MARCIA.* Marcia is called a "Tragedy," but the dramatic interest

of the poem is extremely faint. It turns entirely on a Polish plot to assassinate the Czar, and makes the mistress of the Czar —herself a Pole—suddenly fall in love with the Polish poet who has been condemned to exile in the Siberian mines, and sacrifice her life to die with him. The conversation of the plotters on the one hand, and the dialogue between the Czar and his Polish mistress, is all that we have of drama in the few scenes of the play ; nor does any part of this dialogue strike us as really powerful. If there were nothing in the play but this, we should have spoken of it briefly as indicating poetical feeling, but as indicating also a mistaken conception of what drama ought to be if it is to take any hold on the mind. The following is not a bad specimen of the dialogue. No one could say that it is bad verse, or destitute of a certain poetical charm ; but yet no amount of verse of this kind would make even a tolerable drama :—

"Stanislaus Fenner. How fair a morning ! no irresolute dawn

That shrinks back on the threshold of the sun; But calm and clear and bright and beautiful, As there were no oppressions in the world To make the sunlight a devouring fire ; No wrongs to rouse the fierce wind of the north That howls along those murderous miles, whose snows Hide from the vulture our dear comrades' bones, To beat against the walls that hold within The tyrant in his triumph.

Paul .Radowski. Nay, peace, man, peace : Do you not see how group by group draws near ?

You might be overheard.

Stanislaus Fermer. Well, and what then ?

Save they be sunk in brutish apathy—

If there be left some natural heat in them Still, some proud prompting of the indignant blood Against oppression, when their eyed behold Their fellows passing through their midst to-day In chaios to exile, the taskmaster's whip

And deadly drudgery in those poisonous mines—

'My words will stir a fury in their hearts (As when the wind cries 'Havoc' to the sea) That shall deliver to my arms again My friend and brother of my thoughts, and Poland Mourn not the noblest heart that beats for her.

Paul Radowski. If she has lost a hero, she has gained Another martyr. A great cause is won By those who suffer, more than those who strike ;

And in the strife of Truth against the world,

The simplest soldier in the noble army Of martyrs wears a wreath of loftier leaves Than all the laurels of bald Cmsar's crown ; And men's eyes keep the grass green of his grave With drops more tender than of dew or rain ; When mighty monuments of piled stones Kings build against Oblivion, house the wolf And prowling jackal, whose keen hunger gnaws

• Marcia : a Trege3y. By Pakenham Beatty. London : M. M. Clark (Earl's Court); Hamilton. Adams, and Co. The fleshless bones that held the world in awe— Mourn not for Michael, brother, nor for Poland."

There are fine touches here,—the description of the fair calm morning in contrast to the " irresolute dawn that shrinks back on the threshold of the sun ;" and the comparison of the effect of stirring words on the hearts of multitudes to the wind that lifts the sea into destructive fury. But this should be only the prelude to the real strife of wills and passions, whereas it is a fair specimen of the whole. We never reach any stronger picture of men or women, any true conflict of will with will, any clear encounter of character with cha- racter. The only scenes which even partake of the nature of action are those between the Czar's mistress and the Polish poet on the one hand, and between the same lady and the Czar himself on the other ; and they are feeble scenes, in which the poet seems to shrink from facing what the occasion requires. Nor is it natural that Marcia should so suddenly break out into loathing and hatred of her old lover, simply because she has fallen in love with one of his victims, and is aware that she must choose between the two. That might make her hate herself for her former life, but would hardly make her lose absolutely and for ever every feeling but disgust for one in whose devotion to her she had been willing to take pride, or dis- pose her all of a sadden to replace her more than tolerance by curses and contempt. The little play should not have been thrown into the dramatic form at all. There is not a touch of the dramatic spirit in it from the first line to the last.

But of a fine lyrical feeling there is plenty of evidence. Marcia is hardly a character; but Marcia's songs are true songs, with a real breath of life and beauty in them. Take this, for instance :—

"Some find Love late, some find him soon, Some with the rose in May, Some with the nightingale in June, And some when skies are grey ; Love comes to some with smiling eyes, And comes with tears to some, For some Love sings, for some Love sighs, For some Love's lips are dumb.

How will you come to me, fair Love ?

Will you come late or soon ?

With sad or smiling skies above, By light of sun or moon ? .

Will you be sad, will you be sweet, Sing, sigh, Love, or be dumb, Will it be summer when we meet, Or autumn ere you come ?"

The following, too, for a song sung in anticipation of death, has an airy beauty of its own, though not the deeper pathos :-

" Sweet friend, I had not thought to see

Thy face so soon, or bear Thy gentle voice that calls to me, And bids me feel no fear ; Only one kiss, then let us go, True lover, hand in hand, Across the moors—across the snow, Into the distant land.

0, guide me ! lest my feet should stray, And hush my heart on thine ; No sun is bright upon our way, Nor moon nor star shall shine But we shall hear Cocytus roar When all earth's streams are dumb, And light-heeled Hermes goes before To tell the dead we come.

Love will not think that world of night A sadder world than ours; But those dim skies have their own light, And those dark fields their flowers; And Proserpine upon her throne Forgets her place of birth, For love of Dis, and for her own Would change no crown of earth."

Read simply as a poem, Marcia is disappointing only because it seems to invite the display of a sort of power to embody volition and action in words, of which we find no trace in the play itself.

Strong situations ask for a totally different kind of speech from gentle feelings; but it is only for gentle feelings that Mr.

Pakenham Beatty seems to find appropriate speech. Of poetical thought and emotion there is no lack in Marcia ; but of that sort of poetical condensation of feeling which somehow manages

to express by the month the passion of the will, there is no trace. Nevertheless, we shall look for true poetry from Mr. Beatty-, though for poetry of a different type from that which he has,—

unfortunately as we hold,—attempted in this delicate but not very vigorous play.