1823. No. II.-Beddoes. Attend. The wind is high, and through the silent rooms Murmurs his burthen, to an heedless ear Almost articulate. Hesp. Thou sleepest, fool, A voice has been at my bedside to-night, Its breath is burning on my forehead still, Still o'er my brain its accents, wildly sweet, Hover and fall. Away and dream again, I'll watch myself. [He takes the torch and turns to the hangings." The horror of his reason is more distinctly avowed in his soliloquy. "Speak! who is at my ear? [He turns and addresses his shadow. I know the hideous laughter of thy face. me, Coaxingly with its serpent voice. sung, Syren of Acheron. Well I'll not look on thee; Why does thy frantic weapon dig the air With such most frightful vehemence ? Back, back, Tell the dark grave I will not give it food. Back to thy home of night. What! playest thou still? Then thus I banish thee. Out, treacherous torch, Sure thou wert kindled in infernal floods, Or thy bright eye would blind at sights like this. [Dashes the torch on the ground. Tempt me no more, I tell thee Floribel Shall never bleed. I pray thee, guilty word, Tempt me no more." He now roams about in the darkness, sullen, fierce, and distracted; and hints are dropped, that there is a taint of madness in his mind. A great deal of fine poetry occurs in this part of the drama, but throughout either extravagant, or bordering on extravagance. It is, however, effective; and we quote, as a proof of this young poet's fine powers, the first scene of the third act. "An apartment in Orlando's Palace. Claud. The bridegroom's here ? the motion Even of a nerve, as he were growing marble, Has sat and watched, the sun blazed in at noon With light enough to blind an eagle's ken, He felt it not, although his eye-balls glared Horribly bright: I spoke: he heard me not: And when I shook his arm, slept on in I pray you try him. Claud. Sir, good Hesperus, Our match at tennis. Will you walk with me? Attend. Your voice is weak as silence to Enter Orlando. Orlan. My brother, you must join us at We wait your coming long; how's this? Like trance has held him since the dawn of day, He has looked down upon yon wood since Enter Lord Ernest. Lord Ern. Now, health and good be here, For I have missed my son this livelong Why, what an idle loiterer thou art; Upon that view. Arise, I'd have you with me To fix upon some posy for the ring Is here. Speak; speak, and tell me if he Attend. He does, my lord, if breathing But in all else is like the coffined dead; Lord Ern. Tell me 'tis false. Orlan Oh heavens, Orlando, I would 'twere in my power, But it doth seem too true. Ride like the wind, Fetch him the aid of medicine. See you not Some vision has come to him in the night, Enter Olivia. Oh, you are come in time to see him die; not ; My son, if thou dost hear me, speak one word, And I will bless thee. Orlan. He is dumb indeed. Olivia. Let me come near him. Dearest Hesperus, If thou beholdest these poor unbeauteous cheeks, Which first thy flattering kindness taught to blush; Or if thou hearest a voice, that's only sweet When it says Hesperus; oh gentle love, via, Speak anything, even that thou hatest Oli And I will thank thee for't; or if some horror Has frozen up the fountain of thy words, Lady, alas, 'tis vain. Olivia (kneeling.) Nay, he shall speak, or I will never move, But thus turn earth beseeching his dull hand, And let the grass grow over me. I'll hold A kind of converse with my raining eyes, For if he sees not, nor doth hear, he'll know The gentle feel of his Olivia's tears. Claud. Sweet sir, look on her. Hesperus has now wrought his courage to the striking place, and goes to the cottage, where he had often been so blest, to murder Floribel. Perhaps, after Othello and Desdemona, no man should ever murder his wife more, except off the stage. Dr Johnson thanked God when he had done annotating on that dreadful scene. Mr Beddoes has here conceived something very fearful-in our opinion, much beyond what lately occurred near Gill's-hill cottage. "Flor. Hence did I seem to hear a hu man voice, Yet there is nought, save a low moaning sound, As if the spirits of the earth and air And the whole dæmon brood of night, blind Fog And withering Blight, all these are my retainers; How not one smile for all this bravery? What think you of my minstrels, the hoarse winds, Thunder, and tuneful Discord? Hark, they play. Well piped, methinks; somewhat too rough, perhaps. Flor. I know you practise on my silli ness, Else I might be well scared. But leave this mirth, Or I must weep. Hesp. "Twill serve to fill the goblets For our carousal; but we loiter here, The bridemaids are without; well-pick'd thou'lt say, Wan ghosts of woe-begone, self-slaughtered damsels In their best winding-sheets; start not, I bid them wipe Their gory bosoms; they'll look wondrous comely; Our link-boy, Will o' the Wisp, is waiting too To light us to our grave-bridal, I mean. Flor. Ha! how my veins are chilled The voice that calls thee is not of a mouth Long choaked with dust! What, though I have assumed This garb of flesh, and with it the affections, The thoughts and weakness of mortality? "Twas but for thee; and now thou art my bride; Lift up thine eyes and smile—the bride of death. Flor. Hold, hold. My thoughts are The churlish framer of these fearful words, bower. Hesp. Come, we'll to our chamber, The cypress shade hangs o'er our stony couch A goodly canopy; be mad and merry; There'll be a jovial feast among the worms. [Aside. Fiends, strew your fiercest fire about my heart, Or she will melt it. Flor. Oh, that look of fury! What's this about my eyes? ah! deadly night, No light, no hope, no help. Hesp. What! Darest thou tremble Under thy husband's arm, darest think of fear? Dost dread me, me? Flor. I know not what to dread, Nor what to hope; all's horrible and doubtful; And coldness creeps Hesp. She swoons, poor girl, she swoons. And, treacherous dæmons, ye've allowed a drop To linger in my eyes. Out, out for ever. I'm fierce again. Now, shall I slay the victim As she lies senseless? ah, she wakes; cheer up, 'Twas but a jest. Flor. A dread and cruel one; But I'll forgive you, if you will be kind; Hesp. Why, 'twere most unseemly loud. Flor. Alas! he raves again. Sweetest, what mean you By these strange words? Hesp. What mean I ? Death and murder, Darkness and misery. To thy prayers and shrift; Earth gives thee back; thy God hath sent me for thee, Repent and die. Flor. Oh, if thou willest it, love, breast. He will not smile, he will not listen to me. bosom? Oh search it, search it; see if there remain Hesp. Well, speak on; and then, kill thee. Come tell me all my vows, how they are broken, Say that my love was feigned, and black Pour out thy bitterest, till untamed wrath Flor. Oh piteous heavens ! creature Hath wounded him, and with contagious fang Planted this fury in his veins. He hides to me, I'll suck the madness out of every pore, Farewell, and may no busy deathful tongue To deeds of wickedness. Whose kiss is His lips are ice. Oh my loved Hesperus, The murderer buries his bridebut is seen by one Hubert and his huntsman, who think hin a miser hiding treasure, and dig up the warm corpse. He is afterwards seized at his marriage feast. He is tried, condemned, and brought out to the scaffold. There Floribel's mother, Lenora, gives him a bouquet of flowers to smell, impregnated with deadly poison, having herself imbibed the mortal fragrance; and they both die after a few words suitable to their respective characters. This is a hasty and imperfect sketch of the drama; but we have said enough and extracted enough, to enable our readers to judge of the powers of this new aspirant after poetical honours. His language, it will be seen, is elegant, and his versification constructed on a good principle. It is dramatic. He has no mean talents, keen perceptions, and fine feelings. He has evidently never once attempted to make his different characters speak naturally; they all declaim, harangue, spout, and poetize with equal ease and elegance; and when they go mad, which, towards the end, they almost all do, man, woman, and child, they merely become a little more figurative and metaphorical; but the train of their thoughts and feelings proceeds much the same as when they were in their sober senses. But to point out the faults of this composition would be absurd indeed, for they are innumerable and glaring, and the deuce is in himself and his play, before he is threeit, if Mr Beddoes does not wonder at and-twenty. Wonder he may and will, but he need never to be ashamed of it, for with all its extravagancies, and even sillinesses and follies, it shews far more than glimpses of a true poetical genius, much tender and deep feeling, a wantoning sense of beauty, a sort of light, airy, and graceful delicacy of imagination, extremely de[Stabs her. lightful, and withal a power over the darker and more terrible passions, which, when taught and strengthened by knowledge and experience of human life, will, we hope, and almost trust, enable Mr Beddoes to write a bona fide good English tragedy. And I will treat it like another heart. Quite through my soul, WORKS PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION. LONDON. A new Edition of Mr Alaric Watts' "POETICAL SKETCHES," with Illustrations, is preparing for publication, which will include "GERTRUDE DE BALM," a Poetical Sketch, and other additional Poems. 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