The true philosopher is the true poet- You talk Was my soul's atmosphere. The Muse herself Of this dark prison-house. PHÆDON. How mean you, Socrates? SOCRATES. I mean, my Phædon, that poetic thought XANTIPPE. O Socrates-my husband I never knew how much I loved you till SOCRATES. No, my Xantippe, Come hither-I'll not hear you talk of dying, While you were angry, Tippet. Nay, don't weep.- And all the woman melted in her breast. (The women and children retire weeping.) What is the hour?-I seem to need Repose; the feverish wildering game of life Under the cypress. The JAILOR (entering with the bowl of poison). Would I had died myself, rather than brought thee (Taking up the goblet) Black bowl of blacker poison-welcome to me! I freely choose thee. My own plighted bride! 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. I sent away the women? Prithee do not CRITO. Is there no drop of poison left for us? SOCRATES. Not a drop, dear Crito. You'll follow when the Gods shall summon you- JAILOR (pressing the feet of SOCRATES). 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- Discharge the vow for me-do not forget it, (SOCRATES dies. SCENE V. ANYTUS in banishment near Heraclea. No refuge no escape-the eternal vengeance Irreparably degraded-though they live,- Men read my crimes, and hunt me like a wolf. 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,- Shall be sheathed in thy heart. 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 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 |