prus, after being separated in a storm, his rushing into her arms, and repeating that fine speech, “Oh! my soul's joy! If after every tempest come such calms," &c. was the voice of love itself; describing that passion in so ecstatic a manner as seemingly justified his fears "That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate." Through the whole of the third act, where Iago is working him to jealousy, his breaks of love and rage were master-pieces of nature, and communicated its first sympathies: but in his conference with Desdemona, in the fourth act, where he describes the agonizing state of his mind, and then, looking tenderly on her, exclaims, "But there, where I had garnered up my heart, the extremes of love and misery were so powerfully painted in his face, and so impressively given in his tones, that the audience seemed to lose the energies of their hands, and could only thank him with their tears. We have to lament, that in many of the last acts of some of our best dramatic writers, there wants that degree of finish and grouping equal to the rest. Shakspeare sometimes has this want in common with others; but in this play he has lost none of his force and propriety of character-here all continue to speak the language of their conformation, and lose none of their original import ance. Barry was an actor that, in this particular, kept pace with the great poet he represented-he supported Othello throughout with unabating splendour-his ravings over the dead body of his innocent Desdemona, his reconciliation with Cassio, and his dying soliloquy, were all in the full play of varied excellence, and forced from the severest critic the most unqualified applause. That this our opinion is not exaggerated, we refer to that of Colley Cibber, an unquestionable good judge of his art, and who, with all his partialities to Betterton, yet gave Barry the preference in Othello. In short, it was from first to last a gem of the noblest kind, which can be no otherwise defined than leaving every one at liberty to attach as much excellence to it as he can conceive, and then suppose Barry to have reached that point of perfection. His other favourite characters were, Jaffier, Orestes, Castalio, Phocias, Varaunes, Essex, Alexander, Romeo, &c. &c. In all characters of this stamp, where the lover or hero was to be exhibited, Barry was unique; insomuch, that when Mrs. Cibber (whose reputation for love and plaintive tenderness was well known) played with Garrick, she generally represented his daughter or sister-with Barry she was always his mistress. He likewise excelled in many parts of genteel comedy; such as Lord Townly, Young Beville, &c. &c. The Bastard, in King John, was another fiue character of his, which Garrick attempted in vain—having neither sufficiency of figure, or heroic jocularity. To that may be added Sir Callaghan O'Brallaghan, in Macklin's farce of Love-a-la-Mode; a part in which he gave such specimens of the gallant simplicity and integrity of the Irish Gentleman, as were sufficient to establish an independent reputation. Though his Hamlet, Richard, Lear, Macbeth, &c. were star-height above what we see now, he lost by a comparison with Garrick; here the latter shewed the master in an uncommon degree; as he did in all the quick animated parts of tragedy. In the sprightly light kind of gentlemen, Garrick had likewise the advantage; and in the whole range of low coinedy he blended such a knowledge of his art with the simplicity of nature as made all the minutia of the picture complete. Thus his Abel Drugger was as perfect in design and colouring as the mi eries and distresses of Royal Lear. In talking of these actors, it is impossible for the amateurs of the stage not to regret their loss with some degree of sensibility-not only as men who contributed to the entertainment and refinement of their youth, but whose deaths seem to threaten a decay of the profession itself.— There are periods when the arts and sciences seem to mourn in sullen silence the departure of those original geniusses, who, for years, improved, exalted, and refined them; and like widows, whose hearts were sincerely pledged to their first lords, will not sacritice on the altar of affection to secondary wooers. Painting and statuary suffered such a loss in the deaths of Titian, Raphael, and Michael Angelo, that more than two centuries have not been able to supply it; and how long the present stage may want the aid of such powerful supporters as Garrick and Barry, the experience of near thirty years holds out but very little hopes of encouragement. SENEX. POETRY. THE BATTLE OF BAYLEN. BY WILLIAM CAREY, ESQ. Roll, Andugar *-roll thy flood, Flow with pride! Flow for ever famed in story. Lo! again thy banks are spread With our foes:—the vanquish'd dead Weltering lie all pale and gory. Umbla + saw in strange affright, Helmets gleam. Baylen heard the tempest rattle. Horse to horse, and man to man, Ere the dawn the charge began, To the brazen roar of battle. As the wint❜ry torrent sweeps Down Morena's ‡ ravag'd steeps, To overthrow, Spain, the bulwarks of thy glory: Felt her vine-clad summits rock. Gueva's vale, Hill and dale, Trembled with the mighty motion. Guadalquiver's current fled Swiftly from her troubled bed, Foaming like the angry ocean. * Andugar, a winding river which passes through the city of the same name, and near to Baylen, + Umbla, a commanding eminence near the scene of action. The mountains called the Sierra Morena. Calpe, the Rock of Gibraltar. Falchion, pike, and bayonet, Strew'd with slain, Charg'd with Fate's avenging power, Through the fleeting shades of night, Flash'd the vollied blaze of light; Fell, like hail, the deadly shower. O'er groves, and fields, and mountains blue, On rosy pinions morning flew. Broad and bright Stream'd the light,, The golden face of day unveiling: A sullen cloud of smoke concealing. Their whirlwind rage five times we stood, And stemm'd the whelming battle-food. Still amain, O'er the plain, Roll'd the hostile peals of thunder: And man and steed recoil'd in dread; Earth shook, and rifted rocks asunder. Long and bloody was the strife. Groans and cries Pierc'd the skies; Death's loud organ swell'd the chorus. Raging like a stream of fire, Burst our old Iberian ire, Fast consuming all before us. Weep, ye hapless maids of Gaul! Weep your absent lover's fall! In despair Rend your hair! Weep beside your willowy fountains! Gash'd with wounds, they vanquish'd lie, On our Andalusian mountains. The wolf at midnight laps their blood: Their limbs shall glut the eagle's brood. To the feast. Erect thy crest: be bloodier, bolder! Thy heroes shall possess our soil: Yes there they shall unburied moulder. MR. CONDUCTOR, In looking over the "Remains" of the amiable Henry Kirke White, I discovered, at p. 141 of the second volume, a Fragment, which, from the construction of the first stanza and part of the second, I am forcibly induced to believe, was intended for a Sonnet. I have, therefore, presumed to complete it, adding to the first part, the word devious. Every other alteration, or rather every addition, is marked in Italics. I trust my temerity will not derogate from the beauties of the original. Your most obedient Servant, October 8, 1808 SONNET. Ah! who can say, however fair his view, Thro' what sad scenes his devious path may lie! Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue, Soon will they know stern disappointment's true! II. Let them continue in the pleasant road, |