The Prophet : a Tragedy. By Bayard Taylor. (Boston, U.S.:
Osgood. London : Triibner.)—Mr. Taylor represents the career of an enthusiast, whose genuine but unbalanced soul is perverted by the in- fluence of meaner natures. There is vigour in the way this conception is carried out, and the characters are drawn with some power, Peter, the honest Sancho Panza of this Quixote, if the comparison may be
allowed, being, perhaps, the most successful. A want of perspicuity is the chief defect of the drama. The progress of the change that is being wrought on the "Prophet's" soul, and the motives of those who are working on it, are not made as plain as is needed for the real success of the work. Rhoda. the simple, trustful wife, and Peter, the disciple, hard-headed and plain-speaking, in whom a personal devotion for his leader supplies the place of faith, are intelligible enough ; but Nimrod Kraft and "the Members of the Council of Twelve " are more obscure. It requires study to understand thorn, and a drama should make its moaning as plain when it is written in words as when it is acted in life. Mr. Bayard's verse is sometimes very fine, but hero also occasional obscurity mars its effect. We give a specimen in one of the Prophet's soliloquies, before he begins his great work :-
"The second day is sinking to its end, How slowly ! These eternities of thought Wherein I grope, and strive to lose myself, Spin to a weary length the glaring hours.
I would the night were come ; for I am faint ;
And from my bold the things I pray to reach Seem weakly slipping. Night will give them back.
When every star shines comfort, and the air Is crossed all ways by mint of noiseless feet That on mysterious errands come and go.
Could I recall my vision! All is clear Save that—my bed of leaves beneath the rock : The doubt if I were still indeed myself, And any thing was what it seemed ; until Came languid peace, then awe and shuddering Without a cause, a frost in every vein.
And the heart hammered, as to burst mine ears: Something slid past me, cold and serpent-like: The trees were filled with whispers ; and afar
Called voices not of man and then my soul
Went forth from me, and spread and grew aloft Through darting lights—His arrows here and there Shot down on earth. But now my knowledge fades: What followed, keener, mightier, than a dream,
My hope interprets. Only this I know,—
The dark. invisible pillars of the sky Breathed like deep organ-pipes of awful sound: A myriad myriad tongues the choral sang; And drowned in it, stunned with excess of power, My soul sank down, and sleep my body touched."
Previous page
