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A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole

Forth into something much like flesh and blood;
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl,

And they revealed-alas! that e'er they should!
In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk,

The phantom of her frolic Grace-Fitz-Fulke!

Thus breaks off this singular poem, of which, taken as a whole, we cannot regret that we have no more.


THE 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 early 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 might have fabricated for himself.

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Miss Lee's tale is called Kuitzner,' and is the longest and the best in the collection which we have mentioned. It does not fall within our plan 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 appearance, it is equal, in all the characteristics of romantic narrative, to any similar production in this language.

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Lord Byron dedicated his tragedy to the illustrious Goethe,' 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 admirers.' The tragedy which we proceed describe opens with a dialogue between Werner and his wife. at this time just recovered from a sickness which has seized him on a journey which he was making from Hamburgh towards Bohemia, and which compelled him to stop on the Silesian frontier. He is accom

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panied by his wife, 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 educated by Werner's father, but who has quitted the castle of his ancestors, and gone to seek his fortune no one knows whither. 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 his 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 his 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

from it. A secret passage, known only to him, leads to the count's chamber: he treads it, and finds his enemy sleeping by the fire, while a table near him is covered with gold. Werner's first impulse is to kill his foe; but his heart revolting at the idea of shedding blood, he chooses the lesser crime of robbery, and takes from the table a rouleau of gold, for the purpose of enabling him to fly from the pursuit which he fears. He regains his own chamber safely. The count, on waking, discovers his loss, and institutes an inquiry for it. Ulric, the young stranger, in endeavoring to trace the robber, finds his own parents, and learus from his father's lips the extent of his guilt and the character of the Count Stralenheim, who stands between him and his patrimonial estates. He is of a daring and impetuous spirit; and, although he would stop at the commission of no crime himself, he feels disgraced by that of his father. He, however, wastes no time in reproaches: he bids him hasten his departure; and gives him a valuable ring, with which to bribe the Intendant's assistance. Suspicion of the robbery alights on Gabor, the other stranger; and Ulric, although he knows his innocence, does not attempt to free him from the accusation; while Gabor's own haughty and violent demeanour helps to encourage the belief that he is guilty. Werner, on the contrary, offers him an asylum in his chamber till midnight, when Gabor resolves to pursue his journey. To favour his escape from the Iptendant, Werner shows him the secret passage. By virtue of the jewel which his son has given him he then secures all the means for his own escape, which is to take place before daybreak. While Weruer is waiting in the garden Ulric comes to him, and with great apparent agitation asks him if he has killed the Count Stralenheim. Werner denies this with horror. Ulric says he is satisfied of his father's innocence, but he adds that the count is murdered in his chamber. Werner then tells his son that Gabor was acquainted with the passage; and, as he has fled from the castle, there remains no doubt on the mind of either of them that he has perpetrated the foul deed. Ulric, however, insists on his father's pursuing his journey, and they part.

The fourth act begins in the castle of Siegendorf, near Prague, where the poor fugitive Werner, become, by the death of Stralenheim, the Count of Siegendorf, and the possessor of the domains of his ancestors, is living with his wife, his son, and Ida Stralenheim, the young and beautiful daughter of the deceased count. The manner of Ulric's life the mystery which accompanies some of his actionsand the character of the wild young men whom he makes his com

Panions-give great pain to the old count, who endeavors to persuade him to give them up. His son answers him evasively. The father then recommends him to marry Ida; and to this, although he does not refuse to comply, Ulric evinces great reluctance. Ida, on the other hand, is intensely enamoured of her cousin ;' and, with the simplicity of a young and loving girl, she makes no secret of a passion which she believes is returned. A great festival is celebrated in Prague, where the count sees, for the first time since the night of the murder, Gabor, whom he suspects to have perpetrated it. He gives orders to have him secured, but he is not to be found. The description of the festival, and of the effect which the sight of Gabor had on the count, are very powerfully given:

The church was thronged; the hymn was raised;
Te Deum' pealed from nations, rather than
From choirs, in one great cry of God be praised'
For one day's peace, after thrice ten dread years,
Each bloodier than the former: I arose

With all the nobles, and as I looked down
Along the lines of lifted faces-from
Our bannered and escutcheoned gallery, I
Saw, like a flash of lightning, (for I saw

A moment, and no more,) what struck me sightless
To all else the Hungarian's face! I grew
Sick; and, when I recovered from the mist
Which curled about my senses, and again

Looked down, I saw him not. The thanksgiving
Was over, and we marched back in procession.
Ulr. Continue.


When we reached the Muldau's bridge,
The joyous crowd above, the numberless

Barks manned with revellers in their best garbs,
Which shot along the glancing tide below,

The decorated street, the long array,
The clashing music, and the thundering
Of far artillery, which seemed to bid

A long and loud farewell to its great doings,
The standards o'er me, and the tramplings round,
The roar of rushing thousands-all-all could not
Chase this man from my mind; although my senses
No longer held him palpable.


No more, then?


You saw him

I looked, as a dying soldier

Looks at a draught of water, for this man;
But still I saw him not; but in his stead—
Ulr. What in his stead?


My eye for ever fell

Upon your dancing crest; the loftiest,

As on the loftiest and the loveliest head

It rose the highest of the stream of plumes

Which overflowed the glittering streets of Prague.
Ulr. What's this to the Hungarian ?


Much; for I

Had almost then forgot him in my son,
When just as the artillery ceased, and paused

The music, and the crowd embraced in lieu

Of shouting, I heard in a deep low voice,

Distinct, and keener far upon my ear

Than the late cannon's volume, this word—' Werner!
Ulr. Uttered by————


HIM! I turned-and saw-and fell.

Ulr. And wherefore? Were you seen?


The officious care

Of those around me dragged me from the spot,
Seeing my faintness, ignorant of the cause;
You, too, were too remote in the procession

(The old nobles being divided from their children)
To aid me.

Gabor is then brought in, and taxed with the murder by the old count in the presence of his son. He denies it; and, being asked how he will disprove the charge, he replies By the presence of the murderer! A scene ensues which unravels the whole mystery of the tragic tale:

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