levies, munitions, allies, or subsidies, he went from Sicily, and retained "with monarchs and their kingdoms at his back, the sworn abettors" of his patriotic though seemingly desperate intent. A proof how Right,
Although, at setting out, a dwarf in thews,
By holding on will gather sinew, till
It moves that giant Might.
A stern oath has that unquailing veteran sworn—even death to the Gaul whoe'er he be, that now has footing in the land. This oath he imposes on his newly-discovered son, Fernando, the favourite and son-in-law of the French governor—and upon the imbroglio of crossing interests, emotions, and duties, in which the young Sicilian and his French bride are involved, depends the tragic power of the drama. The interview whereat Procida acquaints Fernando with their ties of blood, after exacting his enthusiasm in behalf of fatherland, and his fiery indignation at the oppression of strangers, is managed with masterly art, and excites real emotion. The appeal—
Were thy mother—she
That bore thee in the womb—in fetters, how
Wouldst deal with those that put them on? Wouldst talk
And laugh with them—shake hands with them—embrace them?
"Thou wouldst not?" But I tell thee, slave, thou wouldst.
For what's thy country, be she not thy mother,
And like a mother loved by thee?—
this appeal, we say, suggests a parallel passage, of much greater intensity of passion and force of colouring, in the splendid opening of "The Roman," by Sydney Yendys, where Rome is presented under the same maternal aspect.[1] Very striking, too, is the elaboration of the patriot father's struggle between patriotism and fatherhood—between the inexerable claims of his ideal and the budding sympathies of a new-born relationship. The woes of the catastrophe are highly wrought—Isoline's agony during the massacre, arising from apprehension for her father's fate, and devotion to her panic-stricken husband, is touching in its vehement nature, and verges on the sublime in its impulsive outbursts. With all its defects, this tragedy is starred with clustering beauties, and has a
- ↑ We left her. I and all
The brothers that her milk had fed. We left her—
And strange dark robbers, with unwonted names,
Abused her, bound her, pillaged her, profaned her!
Bound her clasped hands, and gagg'd the trembling lips
That pray'd for her lost children. And we stood,
And she knelt to us, and we saw her kneel,
And look'd upon her coldly and denied her!
Denied her in her agony—and counted
Before her sanguine eyes the gold that bought
Her pangs.
Hie robbers wearied, and they bade us hold her,
Lest her death-struggles should get free. She look'd
Upon me with the face that lit my childhood,
She call'd me with the voices of old times,
She blest me in her madness. But they show'd us
Gold, and we seized upon her, held her, bound her,
Smote her. She murmur'd kind words, and I gave her
Blows. … …. And my mother was
Yours. And each man among you day by day
Takes, bowing, the same price that sold my mother,
And does not blush. Her name is Rome.—"The Roman," pp. 4–6.
