No place for prayers. The judges here are deaf, Implacable, unknown. The thunderbolt Falls heavy, and the hand by which 'tis launch'd I come to bear. Ye may behold him yet. Of mourners will be with you. Mat. Is there not One hope? Ant. Alas! my child! SCENE IV.-A Prison. CARMAGNOLA. They must have heard it now.-Oh! that at least I might have died far from them! Though their hearts Had bled to hear the tidings, yet the hour, SCENE V. ANTONIETTA, MATILDA, GONZAGA, and CARMAGNOLA. Ant. My husband! Mat. O my father! Ant. Is it thus That thou returnest? and is this the hour Desired so long! alone. Car. O ye afflicted ones! Heaven knows I dread its pangs for you Long have my thoughts been used to look on Death, And calmly wait his time. For you alone My soul hath need of firmness; will ye, then, Deprive me of its aid? When the Most High On virtue pours afflictions, he bestows The courage to sustain them. Oh ! let yours Equal your sorrows! Let us yet find joy In this embrace: 'tis still a gift of heaven. Thou weep'st, my child! and thou, beloved wife! Ah! when I made thee mine, thy days flow'd on In peace and gladness; I united thee To my disastrous fate, and now the thought Embitters death! Oh! that I had not seen The woes I cause thee! Ant. Husband of my youth! [bright, Of my bright days, thou who didst make them Read thou my heart! the pangs of death are there, And yet e'en now-I would not but be thine. Car. Full well I know how much I lose in thee; Oh! make me not too deeply feel it now. Mat. The homicides ! Car. No, sweet Matilda, no! Of Carmagnola's and Visconti's names. A mourner; and the object of their hate Will be no more.-Oh! there is joy in death !— Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know'st On high. Confide in Him, and live to days Gon. Rest assured, I will. Car. I am content. And if, when this is done, Thou to the field returnest, there for me Salute my brethren; tell them that I died Guiltless; thou hast been witness of my deeds, Hast read my inmost thoughts-and know'st it well. Tell them I never with a traitor's shame Stain'd my bright sword. Oh, never!-I myself Of dirge and hymn, the priest of funeral rites, Ant. Have mercy on us, heaven! Car. My wife! Matilda! Now the hour is nigh, And we must part.-Farewell! Mat. Hark! what dread sound! Ant. Great God ! (The door is half opened, and armed men enter, the chief of whom advances to the Count. His wife and daughter fall senseless.) Car. O God! I thank thee. O most merciful! Thus to withdraw their senses from the pangs Of this dread moment's conflict ! Thou, my friend, Assist them, bear them from this scene of woe, And tell them, when their eyes again unclose To meet the day-that naught is left to fear. Notwithstanding the pathetic beauties of the last act, the attention which this tragedy has excited in Italy must be principally attributed to the boldness of the author in so completely emancipating himself from the fetters of the dramatic unities. The severity with which the tragic poets of that country have, in general, restricted themselves to those rules has been sufficiently remarkable to obtain, at least, temporary distinction for the courage of the writer who should attempt to violate them. Although this piece comprises a period of several years, and that, too, in days so troubled and so "full of fate" days in which the deepest passions and most powerful energies of the human mind were called into action by the strife of conflicting interests-there is, nevertheless, as great a deficiency of incident, as if " to be born and die" made all the history of aspiring natures contending for supremacy. The character of the hero is portrayed in words, not in actions; it does not unfold itself in any struggle of opposite feelings and passions, and the interest excited for him only commences at the moment when it ought to have reached its climax. The merits of the piece may be summed up in the occasional energy of the language and dignity of the thoughts; and the truth with which the spirit of the age is characterised, as well in the development of that suspicious policy distinguishing the system of the Venetian government, as in the pictures of the fiery Condottieri, holding their councils of war"Jealous of honour, sudden and quick in quarrel." CAIUS GRACCHUS. A TRAGEDY, BY MONTI. (A sound of arms is heard.) THIS tragedy, though inferior in power and interest to the Aristodemo of the same author, is nevertheless distinguished by beauties of a high order, and such as, in our opinion, fully establish its claims to more general attention than it has hitherto received. Although the loftiness and severity of Roman manners, in the days of the Republic, have been sufficiently preserved to give an impressive character to the piece, yet those without workings of passion and tenderness which dignity soon becomes monotonous, and heroism unnatural-have not been (as in the tragedies of Alfieri upon similar subjects) too rigidly suppressed. The powerful character of the high-hearted Cornelia, with all the calm collected majesty which our ideas are wont to associate with the name of a Roman matron, and the depth and sublimity of maternal affection more particularly belonging to the mother of the Gracchi, are beautifully contrasted with the softer and more womanish feelings, the intense anxieties, the sensitive and passionate attachment, embodied in the person of Sicinia, the wife of Gracchus. The appeals made by Gracchus to the people are full of majestic eloquence; and the whole piece seems to be animated by that restless and untameable spirit of freedom, whose immortalised struggles for ascendency give so vivid a colouring, so exalted an interest, to the annals of the ancient republics. The tragedy opens with the soliloquy of Caius Gracchus, who is returned in secret to Rome, after having been employed in rebuilding Carthage, which Scipio had utterly demolished. Caius, in Rome behold thyself! The night Hath spread her favouring shadows o'er thy path: And thou, be strong, my country! for thy son Gracchus is with thee! All is hush'd around, And in deep slumber; from the cares of day The worn plebeians rest. Oh! good and true, And only Romans! your repose is sweet, For toil hath given it zest; 'tis calm and pure, For no remorse hath troubled it. Meanwhile, My brother's murderers, the patricians, hold Inebriate vigils o'er their festal boards, Or in dark midnight councils sentence me To death, and Rome to chains. They little deem Of the unlook'd-for and tremendous foe So near at hand !-It is enough. I tread In safety my paternal threshold.-Yes! This is my own! O mother! O my wife! My child!-I come to dry your tears. I come Strengthen'd by three dread furies:-One is wrath, Fired by my country's wrongs; and one deep love, For those, my bosom's inmates; and the thirdVengeance, fierce vengeance, for a brother's blood! His soliloquy is interrupted by the entrance of Fulvius, his friend, with whose profligate character and unprincipled designs he is represented as unacquainted. From the opening speech made by Fulvius (before he is aware of the presence of Caius) to the slave by whom he is attended, it appears that he is just returned from the perpetration of some crime, the nature of which is not disclosed until the second act. The suspicions of Caius are, however, awakened, by the obscure allusions to some act of signal but secret vengeance, which Fulvius throws out in the course of the ensuing discussion. [word, Then a [friend, Oh! what a change is here! There was a time Caius. And what of this? There is no power in fortune to deprive But say, what thoughts Are foster'd by the people? Have they lost The sense of their misfortunes? Is the name Of Gracchus in their hearts-reveal the truthAlready number'd with forgotten things? Ful. A breeze, a passing breeze, now here, now Borne on light pinion—such the people's love! But their lips breathe it not. Their grief is mute; Caius. I will make them heard. 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! 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! Scipio lies murder'd on his bed of death!— Ful. Ask'st thou me? Caius. Thee! thee, who late Didst in such words discourse of him as now Reward the generous courage which hath freed Why dost thou tempt me? Danger menaces Thy honour. Freedom's wavering light is dim; And when one noble, one determined stroke 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 (Of every age and sex) to fire, and sword, [clared |