Aristodemo. Who is Cesira ?— Cesira. Ah me! he hath lost All knowledge-dost thou then not recognize Aristodemo. I have it stamped within my heart- Into these arms?-oh let me then with thine Mingle my tears-my heart would burst with anguish, Cesira. Yes, pour it all into my faithful bosom- More deeply pierced with pity and with sorrow: Aristodemo. The innocent that doth pursue the guilty! Aristodemo. Cesira. I. That I should think thee guilty- Thou!-why dost wish. I did murder her Mine own daughter! Heavens! Cesira. Whom didst thou murder? Aristodemo. Cesira. He raves-what madness hurried thee to set Oh give him back again his wandering reason— Aristodemo. It comes back! "Tis there! itself!-and seest thou not?-ah save me! Hide me in the name of mercy from its sight. Cesira. My Lord, thou wanderest-Nothing can I see But yonder tomb Aristodemo. Look on't 'tis fixed there Erect and fierce upon the open threshold Look on't-its motionless eyes it rivets on me- She's silent-she draws back-she disappears Ah me, how cruel and how dread she is! Cesira. I too did feel chill creeping through my veins The frost of terror-nothing did I see, Nothing, no truly :—but that broken groan, So feebly heard, the silent horror breathed F 3 From From the open sepulchre:-thy words-the paleness Aristodemo. Thou'rt innocent. The pupils of thine eyes— Which the gods' wrath reveals to guilty eyes, To strike them dead with awe-thou never shed'st A mother's blood-nature condemns not thee. Aristodemo. I have said it; But do not, I beseech thee, ask me further. Cesira. I-I abandon thee! ah no, whatever Aristodemo. My condemnation, written in the blood. Of th' innocent. Cesira. Ah, still 'tis written in heaven, And what, my Lord, the dead, No. Beyond the tomb Can they not pardon? Aristodemo. The gods reserve unto themselves alone The power of pardon; and if thou thyself Hadst been my daughter, if with impious arm I had murdered thee-Ah tell me, then, wouldst thou, Have given a pardon? wouldst thou, oh Cesira, Have given a pardon. Cesira. Aristodemo. Ah! peace, peace! And thinkest thou Doth heaven grant That heaven would have consented? Cesira. Unto the souls of children wrath so long Against their fathers, and such barbarous vengeance? We break off with reluctance, for the scene continues to the end wrought with the same skill and power, and if Monti had continued to write thus, the high expectations of Italy would not have been disappointed. But the tragediografo of the Cisalpine republic, (for to that office he was appointed,) after having in turn virulently libelled and basely flattered every predominant power, offers a striking instance of the deterioration of talent in proportion to the abandonment of high and generous principle. His Caio Gracco contained, indeed, eloquence, and the last scene would furnish a most splendid opportunity for the display of such female acting, as we have seen in Mrs. Siddons, but which we fear that we shall see no more: but the Galeotto Manfredi of the same writer writer aspires not, excepting in a scene or two translated from Shakspeare, above a tame and insipid mediocrity. The total failure indeed of Monti, when employed upon the annals of his country, and the flatness of the tragedies written on subjects of the same nature, by Giovanni Pindemonte, and Count Pepoli, might make us tremble for our theory, could we not appeal to a splendid confirmation of it in the works of Foscolo and Pellico, now before us. Before we arrive at them, however, it is just to notice the Arminio, of Ippolito Pindemonte, which is in a much more elevated tone than the tragedies of his brother. The choral songs of the bards display some pleasing poetry, but perhaps, too much in the style of Metastasio for the rough genius. of the Northern Foresters. The whole, indeed, is wanting in the fierce energy and gloomy sublimity which should have characterized a poem, the scene of which is laid among the ancient Germans: all the characters converse with the refined notions of Greece and Rome upon liberty and tyranny, not with the haughty independence of uncivilized life; and Arminius, himself, is degraded into the tool of a subtle and somewhat Machiavellian fraud. The author of the Conte di Carmagnola, Alessandro Manzoni, in his preface, boldly declares war against the Unities. To ourselves, chartered libertines,' as we consider ourselves on the authority of Shakspeare's example and Johnson's argument, little confirmation will be gained from this proselyte to our tramontane notions of dramatic liberty; we fear, however, that the Italians will require a more splendid violation of their old established laws, before they are led to abandon them. Carmagnola wants poetry; the parting scene between the unhappy Count and his family, is indeed affecting, but with this praise and that of occasional simple and manly eloquence the drama itself might be dismissed. We cannot, however, refrain from making known to our readers the most noble piece of Italian lyric poetry which the present day has produced, and which occurs as a chorus at the end of the second act of his drama; and we confess our hopes that the author will prefer, in future, gratifying us with splendid odes, rather than offending us by feeble tragedy. Hark! to the right the trumpet knelleth! Hark! to the left a knell replying! On either side the earth repelleth The trampling tread of steed and man. Lo here, in air a banner flying, There another broadly glancing- F 4 Breasts Breasts with deadly wounds are scarred, What new stranger wasteth now? His native soil to free or die? This earth the common nurse of all- Girt from the world with Alps and sea. Careless to be slain or slay, With him they fight, and ask not why. The aged, who e'en now devote As sits the countryman before On fields his ploughshare hath not turn'd; And the wild woes of cities burn'd. There from their mother's lips suspense, Ah woe! ah woe! ah woe! with slain And And all is blood yon spacious plain, More loud the shouts, more wild the strife; Is wavering now, and now it breaketh; The conquered warriors rout is spread, Why all the trodden road along Run ye from forth your fields, your homes? Thanksgiving hymns abhorr'd of God, The brave that bite the bloody sod. The Stranger is come down-is here- Doom d |