreads its bright array; Know, 'twas on this inhospitable shore

From Pompey's heart the life-blood ebb'd away. Twas here betray'd he fell, neglected lay; Nor found his relics a sepulchral stone,

Whose life, so long a bright triumphal day, O'er Tiber's wave supreme in glory shone ! Thou, stranger! if from barbarous climes thy birth, Look round exultingly, and bless the earth

Where Rome, with him, saw power and virtue die; But if 'tis Roman blood that fills thy veins, Then, son of heroes! think upon thy chains, And bathe with tears the grave of liberty.

JEU-D'ESPRIT ON THE WORD "BARB."

["It was either during the present or a future visit to the same friends, that the jeu-d'esprit was produced which Mrs Hemans used to call her sheet of forgeries' on the use of the word Barb. A gentleman had requested her to furnish him with some authorities from the old English writers, proving that this term was in use as applied to a steed. She very shortly supplied him with the following imitations, which were written down almost impromptu: the mystification succeeded perfectly, and was not discovered until some time afterwards."-Memoir, p. 43.]

THE warrior donn'd his well-worn garb,
And proudly waved his crest,
He mounted on his jet-black barb,
And put his lance in rest.

PERCY'S Reliques.

Why, he can heel the lavolt, and wind a fiery barb, as well as any gallant in Christendom. He's the very pink and mirror of accomplishment.

SHAKSPEARE.

Fair star of beauty's heaven! to call thee mine,
All other joys I joyously would yield;
My knightly crest, my bounding barb resign,

For the poor shepherd's crook and daisied field; For courts or camps no wish my soul would prove, So thou wouldst live with me, and be my love! EARL OF SURREY'S Poems.

For thy dear love my weary soul hath grown Heedless of youthful sports: I seek no more Or joyous dance, or music's thrilling tone,

Or joys that once could charm in minstrel lore, Or knightly tilt where steel-clad champions meet, Borne on impetuous barbs to bleed at beauty's feet. SHAKSPEARE's Sonnets.

As a warrior clad

In sable arms, like chaos dull and sad,
But mounted on a barb as white
As the fresh new-born light,—

So the black night too soon

Came riding on the bright and silver moon,
Whose radiant heavenly ark
Made all the clouds, beyond her influence, seem
E'en more than doubly dark,

Mourning, all widow'd of her glorious beam.
COWLEY.

THE FEVER DREAM.

[Amongst the very few specimens that have been preserved of Mrs Hemans's livelier effusions, which she never wrote with any other view than the momentary amusement of her own immediate circle, is a letter addressed about this time to her sister who was then travelling in Italy. The following extracts from this familiar epistle may serve to show her facility in a style of composition which she latterly entirely discontinued. The first part alludes to a strange fancy produced by an attack of fever, the description of which had given rise to many pleasantries-being an imaginary voyage to China, performed in a cocoa-nut shell with that eminent old English worthy, John Evelyn.]

APROPOS of your illness, pray give, if you please,
Some account of the converse you held on high seas
With Evelyn, the excellent author of "Sylva,"
A work that is very much prized at Bronwylfa.
I think that old Neptune was visited ne'er
In so well-rigg'd a ship, by so well-matched a pair.
There could not have fallen, dear H., to your lot any
Companion more pleasant, since you're fond of

botany,

And his horticultural talents are known,

Just as well as Canova's for fashioning stone.