Review of Marino Faliero.

How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm!

I thank thee, night! for thou hast chased away
Those horrid bodements, which, amidst the throng,
I could not dissipate and with the blessing

Of thy benign and quiet influence,

Now will I to my couch, although to rest
Is almost wronging such a night as this.

There is still one ground on which this tragedy merits consideration. A drama, like the present, as it admits a greater variety of characters, affords a greater latitude for the noble author's genius than any of his former productions. It is one of the most difficult offices of a dramatic writer to preserve distinctly the humors and tempers of his personages; and in this respect Lord Byron has perfectly succeeded; but we think, notwithstanding his excuse, that he has drawn too deeply on "Venice Preserved." Lord Byron's "Bertram" is Otway's "Jaffier"-"Israel" is Otway's "Pierre""Calendaro" is Otway's "Renault,"-but indeed "Angiolina" is not Otway's "Belvidera." There are coincidences in language, sentiment, and circumstance, and they are inexcusable. He seems to have known them-he mentions one particularly, and alludes to the rest. This heightens his offence, and converts his excuse into a mockery. Why should he not have altered the offensive passages ?-why appropriate to himself the ideas of another?-They answered his purpose-he knew they were not his-but he kept them. Nor is history a sufficient apology for the resemblance of the plots and incidents. He should not have chosen a subject which could not be handled without an imitation of Otway's style and plot; and we find that the most striking coincidences are where he deserted the path of history, and altered the facts to suit them to his own convenience. We allude particularly to the assignation of the Doge to meet Israel at midnight, and to the introduction of this new ally to the conspirators, which bears too close a resemblance to the parallel parts of Venice Preserved," to escape the least attentive reader.

We will notice in our next number "The Prophecy of Dante," which is included in the same volume with the Doge of Venice." We have also been obliged to postpone our review of Mr. Haynes's Tragedy of " Conscience"

66

When Conrad's bark flew o'er the water
That laves the shore of Istambol,
And with him stern Barhaddan's daughter,
Far from her haughty Sire's control.
They loved-they lived but for each other,
Existence held nought worth beside,
And now, in semblance of her brother,
He bears her o'er the flashing tide.
III.

The waves lay still and silent, gleaming
Beneath the sun's resplendent glow;
And purity's own tears were streaming
From beauteous Imma's eyes below.
While Conrad, warm with love and glory,
As high his ardent bosom swells,
Steers down that sea, renowned in story,
That issues from the Dardanelles !

IV.

There oft in days whose light has wander'd
From all, but aching mem'ry's eye,
Had freedom reared her glorious standard,
And crushed the slaves of tyranny.
But now, alas! the flame is blasted,
That burned so pure in ages past,
And freedom's spirit worn and wasted,
Lies cold beneath oppression's blast.

V.

Oh, thou, who led'st the van of battle
Around that memorable rock,

While sabres' clash, and armour's rattle,
Resounded like the tempest's shock;
3 E

VOL. I.-NO. V.

The Bride of Islam.

Say, could not one you 've left, inherit
Amid this wide world's wilderness-
One spark of that immortal spirit,

Which warmed your heart at Salamis?
VI.

And ye who held the post of danger,
The passage of Thermopylæ

And braved the thousands of the stranger,
The guardian band of liberty-
Oh, waken from your tomb of honor,
And see the land ye loved in vain,
Prostrate-a despot's curse upon her,
And writhing under slavery's chain!-
VII.

No longer are her hills returning
The echoes of the Theban lyre,

But music's soul, like freedom 's, mourning
Remembrance of her former fire.

The spirit's fled-the form 's remaining,
Alike devoid of life and light,-
While slavish bands her sons are chaining,
They gaze contented on the sight.
VIII.

Yet there is one whose manly daring
Hath proved him worthy nobler fame,
Whose wounded heart 's yet proudly wearing
The traces of a holier flame.

One who had still through each probation,
Preserved in mind his country's wrong,
And mourned in tears her degradation,
The land of liberty and song!
IX.

For her he braved war, death, and danger,
For her defied the Islamite,-

An exiled, outcast, homeless ranger

He loved her, though he could not right.
Yes, Conrad! in thy heart the feeling
Still burns as purely as before,

Though softer thoughts, like music stealing,
Would bid thee other shrines adore!

X.

"Twere vain to tell the dawn of passion,

Where, how, or when, they met and loved; Or how, amid each dire oppression,

Their faithful hearts more constant proved.

A prisoner in her father's towers,

She freed him from his servile chains, And left with him, her native bowers,

To range o'er far-far distant plains.

The Bride of Islam.

Now through the sunny waters steering,
They think not of the dangers o'er;
While hope, each ardent bosom cheering,
Points fondly to that happy shore,
Where peace and joy, in sweet communion,
Unite all hearts in lasting ties,-

A spotless undivided union

Of nature's dearest sympathies!
XI.

Light bounding o'er the stormless billow,
The bark still glided smoothly on;
While Imma from her wave-rocked pillow,
Sat gazing on the setting sun,
Whose rays, in ocean's bed retiring,

Reflected in the gorgeous west

A chain of brilliancy, inspiring
Devotion in each Moslem breast.
XII.

'Twas when the day's last fires were ending,
And twilight breathed her sweetest spells
Around those fairy shores, extending

Their boundaries from the Dardanelles,

That Conrad, to his bosom pressing
The long-loved partner of his soul,
Received the christian's holiest blessing,
And spurned the Islamite's controul.
XIII.

Where bright and clear, the waves are sweeping
In murmurs from the Dardan shore,
That land-where history still sits weeping
The lost remains of glory o'er ;-

There where the breezes lightly sighing
From lone Mount Ida's ruined side,

Are scarcely to the waves replying,
So soft and silently they glide;
XIV.

A lonely islet, bright and blooming,
Amid the waves its bosom rears,
Fanned by the gentlest gales perfuming
Its roses, gemmed with nature's tears!
And there a sky for ever smiling,

Above them spreads its heaven of light,
O'er scenes of loneliness, beguiling
The withered heart of half its blight.
XV.

There in that isle, clear, bright, enchanting,
Like some sweet Paradise unknown,
Where nought but love before was wanting
To make its sweetness all his own;

The Bride of Islam.-Song.

They live-removed from strife and sorrow,
They live a life of endless bliss,-
And hope can paint no brighter morrow,
No scene more exquisite than this!
XVI.

And Imma's soul, with rapture burning,
The Christian's hallow'd blessing feels;
And now from Mecca's idol turning,

To the same God of Nature kneels.
And as the day-beam, pure and splendid,
To all its influence imparts,

Religion's holiest light hath blended

With Love's-to bless their sinless hearts.

XVII.

The flower that decks the wild earth's bosom,
And blooms so bright to human eyes,
Is not so precious as the blossom

That twines in bowers of Paradise.

But where's the hand, so rude, would sever
Of earth and heaven the sacred ties?

Oh, let them mingle ever-ever,
'Till feeling cease and passion dies!

SONG.

Oh, dear, ever dear, as thou wert to my heart,
Yet never more dear than this moment thou art ;
I could leave thee to wander in exile for years,
If my absence could rob thy pale cheek of its tears.
In silence and sorrow-in darkness and shame,
When the cold world frown'd on my desolate name,
I have turned with a spirit unbroken and free,
To gaze on thy blue eye-still precious to me.
When the ties of affection were wither'd and gone,
And I stood in the bleak world, friendless and lone,
Like the mourner that weeps o'er the tomb of the dead,
Thy spirit was near me when others had fled.
Oh, sfill be it nigh!-on my desolate heart
Let it fling a last gleam of its light ere we part;
It cannot past scenes of enchantment recal,
It may tell me I am not forgotten by all!-