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Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass, Sounding like very supernatural water,

Came over Juan's ear, which throbbed, alas!

For immaterialism's a serious matter;

So that even those, whose faith is the most great
In souls immortal, shun them tête-à-tête.

Were his eyes open ?-Yes! and his mouth too.
Surprise has this effect-to make one dumb,
Yet leave the gate which Eloquence slips through
As wide as if a long speech were to come.
Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew,
Tremendous to a mortal tympanum :

His eyes were open, and (as was before
Stated) his mouth. What opened next?-the door.

It opened with a most infernal creak,

Like that of hell. 'Lasciate ogni speranza
Voi che entrate!' The hinge seemed to speak,
Dreadful as Dante's rhyma, or this stanza;
Or-but all words upon such themes are weak;
A single shade's sufficient to entrance a
Hero-for what is substance to a spirit?
Or how is't matter trembles to come near it?

The door flew wide, not swiftly-but, as fly

The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight-
And then swung back; nor close-but stood awry,
Half letting in long shadows on the light,
Which still in Juan's candlesticks burned high,
For he had two, both tolerably bright,

And in the door-way, darkening Darkness, stood
The sable Friar in bis solemn hood.

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken

The night before; but, being sick of shaking, He first inclined to think he had been mistaken; And then to be ashamed of such mistaking; His own internal ghost began to awaken Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking— Hinting that soul and body, on the whole, Were odds against a disembodied soul.

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce;
And he arose, advanced-the shade retreated;
But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce,

Followed, his veins no longer cold, but heated,
Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce,
At whatsoever risk of being defeated:
The ghost stopped, menaced, then retired, until
He reached the ancient wall, then stood stone still.
Juan put forth one arm-Eternal Powers!

It touched no soul, nor body, but the wall,
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers
Chequered with all the tracery of the hall;
He shuddered, as no doubt the bravest cowers
When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal.
How odd a single hobgoblin's nonentity

Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity !*
But still the shade remained; the blue eyes glared,
And rather variably for stony death;

Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared,
The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath.
A straggling curl showed he had been fair-haired;
A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath,
Gleamed forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud
The moon peeped, just escaped from a grey cloud.

And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust

His other arm forth-Wonder upon wonder!
It pressed upon a hard but glowing bust,
Which beat as if there was a warm heart under.
He found, as people on most trials must,
That he had made at first a silly blunder,
And that in his confusion he had caught
Only the wall, instead of what he sought.

The ghost, if ghost it were, seemed a sweet soul
As ever lurked beneath a holy hood:

Shadows, to-night,

Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard

Than could the substance of ten thousand soldiers,' &c.

SHAKSPEARE's Richard III.

A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole

Forth into something much like flesh and blood;
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl,

And they revealed-alas! that e'er they should!
In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk,

The phantom of her frolic Grace-Fitz-Fulke!

Thus breaks off this singular poem, of which, taken as a whole, we cannot regret that we have no more.

CHAPTER XII.

THE Somewhat lengthened notice of Don Juan' into which we have thought it expedient to go has prevented us from observing strictly the order of time in which Lord Byron's poems were published: we shall now, however, resume the connexion of them, and proceed to speak of Werner,' a tragedy which came out early in the year 1822. It is founded upon one of the stories in Miss Lee's Canterbury Tales; and, although the subject is deeply interesting, and even worthy of the honour which the labours of Lord Byron have conferred upon it, we cannot but wonder that so inventive a mind as his should have chosen to be indebted to any other writer for the plot of his tragedy, which without too great an effort he might have fabricated for himself.

Miss Lee's tale is called Kuitzner,' and is the longest and the best in the collection which we have mentioned. It does not fall within our plan to allude, more particularly to that tale, but justice to the authoress.compels us to observe that it is highly creditable to her talents; and, although it is slight, and has rather an unfinished appearance, it is equal, in all the characteristics of romantic narrative, to any similar production in this language.

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Lord Byron dedicated his tragedy to the illustrious Goethe,' and did himself at least as much honour as he conferred upon that gifted and universal genius of Germany, by professing himself to be one of his humblest admirers.' The tragedy which we proceed now to describe opens with a dialogue between Werner and his wife. He is at this time just recovered from a sickness which has seized him on a journey which he was making from Hamburgh towards Bohemia, and which compelled him to stop on the Silesian frontier. He is accom

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panied by his wife, from a dialogue with whom we learn that. Werner is an assumed name-that he who bears it is the disinherited son of a wealthy nobleman of Prague, and has been for years pining in want aad misery, and hiding from a powerful enemy, who has wrongfully obtained possession of his patrimonial estates. He has had one son, who was educated by Werner's father, but who has quitted the castle of his ancestors, and gone to seek his fortune no one knows whither. Werner is now lodging in a deserted palace belonging to one of the Silesian princes, by permission of the Intendant. He learns that the Oder has overflowed, and that a nobleman whose impatience induced him to attempt the passage at a dangerous time has been carried away, and would have been drowned but for the assistance of some strangers. One of these strangers, Gabor, soon after enters. He is a blunt reckless soldier of fortune, and, as it turns out afterwards, partly soldier, partly bandit, but yet a bandit of the higher order; not by any means what Mr. Peachum calls a poor petty larceny rascal,' but one who, although he scorns to commit a robbery in a house or under quiet commonplace circumstances, has no objection to fire a castle, or to cry • Stand!' to a true man. He learns that Werner is poor, and offers him his purse; but he finds that he is no less proud than poor by his refusal to accept his offer. The rescued nobleman afterwards appears, and is recognised by Werner to be the Count Stralenheim, his old persecutor. The count-who, although he has not seen his victim for more than twenty years, suspects his identity-resolves to make sure of it, and dispatches messengers to Hamburgh, as well to prove that, as to enable him, under some forged accusation, to get possession of Werner's person, when his death would soon be certain. The swelling of the water makes the passage of the messengers impossible; and things are in this state when the other stranger, who had been mainly instrumental in rescuing Count Stralenheim, reaches the castle. The count is prepossessed in favour of this person, whose youth and frank manners, prompt and active intrepidity, and strikingly handsome appearance, make him wish to engage him in his service. The youth accepts his offers, and, in an interview with Werner and his wife, he discovers his own father and mother. Before this, however, an incident has occurred which has a main operation in the business of the drama. The apartments inhabited by Werner are at one end of the old palace, while those occupied by the count are at the other extremity. Werner suspects but too truly the danger in which he is; but, poor, and almost wholly destitute, he has not the means of escaping

estates.

from it. A secret passage, known only to him, leads to the count's chamber: he treads it, and finds his enemy sleeping by the fire, while a table near him is covered with gold. Werner's first impulse is to kill his foe; but his heart revolting at the idea of shedding blood, he chooses the lesser crime of robbery, and takes from the table a rouleau of gold, for the purpose of enabling him to fly from the pursuit which he fears. He regains his own chamber safely. The count, on waking, discovers his loss, and institutes an inquiry for it, Ulric, the young stranger, in endeavoring to trace the robber, finds his own parents, and learns from his father's lips the extent of his guilt and the character of the Count Stralenheim, who stands between him and his patrimonial He is of a daring and impetuous spirit; and, although he would stop at the commission of no crime himself, he feels disgraced by that of his father. He, however, wastes no time in reproaches: he bids him hasten his departure; and gives him a valuable ring, with which to bribe the Intendant's assistance. Suspicion of the robbery alights on Gabor, the other stranger; and Ulric, although he knows his innocence, does not attempt to free him from the accusation; while Gabor's own haughty and violent demeanour helps to encourage the belief that he is guilty. Werner, on the contrary, offers him an asylum in his chamber till midnight, when Gabor resolves to pursue his journey. To favour his escape from the Intendant, Werner shows him the secret passage. By virtue of the jewel which his son has given him he then secures all the means for his own escape, which is to take place before daybreak. While Werner is waiting in the garden Ulric comes to bim, and with great apparent agitation asks him if he has killed the Count Stralenheim. Werner denies this with horror. Ulric says he is satisfied of his father's innocence, but he adds that the count is murdered in his chamber. Werner then tells his son that Gabor was acquainted with the passage; and, as he has fled from the castle, there remains no doubt on the mind of either of them that he has perpetrated the foul deed. Ulric, however, insists on his father's pursuing his journey, and they part.

The fourth act begins in the castle of Siegendorf, near Prague, where the poor fugitive Werner, become, by the death of Stralenheim, the Count of Siegendorf, and the possessor of the domains of his ancestors, is living with his wife, his son, and Ida Stralenheim, the young and beautiful daughter of the deceased count. The manner of Ulric's life the mystery which accompanies some of his actions→ and the character of the wild young men whom he makes his com

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