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The blank verse of the regular drama has been thought by some critics to be as open to objection as the singing at the Opera. Now even supposing for a moment that they are both inconsistent with truth and nature, the latter is at all events far more so than the former. Then why defend the greater sin by the lesser ? But I do not admit that the blank verse of Shakespeare interferes in the slightest degree with that illusion or vraisemblance on the regular stage which is so constantly interrupted or destroyed by the singing at the Opera. In the first place, dramatic verse is not like heroic verse. It is freer and more flexible in its construction, and approaches almost as nearly to colloquial language as does well-written prose. The mind of the hearer is never shocked by its improbability, as it is by the singing of warriors and sages on all possible occasions, whether trivial or important. Who can forbear to smile when he hears some bloody veteran detailing his plans or breathing out his last breath upon the field of battle in a flourish of quavers? Dramatic blank verse is far more natural than the prose of Macpherson's Ossian, which almost seems to require to be chanted. Neither is the number of the feet so rigidly regulated as in other forms of verse. Dr. Johnson used to repeat with approbation the remark of some unknown critic, that blank verse is verse only to the eye, and that there are very few reciters of blank verse who enable the hearer to say where the lines end or begin. In real life, men unconsciously measure out and harmonize their language, and in this way adapt it to their several circumstances. When a man addresses a large assembly of his fellow-creatures upon some solemn and important occasion, his words are better chosen and his sentences more harmonious than when he is giving some ordinary domestic directions to his servants, or talking over the frivolous intelligence of the day; and this is not always an indication of a desire of display, but in fact more frequently arises from the deep interest which the speaker takes in his cause or subject. It is the

same in the private circle. Our tones are grave and our words wish to be impressive or are labouring

are measured when we with weighty thoughts. When a person of sensibility is detailing his sorrows and misfortunes, how soft and slow is his utterance, how smooth and rythmical are his sentences! His voice is subdued into a gentle though querulous murmur, like that of the "complaining brooks." How musical are a lover's words! Shakespeare attends to these matters with "a learned spirit." In his comic scenes he often allows the verse to run into ordinary and irregular prose. His clowns speak like clowns; but when a king speaks it is with that majestic measurement of his words which we look for in the representative of dignity and power. Thus there is nothing out of nature or that serves to destroy the dramatic illusion in the blank verse of Shakespeare, but there is no authority or precedent in real life for the conjunction of music and action in the Lyric drama.

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OH! sweet the sad heart's pensive night!

Though Memory's star is clouded,

Dim as the pale moon's misty light,

Or, rainbow half enshrouded!

Oh! sweet and sad, when dark and lone,

In life's most wintry hour,

To think of early pleasures flown,

And young hope's withered flower.

There is a charm 'tis sweet to borrow

From dreams of days departed,

There is a thrill of tender sorrow,

Dear to the mournful hearted!

SONNET-RESIGNATION.

OH! come not, Passion, with the fiends of care,
And forms that haunt the midnight of the soul!
Raise not the fearful tempest of despair
Along my darken'd path! Let Faith control.
Rebellious thoughts and pangs that fiercely tear
The chords of life. There is a softer grief
The lone and weary heart may learn to bear,
Calm and resign'd, till quick tears yield relief
To voiceless feelings, and the bosom teems
With holy consolations. Such may be

Toss'd on the dark waves of life's stormy sea,

The good man's sorrow. Soon hope's cheerful beams

The trusting spirit from the strife shall free,

And gild the shadows of the mourner's dreams!

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BATTLE SONG.

ADDRESSED TO THE BRITISH SEPOYS.

I.

OH! Warriors of India! whose hearts are with ours,
The foe is around us-the battle-cloud lowers-

But the glory of England still gleameth afar,

And the darker the tempest, the brighter her star!

II.

Oh! Warriors of India! o'er mountain and plain
Our bayonets and banners shall glitter again!
Brave comrades, unparted by colour or creed,
Together we triumph, together we bleed!

III.

Remember, remember, the deeds we have done,

The hosts we have vanquished, the name we have won,
Remember how long British glory endures,
Remember how much of that glory is yours!

IV.

Hurrah-then-hurrah! To the bright field of fame

The Persian we'll startle, the Muscovite tame, The braggarts of Birmah, the hordes of Nepaul, Once more shall be driven from mountain and wall! July, 1838.

VOL. II.

STANZAS,

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

I.

You know not, gentle Lady, what you ask

Nor what I have to give, or you would never
Have set me this unprofitable task,

Or thought me (strange delusion!) half so clever :

I blush, and almost on distraction border,

At calls like thine for verses "made to order."

II.

And yet 'tis strange that scarce a week elapses
But lo! some album bright, (with feminine letter,)
Alarms my timid Muse. Each claim perhaps is
A compliment, and yet 'twould suit me better,
To waive it, and exchange the painful pleasure
For ease unbroken and unanxious leisure.

III.

'Tis not so much that I dislike the trouble,
For really, if your subject bard may say so,
I'd toil until I grew both faint and double
To serve the fairer sex, could I but lay so
Flattering an unction to my weary spirit
As the proud consciousness of genuine merit.

IV.

But as I positively want the power

Even to please myself, and hate to prove it,

I

pass what seems a very ill-spent hour

When my tried temper fails, and fair ones move it

To something like a state of mad vexation,

By urging me to such severe probation.

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