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The true philosopher is the true poet-
The ambrosial element of poetry

You talk

Was my soul's atmosphere. The Muse herself
Has paid me a bright visit in the solitude

Of this dark prison-house.

PHÆDON.

How mean you, Socrates? SOCRATES.

I mean, my Phædon, that poetic thought
Is nourished by misfortune; its hid fires
Are struck into a blaze by the stern crash
Of tortures. 'Tis from suffering that the poet
Doth wring the inspiration of his song.
What think you? I have writ some verses in
My bondage, which have sweetened it. I would
Have set them all to music-But às time
Is rather short with me, perhaps you'll do
That dainty office for me. Have them chaunted
Over my grave; and if you'll add a chorus,
So much the better.

XANTIPPE.

O Socrates-my

husband

I never knew how much I loved you till
This hour-the last. Can you forgive me, that
My most capricious will so oft offended-
My life will be one wild dream of remorse.
I've wronged the noblest heart that ever yet
Trusted in woman-by my death will I
Atone thy injured name.

SOCRATES.

No, my Xantippe,

Come hither-I'll not hear you talk of dying,
'Tis very childish of you.-You must live,
And when you hear your husband's name abused,
Tell them how very patient he would be

While you were angry, Tippet. Nay, don't weep.-
I knew she loved me, gentlemen. This hour
Has wrung the secret from her. My hard fate
Softened her wonderfully. My sentence quite
Dissolved her little pet antipathies,

And all the woman melted in her breast.
Come, a last kiss-you must not linger here,
It is the jailor's order-So farewell!
And you, Euphrosyne, my Plato's sylph,
And Chloe, mourning absent Xenophon,
You owe me a kiss each-do not quite forget
Poor Socrates. My little children, too,
Come, take your father's blessing-and obey
Your mother when she tells you truth and virtue
Are the paths to happiness. There, the sweet Gods
Be with you!

(The women and children retire weeping.) What is the hour?-I seem to need

Repose; the feverish wildering game of life
Has wearied me. I long for a sound sleep

Under the cypress.

The JAILOR (entering with the bowl of poison).
Here, my noble master;-

Would I had died myself, rather than brought thee
This cup of death-I but obey the judges.

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(Taking up the goblet)

Black bowl of blacker poison-welcome to me!
Thou art my choice-thou art not forced upon me-
No;-from the million instruments of death

I freely choose thee. My own plighted bride!
The altar of our wedlock is the tomb!
In everlasting marriage I embrace thee!
Witness the Gods! Full many a time I've quaft
The sparkling wine, emblem of life to friends
Embarking on a voyage! with more pleasure
I drain this pledge of death, praying sweet heaven
To speed me on thy untried navigation-

Thou ocean of eternity!

(SOCRATES drinks, his pupils exhibiting all the signs of

extreme sorrow.)

How now!

Dear friends and pupils--come, be men, be men.
Don't whimper-courage! My eye and hand are steady-
Where is your virtue? Was it not for this

I sent away the women? Prithee do not
Fall into such ridiculous weaknesses?
I've always heard it said that a brave man
Should die in pure serenity, blessing God.

CRITO.

Is there no drop of poison left for us?
We could die with thee.

SOCRATES.

Not a drop, dear Crito.
I took good care not to expose my pupils
To the temptation-sipping the remainder
To keep me company. No, if you'll excuse me,
I'll try the dark experiment alone.

You'll follow when the Gods shall summon you-
Not a jot before. Ah, my old limbs do stiffen ;
I feel the invading coldness. I'll lie down,
Even as the jailor bade me.

JAILOR (pressing the feet of SOCRATES).

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Do you feel

No.

SOCRATES.

JAILOR.

Icy coldness steals

SOCRATES.

It does-I feel it does.

But in this little instant, ere my heart

Grows wintry-Crito-you remember, Crito-
We owe a cock to Esculapius-

Discharge the vow for me-do not forget it,
That most divine physician of lapsed souls
Shall yet revisit-in that future-then-

(SOCRATES dies.

SCENE V.

ANYTUS in banishment near Heraclea.

No refuge no escape-the eternal vengeance
Of gods and men pursues the murderers,
Whose perjury caused the death of Socrates.
Melitus have the Athenians massacred;
Lycon and Aristophanes remain

Irreparably degraded-though they live,-
I wander in doomed exile, cursed by all-
Even my own self. My hands are red with blood-
The blood of innocence; my conscious heart
Grows pale within: and on my burning brow
The brand of horrible remorse hath stampt
Indelible perdition. In my eyes

Men read my crimes, and hunt me like a wolf.
These Heracleans, too, have taken the oath
Of vengeance on my head.

HERACLEANS (rushing in).

Here is the murderer

Of Socrates. Ah, sacrilegious homicide,

Prepare for a bloody fate.

ANYTUS.

O mercy, mercy!

HERACLEANS.

Yes, monster, even such mercy as you showed

To Socrates. Here is a cup of poison,

And here a dagger ;-drink, as you made him drink,-
Or, by the Gods! the dagger on the instant

Shall be sheathed in thy heart.

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HERACLEANS.

Demon!-drink thou and die!-let the earth hide

Thy curse-crowned execrable head, and hurl

Thy spirit down the blazing throat of hell

That yawns for thy destruction.

ANYTUS.

'Tis the doom

Of the just Gods. Thus do I make atonement To the shade of Socrates. May Heaven forgive me! (He drinks and dies.)

HERACLEANS.

There leave the wretched corpse, do not pollute
Your hands by touching it. We'll cast a heap

Of stones upon it, and it shall remain

A witness to our children; they shall point To the accursed spot, and trembling, say "Here lies the body of a murderer.'

COGITATIONS OF A CONTEMPLATIST.

No. IV.

"Prizes would be for lags of slowest pace,

Were cripples made the judges of the race."

DRYDEN.

I KNOW not what will be thought of my critical abilities, when I declare my intention of undertaking the defence of a writer whose very name has become synonymous with extravagance and bombast. Nat Lee's plays were most of them crowned with a success on the stage which many dramatists of the present day would envy; but his name has suffered wrong, by being always pertinaciously associated with his worst production. This has often been the fate of authors; for the public (to its shame be it spoken!) more frequently applaud extrinsicalities than excellencies. But whatever may be the faults of Alexander the Great, it does not deserve the contumely which has been so relentlessly heaped upon it. Although we admit the truth of the charge that it continually outleaps all recognized bounds in its diction and its sentiments, yet this is rather caused by an excess of poetry and feeling, which the writer knew not how to control, than the contrary. If this tragedy be bombast, the bombast is such as only a poet could write in the drunkenness of his inspiration. Conceding the utmost to our opponents, it is the work of a fine imagination, rejoicing in a noble liberty from the curb of reason. Were I asked for a brief character of the play, I should pronounce it to be poetry gone mad.

I assert, in spite of all contradiction, that the character of Alexander the Great, as portrayed by Lee, is just and true to nature. It is that of a young man who, ere he has yet lost the hot blood of youth, prostrates the world at his feet; and the splendour of whose achievements, transitory misfortune serves but to heighten. Thus phrenzied by the continued whirl of success, he gives free way to his presumption and his pride; nor will be thought less than a god. Swelled out with his unwieldy greatness, resistance to his will appears to him an impiety; in his own eyes he is the Fate whose decrees all men await with terror; and in the intoxication of his glory he manifests, at each slight contradiction, the headlong impetuosity and furious passion of a man who would rule others, without knowing how to govern himself.

Now who will deny that this is nearly the exact developement of character which an individual would undergo in the circumstances supposed by the poet? No one could bear the weight of such amazing fortune-attained, not when age had mellowed with experience, but in the first blush of puberty-without feeling himself madden beneath his burthen. But it is objected that such a portraiture of Alexander is not hsitorically correct. Even if this be the fact, we might reply that the Poet is not bound within the limits of the conventional and the historical; that his office is to embody the ideal in palpable forms, and to distinguish it by distinctive attributes; and

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