Fearful disquiet and unrest did cause;

And when, from dread affright, they shivering stood,
To see her grasp the steel and knit her brows,
As those that on her slumber did intrude,

Lo! up there rushed a fearless wight in wrathful mood.

Spurning the trembling fools that stood around,
As if at their cowardice burned his ire,
Phrensied by the lyre's heavenly sound,
His wild eye glancing with poetic fire,

He snatched from off the ground the abandoned lyre!
And forth he pealed such sad and melting strain,
(As if some god divine did him inspire,)
That awful, listening silence did constrain,
And none of all, I ween, from weeping could refrain.

But with his deepest, saddest strains yblent,
Were heard to burst, at frequent intervals,
From the lyre sounds of joy and merriment;
And Comedy, who in a neighbouring dell,
Where crowds of rusticks their rude revels held,
To loose voluptuous notes was striking,
Carelessly, her lascivious timbrel,

When she heard, on the soft breezes swelling, These notes of glee mixed with sullen sounds of wailing,

She left the revelling crowd to see

Who mote be the wight that thus did mell
Her sweet carols with such strange minstrelsy;
Ne did she deem that so near her dell

Her gloomy sister Tragedy did dwell: So in her hand her bright timbrel taking And causing around her sweet sounds to swell, She with free and careless joyaunce laughing, Burst into the crowd that him around were trembling.

In moving strains, a tale of saddest wo

He sung! how goaded by the monster Jealousy,
(To our poor mortal race that fellest foe,
Foul imp of a distempered fantasy.
That taints the purest deed with leprosy !)
A noble Moor with cruel hand did slay
His virtuous wife !-wrought to phrensy
By a damned villain's arts, who oped the way
For the hellish monster on his heart to prey.

This piteous tale he had just begun,

Which in sad echoes through the woods did ring, And all upon its mournful accents hung,

When gleesome Comedy came bounding in:

But when she heard these strains, her bright eye fixing

Upon the minstrel, as the lyre he swept,

She listened in silence scarcely breathing;

And to her soul by melody enrapt

Sorrow did seem so sweet, she hung her head and wept.

But then she looked with eye of fear askance
Into the cave; and there flashing dark light

She saw her fierce sister's terrifick glance, And, filled with terror, quick she turned to flight; But seeing this, I ween, the cunning wight Changed his lay of sorrow, and quick did fly To such witching strains of softening delight, That certes he did force e'en Tragedy To smile, "ymolten with his syren melody."

While he thus the changing chords did sweep,
And all now laughed aloud, now wept full sore,
Moved by his mingled notes of joy and grief,
The rival sisters, enemies no more,
Both to the bard eternal faith now swore ;
And both to him their power divine they told
How grief or gladness o'er the heart to pour,
By mirth to fill with joy the human soul,

Or over it to spread soft pity's pleasing dole.

XI.

I saw the Master of the drama stand,
Like some bright vision from a foreign land,
With all his glory far around him spread,
And all his laurels waving on his head-
The Passions, at his feet, a various crowd,
In mute submission to their master bowed.
Years had rolled o'er him—he was still the same,
The child of Fancy, and the heir of Fame;
Still the same spirit, in his burning eye,
Shone, undiminished in its energy;

And every slumbering Passion, when he spoke,
To vigorous action, at the sound awoke ;
Wild Anger started with his glittering spear—
In Pity's eye arose the trembling tear-
Revenge, impatient, his loud trumpet blew,
And Love still closer to his master drew.
Bring forth, he cried, the children of my care;
Fresh, as I drew them, let them all appear.

Straight the Third Richard, in his robes appears,
In all the glory of his former years;
Fit to shed terror o'er a trembling land,
While Murder led him by his bloody hand.
Hope fled affrighted at his gloomy train,
Subduing Pity raised her hands in vain.

Next young Cordelia, in her matchless charms,
Clasping her aged father in her arms,

Walked slow and pensive; while the big round tear

Told all the sorrows of the royal Lear.

Grief was her story as her way she kept,
And Love, who led her, at her sufferings wept.

Slowly she vanished from my eager view,
And on Prince Hamlet, in his madness, drew.
His were wild actions, and his words were wild;
Sometimes a hero, and sometimes a child.
His theme was varied, yet it still betrayed
To all, the part unreal, that he played.

Next came Othello with his matchless bride,
As loved, and loving, in his arms she died.
He wept, and kissed her, yet he madly swore,
Well as he loved her, she should live no more;
No more, he cried,―thy pleadings were in vain,—
O would to God, thou wert alive again.

His murmurs ceased, and royal in array

The kings of old came marching on their way;
Dark were their forms, yet, far around them thrown,
The light of diamonds and of beauty shone.
Beauty, who loosened all her flowing curls,
Jetty, and spangled with a thousand pearls ;
Valour beside her was well pleased to tread,
And Wit commended all she did or said.

Such are the pictures, which the master drew,
Still fresh in beauty, and to nature true :