Oh son of Noah! mercy on thy kind! What! wilt thou leave us all-all-all behind? A Mother (offering her infant to JAPHET). Oh let this child embark! I brought him forth in woe, But thought it joy To see him to my bosom clinging so. What hath he done- To move Jehovah's wrath or scorn? What is there in this milk of mine, that death And roll the waters o'er his placid breath? Or cursed be-with him who made Thee and thy race, for which we are betray'd! Japh. Peace! 't is no hour for curses, but for prayer! And burst, And gushing oceans every barrier rend, Be he who made thee and thy sire! We deem our curses vain; we must expire; Why should our hymn be raised, our knees be bent Since we must fall the same? If he hath made earth, let it be his shame, To make a world for torture.-Lo! they come, The loathsome waters, in their rage! And with their roar make wholesome nature dumb! Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her dower, (1) "The despair of the mortal lovers for the loss of their morta mistresses is well and pathetically expressed." Jeffrey. And though the waters be o'er earth outspread, Yet, as his word, Be the decree adored! He gave me life-he taketh but The breath which is his own: And though these eyes should be for ever shut, Nor longer this weak voice before his throne Be heard in supplicating tone, Still blessed be the Lord, For what is past, For that which is: For all are his, From first to last Time-space-eternity-life-death The vast known and immeasurable unknown. He made, and can unmake; And shall 1, for a little gasp Blaspheme and groan? of breath, No; let me die, as I have lived, in faith, Nor quiver, though the universe may quake! Chorus of Mortals. And now they are not!Why was I born? Japh. To die! in youth to die; Which I Am thus condemn'd to weep above in vain. God the Father turns a school divine;' (1) "This poem, or rather first part of a poem, for so it is stated of men as manifestly to belong to a higher and uncorrupted state to be, carries with it the peculiar impress of the writer's genius of being. In like manner, his Paradise is formed of the universal It displays great vigour, and even a severity of style, throughout; productions of nature-the flowers, the fruits, the trees, the which is another proof, if proof were needed, that elevation of waters, the cool breezes, the soft and sunny slopes, the majestic writing is to be obtained only by a rigid regard to simplicity. It hills that skirt the scene; yet the whole is of an earlier, a more may be perused without shocking the feelings of the sensitive, prolific, a more luxuriant vegetation: it fully comes up to our or furnishing an object for the discriminating morality of any notion of what the earth might have been before it was 'cursed Lord Chancellor. Lord Byron has evidently endeavoured to of its Creator.' This is the more remarkable, as Milton himself sustain the interest of this poem, by depicting natural but deep-sometimes destroys, or at least mars, the general effect of his drawn thoughts, in all their freshness and intensity, with as little picture, by the introduction of incongruous thoughts or images. fictitious aid as possible. Nothing is circumlocutory: there is no It has, not without justice, been said, that sometimes going about and about to enter at length upon his object, but he impetuously rushes into it at once. All over the poem there is a gloom cast suitable to the subject: an ominous fearful hue, like that which and it is impossible, now and then, not to regret the intrusion of Poussin has flung over his inimitable picture of the Deluge. We the religious controversies of modern days. The poet's passions see much evil, but we dread more. All is out of earthly keeping, are, on occasions, too strong for his imagination, drag him down as the events of the time are out of the course of nature. Man's to earth, and, for the sake of some ill-timed allusion to some of wickedness, the perturbed creation, fear-struck mortals, demons those circumstances which had taken possession of his mighty passing to and fro in the earth, an overshadowing solemnity, and mind, he runs the hazard of breaking the solemn enchantment unearthly loves, form together the materials. That it has faults with which he has spell-bound our captive senses. Perhaps, of is obvious: prosaic passages, and too much tedious soliloquising: later writers, Lord Byron alone has caught the true tone, in his but there is the vigour and force of Byron to fling into the scale short drama called Heaven and Earth. Here, notwithstanding against these: there is much of the sublime in description, and that we cannot but admit the great and manifold delinquencies the beautiful in poetry. Prejudice, or ignorance, or both, may against correct taste, particularly some perfectly ludicrous mecondemn it; but while true poetical feeling exists amongst us, it trical whimsies, yet all is in keeping-all is strange, poetic, will be pronounced not unworthy of its distinguished author.”— oriental; the lyric abruptness, the prodigal accumulation of Campbell. images in one part, and the rude simplicity in others—above all, the general tone of description as to natural objects, and of lan upon the scene, seem to throw us upward into the age of men before their lives were shortened to the narrow span of threescore years and ten, and when all that walked the earth were not born of woman."-Milman. According to that vague and mysterious conception of grandeur which religious or poetic minds associate with the antedi-guage and feeling in the scarcely mortal beings which come forth luvian ages of the world, there were giants in those days:' the face of nature, the animal and vegetable productions, the stature, the longevity, the passions of men, were of a vast and majestic growth, unknown in the later and more feeble days of our ordinary world. Hence, from a poet who throws himself back into those times, we make the unreasonable demand, that he should keep the scenes and persons whom he introduces to our notice sufficiently allied to our common sympathies to excite our interest; while, at the same time. they must appear as almost belonging to another earth, and a different race of beings. We imperiously require that degree of reality, without which no poetry can become lastingly popular: yet that reality must be far removed from all our ordinary notions; the region visited by angels must be formed of the same elements, yet possess a totally distinct character from that which we inhabit: the sons and daughters of men, who enjoyed familiar intercourse with a higher race of beings, while we are to feel for them as akin to ourselves, must partake in some degree of the unearthly nature of their celestial visitants. To this at once real and unreal world, among this human yet at the same time almost preterhuman race, we must be transported by the imagination of the poet; and the slightest incongruity, the most insignificant vulgarism, or modernism, or even too great similarity to the ordinary features of nature, breaks the charm at once, and destroys the character of the picture, as a faithful representation of the primeval earth, and the mighty race which nature bore while yet in her prime of youth. Among all the wonderful excellencies of Milton, nothing surpasses the pure and undisturbed idealism with which he has drawn our first parents, so completely human as to excite our most ardent sympathies, yet so far distinct from the common race "From the Loves of the Angels,* we turn to a 'strain of higher mood;' with feelings much like those which would arise on leaving the contemplation of a ‘Holy Family' by Carlo Dolce, to behold the Last Judgment of Michel Angelo. The mystery of Heaven and Earth is conceived in the best style of the greates, masters of poetry and painting. It is not unworthy of Dante, and of the mighty artist to whom we have alluded. As a picture of the last deluge, it is incomparably grand and awful. The characters, too, are invested with great dignity and grace. Nothing can be more imposing and fascinating than the haughty, and imperious, and passionate beauty of the daughter of Cain; nor any thing more venerable than the mild but inflexible dignity of the patriarch Noah. We trust that no one will be found with feelings so obtuse, with taste so perverted, or with malignity so undisguised, as to mar the beauties of pictures like these, by imputing to their author the cool profession of those sentimer's which he exhibits as extorted from perishing mortals, in their jast instants of despair and death. Such a poem as this, if read aright, is calculated, by its lofty passion and sublime conceptions, to exalt the mind and to purify the heart beyond the power of many a sober homily. It will remain an imperishable monument of the transcendent talents of its author; whom it has raised, in our estimation, to a higher pitch of pre-eminence than he ever before attained." M. Mag ky Moore. Sardanapalus; AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. (1) TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE A STRANGER PRESUMES TO OFFER THE HOMAGE OF A LITERARY VASSAL TO HIS LIEGE LORD, THE FIRST OF EXISTING WRITERS, Who has Created the Literature of his own Country, AND ILLUSTRATED THAT OF EUrope. THE UNWORTHY PRODUCTION WHICH THE AUTHOR VENTURES TO INSCRIBE TO HIM IS ENTITLED "SARDANAPALUS." (2) PREFACE. they are to stand for nothing, I shall say nothing. For the historical foundation of the following compositions, the reader is referred to the Notes. IN publishing the following Tragedies (3) I have The Author has in one instance attempted to preonly to repeat, that they were not composed with serve, and in the other to approach, the "unities;" the most remote view to the stage. On the attempt conceiving that with any very distant departure made by the Managers in a former instance, the from them there may be poetry, but can be no drama. public opinion has been already expressed. With He is aware of the unpopularity of this notion in regard to my own private feelings, as it seems that present English literature; but it is not a system of (1) On the original MS. Lord Byron has written :-" Mem. Ravenna, May 27, 1821.—I began this drama on the 13th of January, 1821; and continued the two first acts, very slowly and by intervals. The three last acts were written since the 14th of May, 1821 (this present month); that is to say, in a fortnight." The following are extracts from Lord B.'s diary and letters:"January 15, 1821. Sketched the outline and Dram. Pers. of an intended tragedy of Sardanapalus, which I have for some time meditated. Took the names from Diodorus Siculus (I know the history of Sardanapalus, and have known it since I was twelve years old), and read over a passage in the ninth volume of Mitford's Greece, where he rather vindicates the memory of this last of the Assyrians. Carried Teresa the Italian translation of Grillparzer's Sappho. She quarrelled with me, because I said that love was not the loftiest theme for a tragedy; and having the advantage of her native language, and natural female eloquence, she overcame my fewer arguments. I believe she was right. I must put more love into Sardanapalus than I intended." May 25. I have completed four acts. I have made Sardanapalus brave (though voluptuous, as history represents him), and also as amiable as my poor powers could render him. I have strictly preserved all the unities hitherto, and mean to continue them in the fifth, if possible; but NOT for the stage." "May 50. By this post I send you the tragedy. You will remark that the unities are all strictly preserved. The scene passes in the same hall always: the time, a summer's night, about nine hours or less; though it begins before sunset, and ends after sunrise. It is not for the stage, any more than the other was intended for it; and I shall take better care this time that they don't get hold on't." "July 14. I trust that Sardanapalus will not be mistaken for a political play: which was so far from my intention, that I thought of nothing but Asiatic history. My object has been to dramatise like the Greeks (a modest phrase), striking passages of history and mythology. You will find all this very unlike Shakspeare; and so much the better in one sense, for I look upon him to be the worst of models, though the most extraordinary of writers. It has been my object to be as simple and severe as Alfieri, and I have broken down the poetry as nearly as could to common language. The hardship is that, in these times, one can neither speak of kings nor queens without suspicion of politics or personalities. I intended neither." "July 22. Print away, and publish. I think they must own that I have more styles than one. Sardanapalus is, however, almost a comic character: but for that matter, so is Richard the Third. Mind the unities, which are my great object of research. I am glad Gifford likes it: as for the million, you see I have carefully consulted any thing but the taste of the day for extravagant 'coups-de-théâtre."" Sardanapalus was published in December, 1821, and was received with very great approbation.'-E. (2) "Well knowing myself and my labours, in my old age, I could not but reflect with gratitude and diffidence on the expres sions contained in this dedication, nor interpret them but as the generous tribute of a superior genius, no less original in the choice than inexhaustible in the materials of his subjects." Goethe. -E. (3) Sardanapalus originally appeared in the same volume with The Foscari and Cain.-E. * The following is an extract from The Life of Dr. Parr " In the course of the evening the Doctor cried out Have you read Sardanapalus? Yes, Sir.' - Right; and you couldn't sleep a wink after it? No.-Right, right-now don't say a word more about it to-night.'-The memory of that fine poem seemed to act like a spell of horrible fascination upon him.' his own, being merely an opinion which, not very long ago, was the law of literature throughout the world and is still so in the more civilised parts of it. But "nous avons changé tout cela," and are, reaping the advantages of the change. The writer is far from conceiving that any thing he can adduce by personal precept or example can at all approach his regular, or even irregular, predecessors: he is merely giving a reason why he preferred the more regular formation of a structure, however feeble, to an entire abandonment of all rules whatsoever. (1) "In this preface," (says Mr. Jeffrey) "Lord Byron renews his protest against looking upon any of his plays as having been composed with the most remote view to the stage;' and, at the same time, testifies in behalf of the unities, as essential to the existence of the drama-according to what was, till lately, the law of literature throughout the world, and is still so in the more civilised parts of it.' We do not think these opinions very consistent; and we think that neither of them could possibly find favour with a person whose genius had a truly dramatic character. We should as soon expect an orator to compose a speech altogether unfit to be spoken. A drama is not merely a dialogue, but an action; and necessarily supposes that something is to pass before the eyes of assembled spectators. Whatever is peculiar to its written part should derive its peculiarity from this consideration. Its style should be an accompaniment to action, and should be calculated to excite the emotions, and keep alive the attention of gazing multitudes. If an author does not bear this continually in his mind, and does not write in the ideal presence of an eager and diversified assemblage, he may be a poet perhaps, but assuredly he will never be a dramatist. If Lord Byron really does not wish to impregnate his elaborate scenes with the living part of the drama-if he has no hankering after stage effect-il he is not haunted with the visible presentiment of the persons he has created-if. in setting down a vehement invective, he does not fancy the tone in which Mr. Kean would deliver it, and anticipate the long applauses of the pit, then he may be sure that neither his feelings nor his genius are in unison with the stage at all. Why, then, should he affect the form without the power of tragedy? Didactic reasoning and eloquent description will not compensate, in a play, for a dearth of dramatic spirit and invention: and, besides, sterling sense and poetry, as such, ought to stand by themselves, without the unmeaning mockery of a dramatis personæ. As to Lord Byron pretending to set up the unities, at this time of day, as the law of literature throughout the world,' it is mere caprice and contradiction. He, if ever man was, is a law to himself— a chartered libertine;' -and now, when he is tired of this unbridled license, he wants to do penance within the unities! English dramatic poetry soars above the unities, just as the imagination does. The only pretence for insisting on them is, that we suppose the stage itself to be, actuaily and really, the very spot on which a given action is performed; and, if so, this space cannot be removed to another. But the supposition is manifestly quite contrary to truth and experience."-Edin. Rev vol. xxxvi. The reader may be pleased to compare the above with the foljowing passage from Dr. Johnson :— "Whether Shakspeare knew the unities, and rejected them by design, or deviated from them by happy ignorance, it is, I think, impossible to decide, aud useless to inquire. We may reasonably suppose, that when he rose to notice, he did not want the counsels and admonitions of scholars and critics; and that he at last deliberately persisted in a practice which he might have begun by chance. As nothing is essential to the fable but unity of action and as the unities of time and place arise evidently from false assumptions, and, by circumscribing the extent of the drama, lessen its variety, I cannot think it much to be lamented that they were not known by him, or not observed: nor, if such another poet could arise, should I very vehemently reproach him, that his first act passed at Venice, and his next in Cyprus. Such vio Where he has failed, the failure is in the architect, and not in the art.(1) ADVERTISEMENT. In this tragedy it has been my intention to follow the account of Diodorus Siculus; (2) reducing it, however, to such dramatic regularity as I best could, and trying to approach the unitics. I therefore sup lations of rules merely positive become the comprehensive genius of Shakspeare, and such censures are suitable to the minute and slender criticism of Voltaire : -Non usque adeo permiscuit imis Longus summa dies, ut non, si voce Metelli Yet, when I speak thus slightly of dramatic rules, I cannot but recollect how much wit and learning may be produced against me: before such authorities I am afraid to stand, not that I think the present question one of those that are to be decided by mere authority, but because it is to be suspected, that these precepts have not been so easily received, but for far better reasons than I have yet been able to find. The result of my inquiries, in which it would be ludicrous to boast of impartiality, is, that the unities of time and place are not essential to a just drama; that though they may sometimes conduce to pleasure, they are always to be sacrificed to the nobler beauties of variety and instruction; and that a play written with nice observation of critical rules is to be contemplated as an elaborate curiosity, as the product of superfluous and ostentatious art, by which is shown rather what is possible than what is necessary. He that, without diminution of any other excellence, shall preserve all the unities unbroken, deserves the like applause with the architect, who shall display all the orders of architecture in a citadel without any deduction from its strength: but the principal beauty of a citadel is to exclude the enemy; and the greatest graces of a play are to copy nature and instruct life." Preface to Shakspeare.-E. (2) "This prince surpassed all his predecessors in effeminacy, luxury, and cowardice. He never went out of his palace, but spent all his time among a company of women, dressed and painted like them, and employed like them at the distaff. He placed all his happiness and glory in the possession of immense treasures, in feasting and rioting, and indulging himself in all the most infamous and criminal pleasures. He ordered two verses to be put upon his tomb, signifying that he carried away with him all he had eaten, and all the pleasures he had enjoyed, but left every thing else behind him: Κεῖν ̓ ἔχω ὅτ' ἔφαγον καὶ ἐξύβρισα, καὶ μετ' ἔρωτος Τέρπν' ἔπαθον, τὰ δὲ πολλὰ καὶ ὄλβια πάντα λέλειπται-an epitaph, says Aristotle, fit for a hog. Arbaces, governor of Media having found means to get into the palace, and having with his own eyes seen Sardanapalus in the midst of his infamous seraglio, enraged at such a spectacle, and not able to endure that so many brave men should be subject to a prince more soft and effeminate than the women themselves, immediately formed ä conspiracy against him. Beleses, governor of Babylon, and severa others, entered into it. On the first rumour of this revolt, the king lid himself in the inmost part of his palace. Being afterwards obliged to take the field with some forces which he had assembled, he at first gained three successive victories over the enemy, but was afterwards overcome, and pursued to the gates of Nineveh; wherein he shut himself, in hopes the rebels would never be able to take a city so well fortified, and stored with provisions for a considerable time. The siege proved, indeed, of very great length. It had been declared by an ancient oracle that Nineveh could never be taken, unless the river became an enemy to the city. These words buoyed up Sardanapalus, because he looked upon the thing as impossible. But when he saw pose the rebellion to explode and succeed in one day by a sudden conspiracy, instead of the long war of the history. DRAMATIS PERSONEÆ. MEN. SARDANAPALUS, King of Nineveh and Assyria, etc. PANIA. ZAMES. SFERO. BALEA. ZARINA, the Queen. WOMEN. He must not perish thus. I will not see MYRRHA, an Ionian female Slave, and the Fa- And saps his goodly strength, in toils which yield vourite of SARDANAPALUS. Women composing the Harem of SARDANAPALUS, etc. Scene-a Hall in the Royal Palace of Nineveh. SARDANAPALUS. ACT I. SCENE I. A Hall in the Palace. not Health like the chase, nor glory like the war- [Sound of soft music heard from within. By the first manly hand which dares to snatch it. Salemenes (solus). He hath wrong'd his queen, At once his chorus and his council, flash but still he is her lord; He hath wrong'd my sister, still he is my brother; He hath wrong'd his people, still he is their sovereign, And I must be his friend as well as subject: that the Tigris, by a violent inundation, had thrown down twenty stadia (two miles and a half) of the city wall, and by that means opened a passage to the enemy, he understood the meaning of the oracle, and thought himself lost. He resolved, however, to die in such a manner as, according to his opinion, should cover the infamy of his scandalous and effeminate life. He ordered a pile of wood to be made in his palace, and setting fire to it, burnt himself, his eunuchs, his women, and his treasures."-Diod. Sic. 1. ii. p. 109. "The Sardanapalus of Lord Byron is pretty nearly such a person as the Sardanapalus of history may be supposed to have been. Young, thoughtless, spoiled by flattery and unbounded self-indulgence, but with a temper naturally amiable, and abilities of a superior order, he affects to undervalue the sanguinary renown of his ancestors, as an excuse for inattention to the most necessary duties of his rank; and flatters himself, while he is indulging his own sloth, that he is making his people happy. Yet, even in his fondness for pleasure, there lurks a love of contra Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels, (1) In the MS. "He sweats in dreary dull'd effeminacy."-E. (2) In the MS. "And see the gewgaws of the glittering girls."—E. |