DIALOGUE,

FROM THE PHŒNISSE OF EURIPIDES.

There are two passages of the Greek Tragedians, one in this Drama, and another on the very same subject in the Επτα ἐπι Θηβαις of Eschylus, which have always struck me with peculiar force as the most lively representations of reality, afforded by the ancient models. The idea has been adopted by Sheridan, in the popular Play of Pizarro, and received the applause it deserved. Your readers will immediately recollect the scene in which a young boy, mounted on a tree, describes to his blind father what he sees of a battle, supposed to take place at some distance from the stage. The same effect is also produced by Homer, in the beautiful scene of Priam and Helen, on the walls of Troy. This was probably the original which both Eschylus and Euripides had in view. I have endeavoured in the following lines to give some image of the design, but not an accurate translation of the words of the latter poet. An old man, the preceptor of the family of Edipus, is standing on a platform before the palace, overlooking the adjacent fields, and the encampment of the allied powers, Antigone descends from her apartment to join him, and a Dia. logue ensues in irregular measure.

ANTIGONE.

GUARDIAN of my early day!
Stretch forth thine aged arm to be
The kind supporter of my way,

And guide my trembling feet to thee!

OLD MAN.

Take, Virgin, take this faithful arm, 'tis thine. Behold, fair Maid, a scene that claims thy care; In martial pomp arrayed (a threatening line) Pelasgia's warriors stand embattled there.

ANTIGONE.

Gods! what a sight; the moving field
Beams, like a polished brazen shield !

OLD MAN.

Oh not in vain has Polynices dared

Invade his native land. He comes prepared.
Ten thousand horsemen on his march attend,
Ten thousand glittering spears surround their friend.

ANTIGONE.

What beams of brass, what iron gate,
Can save Amphion's sacred state?

OLD MAN.

Be calm, my Child, the city fears no wound,
Be calm, and safely view th' embattled ground.

ANTIGONE.

Whose snow-white plume is waving there,
Far, far, the foremost of the field?

Who brandishes so high in air

The blazing terrors of his shield ?

OLD MAN.

The chief from fair Mycena claims his race,
Of Lerna's woods the terror and the grace,
Far famed Hippomedon.

ANTIGONE.

-Ah, me!

What darkness in his face I see!

How fierce his air! His form how vast!
Some earth-born giant was his sire;
He owes his birth to deepest Night,
Unlike the children of the Light;
Whom Heaven bestows and men desire-
And that intolerable fire

Flames from his eyes, mankind to blast.

OLD MAN.

On Dirce's springs, my daughter, cast thy sight,
Where stands another chief (and burns for fight),
Tydeus the strong, in whose undaunted breast
Th' Ætolian God of Battles rules confest.

ANTIGONE.

Is that the chief so near allied
To my own brother's gentle bride;
How strange his arms and nodding crest,
How rude his half-barbaric vest!

But who is that, of front severe,

Who takes near Zethus' tomb his stand?
Loose o'er his shoulders flows his hair,
And numerous is his well armed band.

OLD MAN.

Thine eyes, fair Maid, Parthenopaus see,
The huntress Atalanta's progeny.

ANTIGONE.

But where, oh where, my friend, is he,
By Zethus' tomb, or Dirce's shore,
Whom, at the self-same hour with me
(Unhappy hour) my Mother bore?

Say, may I trust my wandering eyes ?
Far off, on Dirce's willowed coast,
I see him, faintly shadow'd rise,
The dim resemblance of a ghost-
I know him by his royal mien,

His manly form, his eagle-sight-
Ah! altered have the moments been,
Since last that manly form was seen
On Dirce's smooth and level green!
Since last that keen eye's wakeful light
Repaid a sister's fond caress,
With all a brother's tenderness.

EMMELCES.

ЕРІТАРН

ON MISS ELLIOT,

BY THE LATE ARTHUR MURPHY, ESQ.

Or matchless form, adorn'd with wit refin'd,
A feeling heart, and an enlighten'd mind;
Of softest manners, Beauty's rarest bloom;
Here Elliot lies, and moulders in her tomb.
O, blest with genius! early snatch'd away!
The Muse, that joyful mark'd thy opening ray,
Now, sad reverse! attends thy mournful bier,
And o'er thy relics sheds the gushing tear!
Here Fancy oft the hallow'd mould shall tread,
Recall thee living, and lament thee dead;
Here Friendship oft shall sigh till life be o'er,
And Death shall bid thy image charm no more.

THE NEGRO'S PRAYER,

BY MR. THELWALL.

O SPIRIT! that rid'st in the whirlwind and storm,
Whose voice in the thunder is fear'd,—

If ever from man, the poor indigent worm,
The prayer of affliction was heard,-

If black man, as white, is the work of thy hand-
(And who could create him but Thee?)
Ah give thy command,-

Let it spread thro' each land,

That Afric's sad sons shall be free!

If, erst, when the man-stealer's treacherous guile
Entrap'd me, all thoughtless of wrong,-

From my Nicou's dear love, from the infantine smile
Of my Aboo, to drag me along ;-

If then, the wild anguish that pierced thro' my heart, Was seen in its horrors by thee,

O ease my long smart,
And thy sanction impart,

That Afric, at last, may be free !—