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zio," or, rather, more that strikes the mind of the reader, and produces profounder impressions. The time is limited to thirty-six hours; and the subject admitting powerful descriptions, the author has not neglected to avail himself of all which was within his grasp, to enhance the effect of the performance. There is a happy substitution of prophecy for the ancient government of destiny, and all the various characters are forcibly and nobly conceived. This poem is well worthy the pen of a clergyman, gifted, as its author undeniably is, with genius and learning far above the common lot of dramatic writers.

These works may be said to have established their author's fame upon an immovable basis, and, with others which he has undertaken since, to have earned him a celebrity of no mean grade. Mr. Milman assiduously performs the duties of a clergyman, and is greatly respected by all who know him in that character. They are things not a little to be envied, in journeying through

the wild of life, the possessing that blamelessness of character, and the attracting that affection from our fellow-citizens which is so seldom the lot of celebrity. Thus is doubled the sum of rational enjoyment. In these respects Mr. Milman is to be envied, if envy it be lawful to indulge towards any of our fellow-creatures; and, if report say true, no one more merits to enjoy the delightful feeling of conscious virtue than the author of "Fazio."

Several articles in the "Quarterly Review," in its better literary days, are attributed to the pen of Mr. Milman; but none of them are tainted with the asperity which was so long the besetting sin of that publication. The Oxford professor of poetry would be as far above the meanness of personal abuse, as his talents are above those of most who laboured in that work in its days of rabid criticism. Mr. Milman's articles were literary, temperate, and such as might be expected from the pen of the Christian and the poet.

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ADVERTISEMENT.

THE following attempt at reviving our old national drama with greater simplicity of plot, was written with some view to the stage. Circumstances and an opinion of considerable weight induced me to prefer the less perilous ordeal of the press: as in the one case, if its merits are small or moderate, the quiet sleep of oblivion will be infinitely less grating to an author's feelings, than a noisy and tumultuous execution in a public theatre; if, on the other hand, public opinion be in its favour, its subsequent appearance on the stage would be at least under favourable auspices. I am aware, that there is a prejudice at the theatre against plays which have first appeared in print; but whence it originates I am at a loss to conceive. It being impossible, on the present scale of our theatres, for more than a certain proportion of those present to see or hear with sufficient distinctness to form a judg ment on a drama, which is independent of show and

vious familiarity with the language and incidents should enable the audience to catch those lighter and fainter touches of character, of passion, and of poetry, on which dramatic excellence so mainly depends. I put entirely out of the question those who go to a play from mere desire of novelty, whose opinions either way would be of very slight value.

The Play is founded on a story, which was quoted in the Annual Register for 1795, from the "Varieties of Literature;" but great liberties have been taken with it.

Enter FAZIO and BIANCA.

FAZIO.

WHY what a peevish envious fabulist,
Was he, that vow'd cold wedlock's atmosphere
Wearies the thin and dainty plumes of love;
That a fond husband's holy appetite,
Like the gross surfeit of intemperate joy,
Grows sickly and fastidious at the sweets
Of its own chosen flower!-- My own Bianca,
With what delicious scorn we laugh away
Such sorry satire!

BIANCA.

Which of thy smooth looks Teacheth this harmony of bland deceit ? Oh, my own Fazio! if a serpent told me That it was stingless in a tone like thine, I should believe it. Oh, thou sweetly false! That at cold midnight quitt'st my side to pore O er musty tomes, dark sign'd and character'd,

FAZIO.

She wanton!—. Aldabella loose! - Then, then
Are the pure lilies black as soot within,
The stainless virgin snow is hot and rancid,
And chastity-ay, it may be in heaven,
But all beneath the moon is wild and haggard.
If she be spotted, oh, unholiness
Hath never been so delicately lodged
Since that bad devil walk'd fair Paradise.
BIANCA.

Already silent? Hath your idol quaff'd
Enough of your soft incense? Fazio! Fazio!
But that her gaudy bark would aye disdain
The quiet stream whereon we glide so smooth,
I should be fearful of ye.

FAZIO.

Nay, unjust!

Ungenerous Bianca! who foregoes,
For the gay revel of a golden harp,

Its ecstasies and rich enchanting falls,

His own domestic lute's familiar pleasing?

But thou, thou vain and wanton in thy power,
Thou know'st canst make e'en jealousy look lovely,
And all thy punishment for that bad passion
Be this-[Kisses her] - Good night!-I will but

snatch a look

How the great crucible doth its slow work,
And be with thee; unless thou fanciest, sweet,
That Aldabella lurks behind the furnace;
And then, heaven knows how long I may be truant.
[Exit BIANCA.

FAZIO (solus.)

Oh, what a star of the first magnitude
Were poor young Fazio, if his skill should work
The wondrous secret your deep-closeted sages
Grow grey in dreaming of! Why all our Florence
Would be too narrow for his branching glories;
It would o'erleap the Alps, and all the north
Troop here to see the great philosopher.
He would be wealthy too-wealthy in fame;
And that's more golden than the richest gold.

[A groan without.
Holy St. Francis! what a groan was there!
Voice without.
Within there!--Oh! within there, neighbour!-Death,
Murder, and merciless robbery!

Why e'en lie there, as foul a mass of earth
As ever loaded it. "T were sin to charity
To wring one drop of brine upon thy corpse.
In sooth, Death 's not nice-stomach'd, to be cramm'd
With such unsavoury offal. What a god
'Mong men might this dead wither'd thing have been,
That now must rot beneath the earth, as once
He rotted on it! Why his wealth had won
In better hands an atmosphere around him,
Musical ever with the voice of blessing,
Nations around his tomb, like marble mourners,
Vied for their pedestals. In better hands?
Methinks these fingers are not coarse nor clumsy.
Philosophy, Philosophy! thou 'rt lame
And tortoise-paced to my fleet desires?
I scent a shorter path to fame and riches.
The Hesperian trees nod their rich clusters at me,
Tickling my timorous and withdrawing grasp;—
I would, yet dare not:-that's a coward's reckoning
Half of the sin lies in "I would." To-morrow,
If that it find me poor, will write me fool,
And myself be a mock unto myself.
Ay, and the body murder'd in my house!

Your carrion breeds most strange and loathsome in

sects

Suspicion's of the quickest and the keenest —
So, neighbour, by your leave, your keys! In sooth,
Thou hadst no desperate love for holy church;
Long-knolled bell were no sweet music to thee.
A "God be with thee" shall be all thy mass;
Thou never lovedst those dry and droning priests,

Thou 'lt rot most cool and quiet in my garden; Your gay and gilded vault would be too costly. [Exit with the body of Bartolo.

And socketless pale eyes look glaring on me.
But I have past them: and methinks this weight
Might strain more sturdy sinews than mine own.
Howbeit, thank God, 'tis safe! Thank God!— for
what?

That a poor honest man's grown a rich villain.

SCENE II.

A Street.

Enter FAZIO, with a dark Lantern.

I, wont to rove like a tame household dog,
Caress'd by every hand, and fearing none,
Now prowl e'en like a grey and treasonous wolf.
"T is a bad deed to rob, and I'll have none on 't:
"Tis a bad deed to rob- and whom? the dead!
Ay, of their winding-sheets and coffin nails.
"T is but a quit-rent for the land I sold him,
Almost two yards to house him and his worms:
Somewhat usurious in the main, but that
Is honest thrift to your keen usurer.

Had he a kinsman, nay a friend, 't were devilish.
But now whom rob I? why the state-In sooth
Marvellous little owe I this same state,
That I should be so dainty of its welfare.
Methinks our Duke hath pomp enough, our Senate
Sit in their scarlet robes and ermine tippets,
And live in proud and pillar'd palaces,
Where their Greek wines flow plentiful - Besides,
To scatter it abroad amid so many,
It were to cut the sun out into spangles,
And mar its brilliance by dispersing it.
Away! away! his burying is my Rubicon!
Cæsar or nothing! Now, ye close-lock'd treasures,
Put on your gaudiest hues, outshine yourselves!
With a deliverer's, not a tyrant's hand
Invade I thus your dull and peaceful slumbers
And give ye light and liberty. Ye shall not
Moulder and rust in pale and pitiful darkness,
But front the sun with light bright as his own.

SCENE III.

The Street near Fazio's Door. Re-enter FAZIO with a sack: he rests it. My steps were ever to this door, as though They trod on beds of perfume and of down. The winged birds were not by half so light, When through the lazy twilight air they wheel Home to their brooding mates. But now, methinks, The heavy earth doth cling around my feet. I move as every separate limb were gyved With its particular weight of manacle. The moonlight that was wont to seem so soft, So balmy to the slow respired breath, Icily, shiveringly cold falls on me. The marble pillars, that soared stately up, As though to prop the azure vault of heaven, Hang o'er me with a dull and dizzy weight. The stones whereon I tread do grimly speak, Forbidding echoes, ay with human voices. Unbodied armas pluck at me as I pass,

SCENE IV.

Fazio's House.

Enter FAZIO with his sack, which he opens and surveys.

I thank ye, bounteous thieves! most liberal thieves!
Your daggers are my worship. Have ye leap'd
The broad and sharp-staked trenches of the law,
Mock'd at the deep damnation that attaints
The souls of murderers, for my hands unbloodied,
As delicately, purely white as ever,

To pluck the golden fruitage? Oh, I thank ye,
Will chronicle ye, my good friends and true.

Enter BIANCA. (FAZIO conceals the treasure.)

BIANCA.

Nay, Fazio, nay: this is too much: nay, Fazio, I'll not be humoured like a froward child, Trick'd into sleep with pretty tuneful tales.

FAZIO.

We feast the Duke to-morrow; shall it be
In the Adorni or Vitelli palace?

They're both on sale, and each is fair and lofty.

BIANCA.

Why, Fazio, art thou frantic? Nay, look not
So strangely, so unmeaningly. I had rather
That thou wouldst weep, than look so haggard joyful.

FAZIO.

Ay, and a glorious banquet it shall be:
Gay servants in as proud caparisons,
As though they served immortal gods with nectar.
Ay, ay, Bianca! there shall be a princess;.
She shall be lady of the feast. Let's see
Your gold and crimson for your fair-hair'd beauties:-
It shall be gold and crimson. Dost thou know
The princess that I mean? Dost thou, Bianca ?

BIANCA.

Nay, if thou still wilt flout me, I'll not weep:
Thou shalt not have the pitiful bad pleasure
Of wringing me to misery. I'll be cold
And patient as a statue of my wrongs.

FAZIO.

I have just thought, Bianca, these black stills
An ugly and ill-fitting furniture:

We'll try an they are brittle. (Dashes them in pieces.)

I'll have gilding,

Nothing but gilding, nothing but what looks glittering: I'm sick of black and dingy darkness. Here (Uncovering the sack.)

Look here, Bianca, here's a light! Take care:
Thine eyesight is too weak for such a blaze.
It is not daylight; nay, it is not morn—
And every one is worth a thousand florins.
Who shall be princess of the feast to-morrow?
[She bursts into tears.
Within, within, I'll tell thee all within. [Exeunt.