Arn. A fiend! Cæs. And thou-a man. Thou art still Arn. Why, such I fain would show me. Cæs. (to the Lutheran.) I told you so. Luth. Sold. And will you not avenge me? True-as men are. You see he loves no interlopers. (1) "Levelling my arquebuse," says Benvenuto Cellini, “I once, I cautiously approached the walls, and perceived that discharged it with a deliberate aim at a person who seemed to be there was an extraordinary confusion among the assailants, oclifted above the rest: but the mist prevented me from distin-casioned by our having shot the Duke of Bourbon: he was, as I guishing whether he was on horseback or on foot. Then turn-understood afterwards, that chief personage whom I saw raised ing suddenly about to Alessandro and Cecchino, I bid them fire above the rest."-Vol. i. p. 120. This, however, is one of the off their pieces, and showed them how to escape every shot of many stories in Cellini's amusing autobiography which nobody the besiegers. Having accordingly fired twice for the enemy's seems ever to have believed.-E. Oh! Luth. Sold. (dying.) Had I but slain him, I had gone on high, Crown'd with eternal glory! Heaven, forgive My feebleness of arm that reach'd him not, And take thy servant to thy mercy. 'Tis A glorious triumph still; proud Babylon's No more; the Harlot of the Seven Hills Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sackcloth And ashes! [The Lutheran dies. Cæs. Yes, thine own amidst the rest. Well done, old Babel! [The Guards defend themselves desperately, while the Pontiff escapes, by a private passage, to the Vatican and the Castle of St. Angelo. (1) Cæs. Ha! right nobly battled! Now, priest! now, soldier! the two great professions, | Girl, you but grasp your dowry. Seen a more comic pantomime since Titus Soldiers. Follow! He hath escaped! [sage up, Another Sold. They have barr'd the narrow pasAnd it is clogg'd with dead even to the door. Cæs. I am glad he hath escaped: he may thank me for 't In part. I would not have his bulls abolish'd- [To the Spanish Soldiery. Well, cut-throats! What do you pause for? If you make not haste, [As he advancès, OLIMPIA, with a strong and sudden effort, casts down the crucifix: it strikes the Soldier, who falls. 3d Sold. Oh, great God! Olimp. Ah! now you recognize him. 3d Sold. My brain's crush'd! Comrades, help, ho! All's darkness! [He dies. Other Soldiers (coming up). Slay her, although she had a thousand lives: She hath kill'd our comrade. [The Soldiers disperse; many quit the Church, Upon his head. others enter. Arn. Even so; there is a woman Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye such, Ye would have honour'd her. But get ye hence, And thank your meanness, other God you have none, For your existence. Had you touch'd a hair Of those dishevell❜d locks, I would have thinn'd Your ranks more than the enemy. Away, this picture of horrors, see especially the Sackage of Rome, by Jacopo Buonaparte, "gentiluomo Samminiatese, che vi se trovò presente," and Life of Cellini, vol. i. p. 124.-E. [The Soldiers assault ARNOLD. Arn. Come on! I'm glad on 't: I will show you, slaves, How you should be commanded, and who led you [ARNOLD mows down the foremost, the rest Soldiers. Mercy, mercy! Arn. Then learn to grant it. Have I taught you Led you o'er Rome's eternal battlements? [who Soldiers. We saw it, and we know it; yet forgive A moment's error in the heat of conquestThe conquest which you led to. Arn. Get you hence! No injury!—and made my father's house A den of thieves. No injury!-this temple- No injury! And now thou wouldst preserve me, [She raises her eyes to Heaven, folds her Arn. The leap was serious. Arn. Cæs. Oh! she is lifeless. If She be so, I have nought to do with that: The resurrection is beyond me. Arn. Slave! Cæs. Ay, slave or master, 't is all one methinks Good words, however, are as well at times. Arn. Words!-Canst thou aid her? Cæs. I will try. A sprinkling Of that same holy water may be useful. [He brings some in his helmet from the font. Arn. 'Tis mix'd with blood. Cæs. In Rome. Arn. There is no cleaner now How pale! how beautiful! how lifeless! Alive or dead, thou essence of all beauty, I love but thee! Cæs. Even so Achilles loved Penthesilea: with his form it seems You have his heart, and yet it was no soft one. robe round her, and prepares to dash The devil speaks truth much oftener than he's herself down on the side of the Altar posite to that where ARNOLD standɛ. I swear. Hold, hold! Olimp. Spare thine already forfeit soul op A perjury for which even hell would loathe thee. I know thee. deem'd: He hath an ignorant audience. Arn. (without attending to him). Yes! her heart beat. Alas! that the first beat of the only heart I ever wish'd to beat with mine should vibrate To an assassin's pulse. Arn. Let her but live! Cæs. The spirit of her life Is yet within her breast, and may revive. Count! count! I am your servant in all things, And this is a new office:-'t is not oft I am employ'd in such ; but you perceive How stanch a friend is what you call a fiend. On earth you have often only fiends for friends; Now I desert not mine. Soft! bear her hence, The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit! I am almost enamour'd of her, as Of old the angels of her earliest sex. The wars are over, The spring is come; The bride and her lover They are happy, we rejoice; Let their hearts have an echo in every voice! 2. The spring is come; the violet's gone, 3. And when the spring comes with her host Of flowers, that flower beloved the most Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse Her heavenly odour and virgin hues. 4. Pluck the others, but still remember Enter CESAR. Cæs. (singing.) The wars are all over, But his armour is rusty, And the veteran grows crusty As he yawns in the hall. He drinks-but what's drinking! A mere pause from thinking! No bugle awakes him with life-and-death call. CHORUS. But the hound bayeth loudly, The boar's in the wood, And the falcon longs proudly To spring from her hood: On the wrist of the noble She sits like a crest, And the air is in trouble With birds from their nest. "Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made." Genesis, chap. iii. verse 1. TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. This "Mystery of Cain" is Inscribed, BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, THE AUTHOR. PREFACE. mas upon similar subjects, which were styled "Mysteries, or Moralities." The author has by no means taken the same liberties with his subject THE following scenes are entitled A Mystery, in | which were common formerly, as may be seen conformity with the ancient title annexed to dra by any reader curious enough to refer to those (1) Cain was begun at Ravenna, on the 16th of July, 1821-lebrity of his name to palm upon you obsolete trash, the very offcompleted on the 9th of September-and published, in the same volume with Sardanapalus and The Two Foscari, in December. Perhaps no production of Lord Byron has been more generally admired, on the score of ability, than this Mystery; certainly none, on first appearing, exposed the author to a fiercer tempest of personal abuse. Besides being unmercifully handled in most of the critical journals of the day, Cain was made the subject of a solemn separate essay, entitled "A remonstrance addressed to Mr. Murray respecting a recent Publication-by Oxoniensis;" of which we may here preserve a specimen : "There is a method of producing conviction, not to be found in any of the treatises on logic, but which I am persuaded you could be quickly made to understand; it is the argumentum ad crumenam; and this, I trust, will be brought home to you in a variety of ways; not least, I expect, in the profit you hope to make by the offending publication. As a bookseller, I conclude you have but one standard of poetic excellence-the extent of your sale. Without assuming any thing beyond the bounds of ordinary foresight, I venture to foretell, that in this case you will be mistaken: the book will disappoint your cupidity, as much as it discredits your feeling and discretion. Your noble employer has deceived you, Mr. Murray: he has profited by the ce scourings of Bayle and Voltaire, which he has made you pay for as though it were first-rate poetry and sound metaphysics. But I tell you (and, if you doubt it, you may consult any of the literary gentlemen who frequent your reading-room) that this poem, this Mystery, with which you have insulted us, is nothing more than a cento from Voltaire's novels, and the most objectionable articles in Bayle's Dictionary, served up in clumsy cuttings of ten syllables, for the purpose of giving it the guise of poetry. "Still, though Cain has no claims to originality, there are other objects to which it may be made subservient; and so well are the noble author's schemes arranged, that in some of them he wil be sure to succeed. "In the first place, this publication may be useful as a financial measure. It may seem hard to suspect, that the high-souled philosophy, of which his Lordship makes profession, could be servile to the influence' of money; but you could tell us, Sir, if you would, what sort of hand your noble friend is at a bargain; whether Plutus does not sometimes go shares with Apollo in his inspirations. "In the second place (second I mean in point of order, for I do not presume to decide which motive predominates in his Lordship's mind), the blasphemous impieties of Cain, though |