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But beware! beware! of the Black Friar,
He still retains his sway,
Whoever may be the lay,
But the monk is lord by night:
To question that friar's right.
And he'll say nought to you;
As o'er the grass the dew.
Heaven sain him ! fair or foul,
prayer, Let ours be for his soul.' This explanation does not calm Juan's perturbation ; his efforts to recover his self-possession during the day are in vain. At night he is sitting in his chamber listening, and expecting a second visitation :
And not in vain he listened-Hush! what's that?
I see- see !-Ah, no!-'is not yet ’tis-
The devil may take that stealthy pace of his !
Or tiptoe of an amatory miss,
It is the sable Friar as before,
Or (as rhymes may be iu these days) much more.
When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore
Which sets the teeth on edge ; and a slight clatter,
See the account of the Ghost of the Uncle of Prince Charles of Saxony raised by Schroepfer Karl-Karl-was-walt wolt mich?"
Like showers which on the midnight gusta will pass,
Sounding like very supernatural water, Came over Juan's ear, which throbbed, alas !
For iminaterialism's a serious matter; So that even those, whose faith is the most great Iu souls immortal, shun them tête-à-têtc. Were his eyes open ?-Yes ! and his mouth too.
Surprise has this effect-to make one dumb, Yet leave the gate which Eloquence slips through
As wide as if a long speech were to come. Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew,
Tremendous to a mortal tympanum : His eyes were open, and (as was before Stated) his mouth. What opened uext ?-the door.
It opened with a most iufernal creak,
Like that of hell. Lasciate ogni speranza Voi che entrate!' The hinge seemed to speak,
Dreadful as Dante's rhyma, or this stanza ;
A single shade's sufficient to entrance a
The door flew wide, not swiftly--but, as fly
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flightAnd then swuug back; nor close-but stood awry,
Half letting in long shadows on the light,
For he had two, both tolerably bright,
The night before; but, being sick of shaking,
And then to be ashamed of such mistaking; His own internal ghost began to awaken
Within him, and to quell his corporal quakingHinting that soul and body, on the whole, Were odds against a disembodied soul.
And then bis dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce;
And he arose, advanced-the shade retreated; But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce,
Followed, his veins no longer cold, but heated,
At whatsoever risk of being defeated :
It touched no soul, nor body, but the wall,
Chequered with all the tracery of the hall;
When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal.
And rather variably for stony death;
The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath.
A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneathi,
wonder! It pressed upon a hard but glowing bust,
Wbich beat as if there was a warın heart under.
That he had made at first a silly blunder,
As ever lurked beneath a holy hood :
SHAKSPEARE's Richard III.
A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole
Forth into something much like flesh and blood;
And they revealed_alas! that e'er they should !
The phantom of her frolic Grace-Fitz-Folke! Thus breaks off this singular poem, of which, taken as a whole, we cannot regret that we have no more.
TAE somewhat lengthened notice of Don Juan' into which we have thought it expedient to go has prevented us from observing strictly the order of time in which Lord Byron's poems were published : we shall now, however, resume the connexion of them, and proceed to speak of. Werner,' a tragedy which came out carly in the year 1822. It is founded upon one of the stories in Miss Lee's Canterbury Tales;' and, although the subject is deeply interesting, and even worthy of the honour which the labours of Lord Byron have conferred upon it, we cannot but wonder that so inventive a mind as his should have chosen to be indebted to any other writer for the plot of his tragedy, which without too great an effort he inight have fabricated for himself.
Miss Lee's tale is called · Kuitzner,' and is the longest and the best in the collection which we bave mentioned. It does not fall within our plau to allude more particularly to that tale, but justice to the authoress compels us to observe that it is highly creditable to her talents; and, although it is slight, and has rather an unfinished ap. pearance, it is equal, in all the characteristics of romantic narrative, to any similar production in this language.
Lord Byron dedicated his tragedy to the illustrious Göethe,' and did himself at least as much honour as he conferred upon that gifted and universal genius of Germany, by professing himself to be one of his humblest adınirers.' The trayedy which we proceed now to describe opens with a dialogue between Werner and his wife. He is at this time just recovered from a sickness which las seized him on a journey which he was making from Hamburgh towards Bohemia, and which compelled bim to stop on the Silesian frontier. He is accoinpanied by his wise, from a dialogue with whom we learn that Werner is an assumed name—that he who bears it is the disinherited son of a wealthy nobleman of Prague, and has been for years pining in want and misery, and hiding from a powerful enemy, who has wrongfully obtained possession of his patrimonial estates. He has had one son, who was educaled by Werner's father, but who has quitted the castle of his ancestors, and gone to seek his fortune no one knows wbither. Werner is now lodging in a deserted palace belonging to one of the Silesian princes, by permission of the Intendant. He learns that the Oder has overflowed, and that a nobleman whose impatience induced him to attempt the passage at a dangerous time has been carried away, and would have been drowned but for the assistance of some strangers. One of these strangers, Gabor, soon after enters. He is a blunt reckless soldier of fortune, and, as it turns out afterwards, partly soldier, partly bandit, but yet a bandit of the higher order; not by any means what Mr. Peachum calls a poor' petty larceny rascal,' but one who, although he scorns to commit a robbery in a house or under quiet commonplace circumstances, has no objection to fire a castle, or to cry • Stand!' to a true man. He learns that Werner is poor, and offers him bis purse; but he finds that he is no less proud than poor by his refusal to accept his offer. The rescued nobleman afterwards appears, and is recognised by Werner to be the Count Stralenheim, his old persecutor. The count- who, although he has not seen his victim for more than twenty years, suspects bis identity-resolves to make sure of it, and dispatches messengers to Hamburgh, as well to prove that, as to enable him, under some forged accusation, to get possession of Werner's person, when his death would soon be certain. The swelling of the water makes the passage of the messengers impossible; and things are in this state when the other stranger, who had been mainly instrumental in rescuing Count Stralenheim, reaches the castle. The count is prepossessed in favour of this person, whose youth and frank manners, prompt and active intrepidity, and strikingly handsome appearance, make him wish to engage him in his service. The youth accepts his offers, and, in an interview with Werner and his wife, he discovers his own father and mother. Before this, however, an incident has occurred which has a main operation in the business of the drama. The apartments inhabited by Werner are at one end of the old palace, while those occupied by the count are at the other extremity. Werner suspects but too truly the danger in which he is; but, poor, and almost wholly destitute, he has not the means of escaping