THE ATONEMENT. The eye that weeps for broken vows, The grief and the anguish which quickly fade, But the grief of the soul, like the midnight gloom, Shall years of watching take, Ere light resumes her wonted reign, There is a wound no skill can cure, A loss no gift repay : When Vice has laboured to allure The soul from Virtue's way: When the lips, that were pledged in truth and bliss, And whisper falsehood's tale; When the sword, that should guard, but wounds the heart, And the chains, that should bind, are stretched to part, And Honour's self doth wail Her hopes decay, - her fortunes blight, In brightest day, -the darkest night. Such sorrow is around thy brow, Fair charmer of the vale! And thou hast heard a broken vow, Thy hopes are all scared, and darkest despair But, oh! where is the base deceiver? He And free from all alarm: Yet Conscience, when she wakes, shall bring And in his soul shall wretchedness A joyless dwelling find: And the promises sealed, which he eke hath forsaken, A refuge from pain, which he well hath deserved ;— And thus ATONEMENT thou shalt have, C. REVIEW OF BOOKS. I. Dramas of the Ancient World. By David Lyndsay, Edinburgh, 1822, Blackwood. By one of those strange coincidences, which have occasionally, though rarely, arisen in the pursuits of literary men, the author of the poems before us has selected for two of his dramas, the same subjects as Lord Byron; viz. "Sardanapalus" and "Cain." In the advertisement prefixed to his work, however, he affirms this coincidence to be entirely accidental; in which assertion we are disposed to rest implicit confidence; not merely because the publication of the volume so immediately followed the appearance of his Lordship's, but because the execution of the whole affords no internal evidence of haste or negligence, traces of which must certainly have been discoverable, had Mr. Lyndsay composed his dramas subsequently to the announcement of the Noble Author's tragedies. Had this coincidence been the result of design, it would indeed have argued no ordinary degree of presumption in an 'unfledged knight,' thus to enter the lists with the great champion of modern poetry; but since Mr. Lyndsay has modestly disclaimed all intention of measuring lances with the flower of Parnassian chivalry, we do not hesitate to affirm, that there are more points than one, on which Lord Byron himself would have encountered, in the author of this volume, no common or contemptible antagonist. We rejoice, therefore, that Mr. Lyndsay was not withheld by an excess of false delicacy, or deterred by the transcendent glory of so great a name, from presenting his dramas to the public. The arena of literary competition is alike open to every candidate for popular applause; and the diversity of talent among authors, is perhaps more than equalled by the variety of taste and sentiment in the reading world. Many who are dazzled and overpowered by the impassioned brilliancy of Byron, may dwell with redoubled delight on the mild and melancholy strains of a less glowing lyre. Moreover, it is neither uninteresting nor unprofitable to trace the different aspects under which the same subjects may have been contemplated by two minds, concerning one of which it may fearlessly be said, at least, with reference to living bards, "Nil viget simile, aut secundum;" while the other, though not to be paralleled with that of the mighty master,' may yet be pronounced poetic, elegant, and highly cultivated. To have selected the same subjects as Lord Byron; to have executed the same design in a manner not wholly dissimilar, are alone sufficient to reflect considerable credit on Mr. Lyndsay's judgment; and it does no less honour to the rectitude of his principles, that in several instances where he has departed from the track of his noble predecessor, though the interest of the drama may have sustained some diminution, its moral effect has been heightened and enforced, The story of Sardanapalus, as related by Ctesias and Diodorus Siculus, seems to afford ample scope for the exercise of dramatic ability. If it be objected, that the sudden transition of character from the basest effeminacy to the most exalted heroism, is improbable; we answer, that what is least probable is often most poetical; and were it not so, that such an instantaneous conversion is perfectly consistent with nature and experience, Lord Byron has himself observed, “We are the sons of circumstance.” We are more. We are the slaves of circumstance. Who could have discovered the brave deliverer of Athens in the smooth flatterer of a Persian satrap? Who could have imagined the future conqueror of France in that " prince Harry," whose youth was spent in such corrupt society, that, as Jack Falstaff humorously remarks, they would be obliged, on his accession to the throne, to say, "Save your majesty,' for grace you will have none." There is frequently a latent spark in the mind, which, though smothered for a time under the pressure of luxury, or almost extinguished by the chill blast of indolence, waits but the inspiring breath of circumstance to fan it into a flame. Thus might the sudden impulse of imminent peril awaken Sardanapalus from his lethargy, and animate him with the resolution to die a hero, though he had lived a debauchee. Having thus endeavoured to establish the propriety of choosing Sardanapalus for the subject of a drama, we proceed to analyze the drama itself, premising, that it is, by no means, our intention to compare it with the finished composition of Lord Byron. Mr. Lyndsay's drama, though replete with spirited incident, fervid poetry, and scenes of deep wrought interest, is but a sketch. Lord Byron's, on the contrary, is constructed on the model of the most approved rules of art, and is almost a perfect specimen of what a drama ought to be. It abounds also with that intensity of feeling, and sublimity of thought, which are peculiar to the writings of the noble bard. The sun of Lord Byron's genius shines throughout in its full meridian splendour-that sun, which, though it too often “Like some false meteor, shines but to betray;" yet beams, like its fellow luminary in the heavens, without a rival; and is not wholly obscured even by the mists of scepticism, and amidst the thick darkness of infidelity. Of this, more hereafter. At present we pass on to Mr. Lyndsay. Arbaces, Satrap of Media, and Belesis of Babylon, disgusted by the effeminacy of Sardanapalus, have excited an insurrection against their monarch, and attacked him in the city of Nineveh. The scene opens with the repulse of the rebels, and a conference between the insurgent chieftains, somewhat too prolix for the occasion-in which Mr. L. contrives to introduce, by the mouth of Arbaces, a noble description of the martial acts of the king, suddenly metamorphosed from an effeminate boy' into a fearless warrior. The action is then transferred to the interior of the palace, where Sardanapalus, flushed with conquest, is distributing rewards to those who have distinguished themselves in the engagement. Atossa, his wife, animates him to reiterate his valiant exertions; and, in short, performs a part in this drama something analogous to that of Myrrha in Lord Byron's. We must confess, that the heroic devotion, exhibited by both, appears to us much more consistent with the character of a wife than that of a paramour, and consequently in this respect we give the preference to Mr. Lyndsay's Atossa, though, in all beside, there can be no comparison. The banquet is interrupted by a renewed assault of the rebels, and Sardanapalus again arms himself for the fight. He entertains a very different opinion of his ancestors, Ninus and Semiramis, from Lord Byron's hero. I shall not stain the page Whereon the fame of Ninus' race is writ; Nor will the annals of my later day Darken the glories of Semiramis. Here there is a striking coincidence between the two dramas. By the unexpected defection of the Bactrians, and the overthrow of the walls by a sudden irruption of the river Hiddekel or Euphrates, the post becomes untenable, night comes, and is ushered in by storms and darkness. There is a strom gathering in the black air. To meet my coming fate. The wild blue glare The path that I must tread-so let it be. * * * * Time's dusky wings are spread, and on them rides A temple for his welcome!-My last guest, I would receive him nobly!-Ha! who comes Not to scare him from his purpose, but to confirm it, Atossa enters. Choosing rather to die a sovereign's bride,' than live a 'servant's slave,' the high-minded queen, despairing of the result, has swallowed poison. Her death leaves Sardanapalus Without a further care, and free to do The captain of the guard now appears with intelligence of the base treachery of the Assyrian nobles, and their intention to deliver up their monarch a prisoner to the Mede. This warrior, "faithful alone amid the faithless found," affectionately urges his sovereign to escape. Sardanapalus, pointing to the corpse of Atossa, replies: Look here, brave soldier, Here is my answer; -She is gone, that I The king, being first well assured of the universal perfidy of his nobles, dismisses the trusty officer with a rich and regal recompense. We regret that we have not limits to insert his parting speech. The soldier, however, retires; and while the lords are still engaged in the banquet, Sardanapalus employs the interval in arranging heaps of combustibles throughout every quarter of the palace; then, having set fire to the whole mass, he joins his treacherous nobles. The scene now becomes terrifically grand. The Median trumpet sounds the preconcerted signal the traitors spring forward to grasp their betrayed monarch, when suddenly an officer enters with the appalling tidings, that the palace is in flames. Sardanapalus then breaks out into the following lofty strain of triumphant exul tation: I triumph!-Fate, I bow me, blessing thee !-Loose me, ye slaves, I am again your master. Know me, villains, Your monarch and your friend, to slavery, The flames, mean while, prevail over every attempt to extinguish them, and while the lords are distractedly shrieking for help, Sardanapalus thus derides their futile exertions, and glories in his fate: They will not be Quenched by your feeble powers. Ye are lost, Doth add unto the flame!-Now, now I mock In the subject of "Cain," on which Mr. Lyndsay has two dramas, one entitled "the Destiny," and the other "the Death of Cain," the rival authors meet on less unequal terms-these two dramas being in our estimation, the best beyond all comparison in Mr. L's volumes, and the "Mystery" unquestionably the worst in his renowned competitor's. The noble lord may indeed claim the merit of having insinuated his blasphemies with unrivalled dexterity; he may, indeed, arrogate to himself the baneful prerogative of being able to convert "good into evil and evil into good," by a species of poetical sophistry even more pernicious than beautiful-but we are convinced that Mr. Lyndsay will not be inclined to contest this "bad pre-eminence." He will contentedly leave the noble bard to the undisputed possession of laurels thus acquired. Accordingly, we do not find Mr. Lyndsay promulgating, like his lordship, a new system of theology-a strange compound of Judaism, Paganism of every thing but Christianity. We do not find him exalting the arch-enemy of mankind, to the rank of a Being little less than Omnipotent. He does not bewilder his readers as well as his hero in the dark regions of interminable space, enlivening the drear vacuity with apparitions of leviathans, and mammoth, and serpents with dripping mane and vasty head," 'Gorgons, and hydras, and chimeras dire.' He does not attempt to traverse those desolate and difficult labyrinths, where the genius even of Byron becomes confounded and perplexed. His incidents are neither improbable nor unnatural. His personages, with one |