Theo. 'Tis Heaven's infliction; let us call it so; Give it no other name. Eleanora. Nay, do not thus despair; when she behōlds us, She'll know her friends, and, by our kindly soothing, Be gradually restored Alice. Let me go to her. Theo. Nay, forbear, I pray thee; I will myself with thee, my worthy Hartman, Orra. Come back, come back! the fierce and fiery light! Theo. Yes; twice I've heard already Their matin sound. Look up to the blue skyIs it not daylight? And these green boughs Are fresh and fragrant round thee: every sense Tells thee it is the cheerful early day. Orra. Aye, so it is; day takes his daily turns, Rising between the gulfy dells of night, Like whitened billows on a gloomy sea. Till glow-worms gleam, and stars peep through the dark, And will-o'-the wisp his dancing taper light," They will not come again. [Bending her ear to the ground. Hark, hark! aye, hark! They are all there: I hear their hollow sound Full many a fathom down. Theo. Be still, poor troubled soul! they'll ne'er return They are forever gone. Be well assured Thou shalt from henceforth have a cheerful home, Orra. 'Tis like an old tune to my ear returned. And breathe sweet air, and speak with pleasant sounds; I wot not now how long. Hughobert. Keen words that rend my heart: thou hadst a home, And one whose faith was pledged for thy protection. Urston. Be more composed, my lord; some faint remembrance Returns upon her with the well-known sound Of voices once familiar to her ear. Let Alice sing to her some favorite tune That may lost thoughts recall. [ALICE sings. Orra. Ha, ha! the witchèd air sings for thee bravely. It lures not me.-I know thee well enough : Elea. Ah, Orra! do not look upon us thus: Hart. Oh, grievous state! what terror seizes thee? I know its clammy, chill, and bony touch. Come not again; I'm strong and terrible now : With stiff, clenched, terrible strength. Hugh. A murderer is a guiltless wretch to me. Let me encounter it. Orra. Take off from me thy strangely fastened eye; Unfix thy baleful glance. Art thou a snake? Elea. Alas, the piteous sight! to see her thus, The noble, generous, playful, stately Orra! Theo. Out on thy hateful and ungenerous guile ! Think'st thou I'll suffer o'er her wretched state The slightest shadow of a base control? [Raising ORRA from the ground. No; rise, thou stately flower with rude blasts rent: As honored art thou with thy broken stem And leaflets strewed, as in thy summer's pride. I've seen thee worshiped like a regal dame, With every studied form of marked devotion, Whilst I, in distant silence, scarcely proffered Even a plain soldier's courtesy ; but now, No liege man to his crowned mistress sworn, Bound and devoted is as I to thee; And he who offers to thy altered state The slightest seeming of diminished reverence, Must in my blood-[To HARTMAN]. Oh pardon me, my friend! Thou'st wrung my heart. Hart. Nay, do thou pardon me,-I am to blame : Thy noble heart shall not again be wrung. But what can now be done? O'er such wild ravings Theo. O none! none! none! but gentle sympathy, Alice. See how she gazes on him with a look, Half saying that she knows him. Elea. There is a kindness in her changing eye. BAILLIE JOANNA BAILLIE was born in 1762, at Bothwell, in Lanark, Scotland, of which place her father was the parish minister. She removed to London at an early age, and resided in that city, or its neighborhood, almost constantly. Her first volume of dramas, "Plays of the Passions," was published in 1798, her second in 1802, her third in 1812, and her fourth in 1836. A volume of her miscellaneous poems, of which some of the small ones are exceedingly good, appeared in 1841. Her tragedies, though not well adapted to the stage, are fine poems, noble in sentiment, and classical and vigorous in language. Scott numbered the description of Orra's madness with the sublimest scenes ever written, and compared the language to Shakspeare's. She died at Hampstead in Feb., 1841. WE SECTION XXXVII. I. 186. MILTON. PART FIRST. E venture to say, paradoxical' as the remark may appear, that no poët has ever had to struggle with more unfavorable cir'cumstances than Milton. He doubted, as he has himself owned, whether he had not been born "an age too late." For this notion Johnson has thought fit to make him the butt of his clumsy ridicule. The poet, we believe, understood the nature of his art better than the critic. He knew that his poëtical genius derived no advantage from the civilization which surrounded him, or from the learning which he had acquired; and he looked back with something like regret to the ruder age of simple words and vivid impressions. 2. We think that as civilization advances, poëtry almost necessarily declines. Therefore, though we admire those great works of imagination which have appeared in dark ages, we do not admire them the more because they have appeared in dark ages. On the contrary, we hold that the most wonderful and splendid proof of genius is a great poem produced in a civilized age. We can not understand why those who believe in that most orthodox article of literary faith, that the earliëst poets are generally the best, should wonder at the rule as if it were the exception. Surely the uniformity of the phenomenon indicates a corresponding uniformity in the cause. 3. He who, in an enlightened and literary society, aspires to be a great poët, must first become a little child. He must take to pieces the whole web of his mind. He must unlearn much of that knowledge which has, perhaps, constituted hitherto his chief title of superiority. His very talents will be a hinderance to him. His difficulties will be proportioned to his proficiency in the pursuits which are fashionable among his contemporaries; and that proficiency will in general be proportioned to the vigor and activity of his mind. And it is well, if, after all his săcri 1 Păr`a dox'ic al, seemingly absurd; inclined to tenets contrary to received opinions. fices and exertions, his works do not resemble a lisping man or a modern ruin. We have seen, in our own time, great talents, intense labor, and long meditation employed in this struggle against the spirit of the age; and employed, we will not say absolutely in vain, but with dubious success and feeble applause. 4. If these reasonings be just, no poët has ever triumphed over greater difficulties than Milton. He received a learned education. He was a profound and elegant classical scholar : he had studied all the mysteries of Rabbinical' literature: he was intimately acquainted with every language of modern Europe, from which either pleasure or information was then to be derived. He was, perhaps, the only great poet of later times who has been distinguished by the excellence of his Latin verse. 5. It is not our intention to attempt any thing like a complete examination of the poëtry of Milton. The public has long been agreed as to the merit of the most remarkable passages, the incom'parable harmony of the numbers, and the excellence of that style which no rival has been able to equal, and no parodist' to degrade; which displays in their highest perfection the idiomatic' powers of the English tongue, and to which every ancient and every modern language has contributed something of grace, of energy, or of music. In the vast field of criticism in which we are entering, innumerable reapers have already put their sickles. Yet the harvest is so abundant that the negligent search of a straggling gleaner may be rewarded with a sheaf. 6. The most striking characteristic of the poëtry of Milton is the extreme remoteness of the associations by means of which it acts on the reader. Its effect is produced, not so much by what it expresses as by what it suggests; not so much by the ideäs which it directly conveys, as by other ideas which are connected with them. He electrifies the mind through conductors. The most unimaginative man must understand the "Iliad." Homer gives him no choice, and requires from him no exertion; but takes the whole upon himself, and sets his images in so clear a light that it is impossible to be blind to them. The works of Milton can not be comprehended or enjoyed, unless the mind of 1 Rab bin' ic al, pertaining to Rabbins, or Jewish doctors of the law. 'Păr o dist, one who makes slight alterations, ironical or jocular, by which poetry written on one subject is applied to another. 'Id`i o mătic, peculiar to the structure of a language. |