Like a strange language on mine ear, my liege!
Our good old German hath another sound.
I honour Henry-heroes such as he

Are few, and far between; such lordly spirits
Will have free scope-spite of themselves, they burst
The narrow bounds of fate.

Bern.

The empire needs

No heroes such as this, whose wayward will
Would bear down every thing. I do not ask
What in his sight are princes? What's the Emperor ?—
Did he not summon from his vassalage,
When against Italy the imperial banner
Last waved, a prouder army than his lord's?
The Vandals tremble at his name. The Danes
Have bow'd before his greatness. Such a Duke
Will scarce remain one, while there's empires going!
Fred. If thus the dead appals, how had ye shrunk
Before him living?

Otto.

Oh! awake him not
From his still grave; there might be danger in't.
Already Saxony abjures all rule,

All ties are rent-vassals forswear their oath,
And many a fortress opens to the Emperor.
'Tis rash, methinks, to carry things thus far
Ere yet 'tis certain that the dreaded Lion
Hath slept his last. Had Saxony been given,
Ev'n as Bavaria, to my faithful keeping,
By Heaven, no jot of this had come to pass!

Fred. Ye're in the Emperor's presence-Palatine!
Otto. Yes! and I therefore truly speak, as fitting,
Before a monarch. Henry, ere he went

To Palestine, gave me in trust Bavaria;

And, by my faith, no fort shall open there
Till of his death we're sure!

Fred.

Bold words, Count Otto!

Otto. I've lived among bold deeds, my liege; and words Weigh lightly in that scale-'Tis yours to deal

In these, my Lord Archbishop! (to Philip.)

Fred. (to himself.) As here opinions clash-so in my breast Conflicting feelings rise alternately,

For and against this Henry. Ties of blood
Closely unite us-gratitude hath bound
Me closer still-yet sober judgment tells me
It's dangerous-warns me that the Lion's star
Must pale the Emperor's-unless-'Tis well,
His death hath cut the knot!

(Aloud.) Enough! my lords; Our purpose holds for Italy-all ye

Who own the Emperor's sway, prepare to follow. [Exit, attended by most of the Princes.

Bern. (detaining Philip.) A private word, Lord Bishop.

Phil.

For secrets

Bern.

Pardon me, suspicion lurks

'Tis no place

Less amid light than darkness. Know ye nothing?

Phil. What mean ye, Margrave Bernhard?

Bern.

All is lost!

Duke Henry!

Then woe betide us-we must to the ground.
Bern. 'Tis ev'n too true.

Phil.

How hath he 'scaped all perils?

I hoped that Death, that mighty leveller,

Had been our ally.

Bern.

Nay, though ev'n he lived,

Had he not now return'd-now, ere our work

Was fully ripe! The chief of Saxony

Still owns his might-Oh! had more holds surrender'd,
And been to us made o'er, by Heav'n, no Lion

Had rent them from our grasp !-Fair Saxony!

Phil. Well may it touch thine heart! Methinks thy father,
Albert the Bear, bore rule there, ere his fortunes
Gave way to Henry's?

Bern.

Oh! remind me not
Of what now brooks no remedy. The Emperor,
Again bewitch'd, again will grasp the hand
That gives him victory, and o'er the Lombards
Triumphant raise him. I see the mighty
Grow mightier still-the pillars of the empire
Crumbling before him, till he stands alone
And turns his sword, unquestion'd-to a sceptre !
Phil. Wer't not for Lombardy, the Emperor's ear
Were lightly gain'd-he quails before the Duke,
And fear and hate are ever near allied.

Bern. I count not upon Fred'rick, mingled streams
Flow in his veins-Now, by the mother's side,
A Guelf in thoughts and feelings-now his father
Prevails-and he is all a Hohenstaufen!

The worthy pair, after mutually renewing former engagements to co-operate in the Duke's destruction, resolve to achieve it by means of suborning the already perjured Eckbert of Wolfenbuttel, to accuse his lord of secret practices with Milan and Pope Alexander, to dethrone and supplant the Emperor.

We are next introduced to Matilda of England-the pious and dutiful wife, and now supposed widow, of the Lion, in his castle of Dankwerderoda, at Brunswick, attended by a waiting-woman, leading her little stepdaughter Gertrude.

Gert. Mother! these sable weeds become you not.
Mat. They wear my life's dark livery, Gertrude! Come,
Look on me, child.

Gert.

Thou look'st not lovingly.

Mat. Aye, but I do!-I see in thee his features-
His lofty brow, dark eye, and raven hair,

Thou giv'st me back, and these have won my love.
Would thou hadst been a boy!

For ever sunder'd! Strange it is to say,

While Henry lived, 'twas pain to think on her;
His death hath made us sisters in affliction,

Who needs must weep in sympathy.-Thou knew'st her;
Thou didst attend her when a dweller here.

Spoke rumour truly, when such wondrous strength
It lent her love?

Adela.

I knew her well-nor e'er

Can I forget the time when holy men

Rent bonds asunder which they deem'd too nigh
By ties of blood before !-Like a pale ghost
Wander'd Duke Henry through these stately halls,
While love and piety, each strong alike,

Waged doubtful war within.-But Clementina!
Her sufferings I but guess'd-they lay too deep
In the heart's darksome caves, to see the light.

Matilda, moved by this artless picture of her rival's sorrows, exclaims that it has explained to her many occasional bursts of uncontrollable emotion in her usually kind and firmminded husband. These softer reminiscences are interrupted by the entrance of Henry of Lunenburg, (governor of that district under the Lion,) indignant at the marks of treachery which on all sides accompany the belief of his master's death, especially on the part of his once trusty retainer, Eckbert of Wolfenbuttel, who has been detected seducing garrisons to desert to the Em

peror. The complaints of the honesthearted deputy are again cut short by a messenger announcing that a pilgrim, escorted by a strange knight in sable armour, claims admittance to the Duchess. The Palmer is, of course, her husband, and the scene in which she recognises him, though ably managed, has been too often introduced to be repeated here.

One expression alone may be quoted, as finely discriminative of the blended elements of devotion and conjugal affection in Matilda's character.

The news of their lord's arrival having transpired, the burghers of Brunswick, with their wives and children, flock in to congratulate a beloved sovereign. While they engross and surround the Duke, Baldwin, the dark knight before mentioned, steps forward, his visor not only closed, but secured by a chain, denoting a vow of secrecy. His eye rests suddenly on the child Gertrude, whom he stoops to embrace, remaining long in that position unobserved. The child at length escapes from his arms, exclaiming,

Duke (hastily.)

Him only may'st thou thank that I am with thee.
But for his arm, thy Henry, long ere now,

Had bid Heaven's light adieu.

(To Baldwin.) Look on thy work;
See, here I stand, unharm'd, amid mine own.
Wert thou the Emp'ror-we could be but quits.
I owe thee life! Be then unknown no longer!
E'er since, when struggling mid the Danube waves
By Paynim swords surrounded, thou didst rise

An unexpected saviour at my side,

I've burn'd to thank thee-but been still repell'd
By yonder envious visor, darkly shrouding
The features of my friend, denying me
Free converse with his eye. But here at length,
On mine own hearth, long hoarded gratitude
Becomes a painful burden-Oh, remove it,
Let me behold thy face, and gladly thank thee.

[Baldwin steps back with gestures of denial.

Duke. Hard art thou as the steel that doth enfold thee!
Go thou to him, Matilda! Knightly duty

To woman yields obedience.-See! my wife

Implores thee with her eye-stand not among us

Like a cold monument of joys departed!

[Baldwin gazes a moment at Matilda, and then rushes hastily
to the back of the stage-all shew surprise.

Mat. What means this? speak!-Who is the dark one there?
Duke. A guardian angel, he appear'd to me

In Palestine-unmark'd by all around me

As though earth bare him, at my side he stood
In utmost peril. By a vow 'twould seem

His visor's closed, so doth yon chain denote.

Hen. of Lun. I've still misgivings of these sons of mystery!
Man's brow was made to look Heaven in the face,

Not to be hid. But chief from yonder East

Where reigns Mahoun, and where through holiest spots
The adversary prowling roams-I dread

Such shrouded ones-and deem them nothing good.
Duke. Nay, nay, if features were the test of deeds,
We'd have no smiling foes.-Suffice't, I know
Well-(save his face)-yon stranger. Nearer thoughts
Press on me now-my children's faith-and when
With them I've joy'd, a reckoning with my foes!

We must pass over, for the sake of brevity, a large portion of the second act, consisting of a characteristic scene between various plebeian actors, engaged in preparations for the approaching ceremony of laying the foundation of a church to be erected by Henry, in gratitude for his safe return. The parties, viz. the master-mason, the armourer, and an old burgher, named Wolf, first dispute about the origin of the statue of a lion, which ornaments the square. This the armourer, in the true spirit of the times, believes to commemorate the good offices of a lion to his lord, while engaged with a dragon in the Holy Land, while the more sagacious mason sees in it an allegory, (not of the Nile,) and only the favourite badge or device of his lionhearted master. The two worthy craftsmen mutually laud him as a patron of their respective arts; a munificent architect in time of peace, and a no less excellent customer to the Waffenschmidt in his frequent wars.

This encouragement, it must be confessed, the forger of armour but indifferently repays by forging, or at least repeating, a slander. He more than hints that the good Duke owes his extraordinary success to a compact with the devil, in the shape of the Black Knight, which the mason again judges to be wholly inconsist ent with his known piety, and actual endowment of a splendid church.

While these knotty points are discussing, Tedel of Walmsden (surnanamed the Fearless), a faithful and upright follower of the Duke, crosses the stage in earnest conference with a knight of Milan, who has been sent

in high estimation of Henry's power and talents, but gross ignorance of his staunch and lofty character-with unlimited powers to purchase his neutrality in the approaching campaign. Tedel anticipates an indignant refusal, but marshals the envoy to his destination.

The mason, in the meantime, pre pares the foundation-stone, and w

engaged on it, exults in the future glories of his edifice, sees already, in his mind's eye, the stately dome and proud belfry towering to the skies, and hears, in fancy, the bell's solemn peal, and choristers' melodious chaunt, proclaiming his finished work. The Duke now approaches, attended by a magnificent procession, consisting of the Duchess, the Abbot Henry of Brunswick and his clergy, Henry of Lunenburg, Walmsden, and others; and while a crowd of spectators cluster on the pedestal of the Lion's statue, places himself next the master-mason with the stone.

The ceremony proceeds; and some marks of deep emotion which escape the Duke and his consort, on his allusions to the edifice, which he prays may not only afford his mortal remains their last shelter, but speak peace even now to his burdened and

agitated soul,-confirm the sage conjectures of the spectators, as to the nefarious compact above-mentioned. In the subsequent scene, however, between the Duke and his confessor, the Abbot Henry of Brunswick, these emotions are more naturally accounted for, by lingering attachment to his early bride, and that inextinguishable sense of wrong and cruelty in the separation, which not all the sanctions of the church, or the sacrifices of devotion, have been able to assuage. The Abbot, like a true priest, though a well-meaning one, cuts the knot he cannot loosen, and promises that absolution shall remove the burden from his conscientious prince.

A less spiritual conference succeeds, in which the Milanese Envoy, Etico, is thus indignantly dismissed by the upright, though impetuous Duke :

Etico. My Lord, I must depart.
Duke.
Then God go with thee.
Etico. Hast thou nought further to reply to Milan?
Duke. Nought further.-Yet I am not wont to hide
My heart's free dictates. Long I've disapproved
The Emperor's harshness towards your hapless city;
Long, also, have I given to Alexander

My voice, as Pope,-he's pious, and deserved it.

Etico. Why, then, deny my mission's weightier aim,
Which would deprive the Emperor of thine aid
Against poor Italy?

Duke.
Perchance I'd granted,
Had ye not basely sought to buy it from me.-
I ne'er loved foreign wars,-nor hath the Emperor
Been such a faithful steward in mine absence,
That I should care to leave again my lands
The spoiler's prey;-but gold shall never buy
Neutrality from Henry!

Etico.

'Twas never meant so.
Methinks, Lord Duke, thy judgment, like thy sword,
Makes headlong work. Pause ere ye send me from ye!

In answer to the wily Italian's insinuations, that by means of Pope Alexander and the Milanese, Henry may supplant the Emperor, and procure the Crown for himself, the Lion thus indignantly bursts forth:

Duke. What! have I heard aright? Do I not dream?
The Emperor has mine oath; and ye would bid me
Trample it under foot, branding mine honour

With infamy, until the Lion's name

Be razed in horror from his country's story?

By the great God, were I convinced each Lombard
Thought thus of me, I'd march with all my power,
And leave no stone of Milan on another!

Etico. If thus it be-if thus my mission fails-
German simplicity must bear the blame.

Duke. Simplicity!-the German thanks thee, Knight!