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In ev'ry style that Man has e'er design'd
To charm the fancy, or improve the mind!
Oft have I trac'd thee through thy varied way, 805
And mark'd the splendor of thy setting day;
Thy Child of Impulse *, with delight, pursued
Throtransient error, and spontaneous good;
Heard the poor Pilgrim all his woes recite,
And sighed in pity o'er the Carmelite!

810

When German schools, th' Historic Muse shall own, O'er Public Taste the wizard spell had thrown;

When liberal Britons could endure to lose

Their Poet's numbers for a Playwright's prose;
A woman's hand t redeem'd the with'ring bays, 815
And strove to emulate what all must praise.

NOTES.

* The West Indian.

† Miss Baillie, Authoress of “ Plays on the Passions :" for the rest, let Mr. Scott speak:

She, the bold enchantress, came,
With fearless hand and heart on flame!

Yes, it was thine, O Baillie! to unfold

What Truth had rescued from the Bigot's hold;
To blend, with modern sweetness, ancient force,

And trace the Passions even to their source :

820

Yet, ere destroying Time shall end thy page,
Correct the growing errors of the Stage;
Come forth, in Shakspeare's genuine garb arrayed,
And snatch the laurel from a “ Renegade!”

“ Still,” cry the learn'd, “ a Tragic Bard survives, And Cumberland in classic Coleridge lives;

NOTES.

From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure,
And swept it with a kindred measure,
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove
With Montfort's hate and Basil's love,
Awakening at the inspired strain,
Deemed their own Shakspeare lived again.”

MARMION, Introd, to Canto 3.

For genius, spirit, harmony, and force,
What modern Tragedy can match“ Remorse *?"

NOTES.

* Ever ready to acknowledge improvement wbere it is to be found, I congratulate Mr. Coleridge on his return, in part, to the plain-beaten road of Common Sense. But where all has been done, much still remains to be undone. Remorse is far, very far from a perfect tragedy. It possesses the same faults that Johnson complains of in the Odes of Gray. “ The images are magnified by affectation; the language is labored into harshness. The mind of the writer seems to work with unnatural violence. ' Double, double toil and trouble.' He has a kind of strutting dignity; and is tall by walking on tip-toe. His art and his struggle are too visible; and there is too little appearance of ease and nature.” The construction of the plot is very injudicious. The want of incident renders it deficient in stage effect, and the imagination receives no stimulus from a Tale, whose denouement is anticipated long before the proper period for disclosure. -The character of Alvar througliout bears a very close resemblance to Cumberland's St. Valori; but how differently do they express their feelings! Never was the superiority of nature over art more evident! Without ineaning any invidious compa:

If labor'd verse can recompense for ease, -
If“ oh’s” can move, and affectation please,-

830

NOTES.

rison, for between Cumberland and Coleridge there can exist none,

I will extract a few lines from each; where Alvar discover's hiinself to his mistress, and St. Valori to his wife.

ALVÁR. • Alvar was not murdered.

Be calin! be calm, sireet maid !

Teruså. [TVildly.] Nay, nay, but tell me!

[A pause, then presses her forehead.]

-O'tis lost again
This dull confused pain-

[A puuse, she gases at Alvar.]

-Mysterious man!
Methinks I can not fear thee: for thine eye
Doth swim with love and pity – Well! Ordonio-
Oh my foreboding heart! and he suborned thee,
And thou didst spare his life? Blessings shower on thee,
As many as the drops twice counted o'er
In the fond faithful heart of his Teresa!

ALVAR. . I can endure no more. The Moorish Sorcerer

Exists but in the stain upon this face.
That picture

If scribblers, throwing Incident away, Can out of nothing still produce a Play,

NOTES.

Teresa. (Advances towards him.] Ha! speak on !
ALVAR.

. . Beloved Teresa!

It told but half the truth. O let this portrait

Tell all - that Alvar lives that he is here!

Thy much deceived but ever faithful Alvar.

Remorse, act v, scene 1.
ST. VALORI. [In the disyuise of a Carmelite, and labouring under the

impression of Matilda's infidelity.]
Deep was the stroke that dire assassin gave,
Yet short of life it stopt; unhorsed and fallen,
Weltering in blood, your wounded husband lay,
'Till haply found by charitable strangers
Journeying to Venice, he was healed, restored,
And thence embarking, by a barbarous rover

Was captured. - Start not; but repress your terrors.
MATILDA. • Admire not that I tremble; marvel rather

That I hear this and live. St. Valori captured !
The bravest Captain of the Cross enslaved by barbarous

Pagans !
ST. VAL. Tedious years he suffered

Of hard captivity

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