The council has concluded as I wished;

And thus the mutinous churchmen are put down.
I left them when I saw 't was working right;

For I can stand alone, therefore have friends.

Mat. Why didst thou smite the Pontiff-Oh, why didst ?
Hil.-Because his weak-souled loyalty to Henry
Smote like an axe against the See of Rome.

I heard Time's echoes through the world's forest ringing;
I saw the tree which should o'ertop them all,

Like to a sun-beam falling into night,

And therefore stood I forth and smote that man,

As I will take the axe from out his hand.

Mat.-Father, enough: I do believe thy truth
Equals thy courage in this lofty cause.

I much lament thou hast an enemy

In Godfrey, who proclaims thee full of evil,
And worldliness and vice."

Having shown how Mr. Horne contrives to weaken the interest we ought to feel for Matilda, not alone by reason of the exigencies of the drama, but also that she had no surplus claim to them to spare, we now quote a few lines to demonstrate how proudly our author has labored to destroy our sympathy with the hero of the drama. A good hero can afford to say or do few cruelties, but when the chief personage is already well known for an unscrupulous man, the character should be relieved as much as possible, in order to reconcile humanity to him. We give the whole of the

scene.

I

see,

methinks, a mighty shadow fall,

While solid pillars lift a solid throne,

Which in fixed radiance stands. Strong deeds awake,
And clamoring throng the portals of the hour.
Weak-minded Alexander, thou must die!
I placed thee on a tower, and thou didst offer
A king the pass-key to our wall of strength;

Therefore 't is good thou diest. Plead not, my soul !
The wheels of destiny pass o'er his corse.
There's much to do. The time for me is ripe :

It was not wise till now that I should take

The sphere which long hath rolled before my grasp,
Swimming and heaving in the etherial space;
But, with contentious and eruptive fires,
Threatening precipitate sovereignty. Who's there?

[Enter Damianus.]

(Aside.) He has been listening at the door-dull fool! (Aloud.) There's much to do.

Dami.-I feel it in the air

With every respiration.

Hil.-Why comest here

At such an hour?

Dami.-Lord Abbot, I would ask

What should be done, touching Pope Alexander?

Hil.-Nothing. He's very safe.

Dami.-Safe in the dark cell where your orders thrust him. Hil.-I know it.

Dami.-But what next, for he is old,

And needeth comfort in imprisonment.

Hil.-Do nothing. Leave him.

Dami. His cell is very damp, and cold dews trickle
Down his gray head and beard, as bowed he sits,

Counting his beads. Beseech you, good Lord Abbot,
Change his sad dwelling!

Hil.-Let him take his shroud,

And finish it i' the ante-chamber!
Dami.-But, my lord,"

How-how shall we answer this?

Hil.-Answer it!

Who shall presume to gall and question us?

Who make us constantly responsible—

Who'd force us answer, but this Alexander

Therefore death's scythe shall give him sweeping thanks.
Dami.-And for his service and his burial-

Hil.-Let him have night and silence! A century hence, When a few dust-filled bones perchance are found, "T will shew that somebody died there. For the rest,

I know my answer,' let those ask who may :
Mention his name no more, for he has passed!

Dami.-My lord, good night:-a deep good night I pray!"
[Exeunt at opposite sides.

We have not space to follow the course of this otherwise finely conceived, and elaborately finished, drama to the end. It will amply repay a close perusal, but we fear its want of passion and action will prevent its ever being an acting play. It abounds in highly wrought and sounding passages, but it is terribly deficient in those striking situations which show a natural genius for dramatic composition.

Even the best parts of this drama are too loaded with a pompous imagery, not actually springing from the passionate impulse of the moment, but artificially produced from a foregone determination to say something very fine: let us take a few passages, "fatiguingly fine," as a critic once sud of them.

"Oh, for a bit of lightning to strike down
And scatter all Rome's statuary in the street,
To sweep her gods to an impalpable dust,
Confused and lost in air! Let the dread hand
Of great avenging nature, in our cause

Heap this blind city in one funeral pyre;

Where treacherous Gregory may sit crowned with flames."

How feebly this sounds after Shakspere's

"Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,

Dash him to pieces."

We must, before we finish, give another instance of Mr. Horne's dislike to his hero: it is part of the speech Gregory makes to Matilda, upon her interceding in behalf of the emperor, who has been enjoined by the haughty pontiff to stand barefoot on the stones.

"Get thee from my sight!

I'll have no purblind, short-breathed policies:
Up the high hill at one great bound I'll go,
And then direct the light seen from afar.
Away! What dost thou here with half resolves?
Retire, retire!-I waste myself upon you.

[Gregory resumes his throne.]

Mat. (stunned.) Some hand assist me!"

[Exit, blindly.

"eminent proof"

We cannot resist offering to our readers an of Mr. Horne's propensity to make his characters utter poetical musings, when they ought to be acting:-this contradiction, or anomaly, we have heard him defend, and quote the example of Hamlet-but here it is the peculiarity of Hamlet's character: it is, in short, his idiosyncracy, and the consequences of this mental defect lead to the catastrophe of the drama. It is a totally different affair when we find this the prevailing habit of all the characters, and evidences a great want of dramatic impulse to return however to the cause of this remark. The emperor has just escaped out of his arch enemy's power, and is urged by his friends and followers to avenge the insults and indignities heaped so recently upon him. One would think that the impulses of human nature would have been too strong to allow Mr. Horne to pause midway, and compose these elaborate lines.

[Emperor-abstractedly.]

:

"Thou preternatural influence! thou pall,
From whose incumbent darkness o'er my head,
The dead-faced sufferers, and the gleaming ghosts
Start, and leap down with cries upon my soul !
Break up the substance of thy panoply
Of torment-Oh, retreat into the night!
And let the shape-throned whirlwind of thy spell,
In clouded silence, with no parting hints,
Shift and disperse! What are all these?"

The reader will, indeed, feel inclined to echo the closing words of the Emperor's speech and say "what are all these?”

Having shown what we consider as some of the defects of this play, we enter now upon the more agreeable task of calling attention to its numerous beauties. What can be finer than the few lines uttered by Gregory, after the dead body of his murdered enemy has been taken from his presence? If Mr. Horne would only write more in this style, he would be a poet the world would never willingly let die.

"So! his corpse is gone!

But it has left his silence in the hall,
As if himself were present, though unseen.
Would he were living, fierce in glittering arms!
I should not feel or fear him as I do,

Mute-pallid-motionless-standing out straight!
Horrible! horrible! I never thought before
That death was horrible."

The scene in which Hildebrand smites the feeble Pope Alexander, is told admirably :

[Enter hurriedly, Guido, Eberardus, Brazute, and several Nobles.]