The play which is next in merit to these is the "Secret Love," and as a very favourable specimen of the natural genius for the drama in Dryden, which sometimes, indeed, breaks out even in his worst plays, when he bursts through the encrustations of bad judgment and false taste, we might mention the sweet and beautiful character of the Maiden Queen, in the "Secret Love," and the interesting situations and the able developement of them in this impassioned play. Let any one read the following scene from this play, and doubt, if he will, the dramatic power of Dryden. The Maiden Queen secretly bears, in the recesses of her heart, a deep and ardent passion for one of her courtiers, which he, being attached to another, is ignorant of, and blind to the indications of it in his royal mistress-indications which a less engaged man might have discovered. Philocles, the object of her affection, has been prevailed upon to plead in behalf of the suit of a prince attached to the queen, who is her equal, and desired by the people to be her consort: he is leaving her presence with the unsuccessful petitioner, when she thus addresses him.

"Queen. Philocles, you may stay.

Phil. I humbly wait your Majesty's commands.
Queen. Yet now I better think on't, you may go.
Phil. Madam!

Queen. I have no commands- -or, what's all one,
You no obedience.

Phil. How! no obedience, Madam ?

I plead no other merit; 'tis the charter

By which I hold your favour, and my fortunes.

Queen. My favours are cheap blessings, like rain and sunshine,

For which we scarcely thank the gods, because

We daily have them.

Phil. Madam, your breath, which rais'd me from the dust, May lay me there again:

But fate nor time can ever make me lose

The sense of your indulgent bounties to me.

Queen. You are above them now, grown popular:

Ah, Philocles! could I expect from you

That usage? no tongue but yours

To move me to a marriage ?

The factious deputies might have some end in't,
And my

ambitious cousin gain a crown;

But what advantage could there come to you?
What could you hope from Lysimantes' reign,
That you can want in mine?

[Weeps.

Phil. You yourself clear me, Madam. Had I sought More pow'r, this marriage sure was not the way.

But, when your safety was in question,

When all your people were unsatisfied,
Desir'd a king, nay more, design'd the man,
It was my duty then

Queen. Let me be judge of my own safety;
I am a woman;

But danger from my subjects cannot fright me.
Phil. But Lysimantes, Madam, is a person
Queen. I cannot love

Shall I, I who was born a sovereign queen,
Be barr'd of that which God and nature gives
The meanest slave, a freedom in my love?

Leave me, good Philocles, to my own thoughts;
When next I need your counsel, I'll send for you."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Asteria. Dear Madam, what's the matter!
You are of late so alter'd, I scarce know you.
You were gay-humour'd, and you now are pensive;
Once calm, and now unquiet;

Pardon my

boldness, that I press thus far

Into your secret thoughts: I have, at least,

A subject's share in you.

Queen. Thou hast a greater,

That of a friend; but am I froward, say'st thou ?

Ast. It ill becomes me, Madam, to say that.

Queen. I know I am: Prythee forgive me for it.

I cannot help it; but thou hast

Not long to suffer it.

Ast. Alas!

Queen. I feel my strength each day and hour consume,

Like lillies wasting in a lymbeck's heat.

Yet a few days

And thou shall see me lye all damp and cold,

Shrowded within some hollow vault, among

My silent ancestors.

Ast. O, dearest Madam!

Speak not of death, or think not, if you die,

That I will stay behind.

Queen. Thy love has mov'd me, I for once will have

The pleasure to be pitied; I'll unfold

A thing so strange, so horrid of myself

Ast. Bless me, sweet Heav'n!

So horrid, said you, Madam!

Queen. That Sun, who with one look surveys the globe, Sees not a wretch like me: and could the world

Take a right measure of my state within,
Mankind must either pity me, or scorn me.
Ast. Sure none could do the last.

Queen. Thou long'st to know't,

And I to tell thee, but shame stops my mouth.
First promise me thou wilt excuse my folly,
And next be secret..

I would not have you guess, for should you find it,
I should imagine that some other might,

And then I were most wretched;

Therefore, though you should know it, flatter me,
And say you could not guess it.

Ast. Madam, I need not flatter you, I cannot-and yet,

Might not ambition trouble your repose

?

Queen. My Sicily, I thank the gods, contents me;

But since I must reveal it, know 'tis love:

I who pretended so to glory, am

Become the slave of love.

Ast. I thought your Majesty had fram'd designs
To subvert all your laws; become a tyrant,
Or vex your neighbours with injurious wars.
Is this all, Madam?

Queen. Is not this enough?

Then know, I love below myself; a subject;
Love one who loves another, and who knows not
That I love him.

Ast. He must be told it, Madam.

Queen. Not for the world, Asteria:

Whene'er he knows it, I shall die for shame.

Ast. What is it then that would content you?
Queen. Nothing, but that I had not lov'd.
Ast. May I not ask, without offence, who 'tis ?
Queen. Ev'n that confirms me I have lov'd amiss;
Since thou canst know I love, and not imagine
It must be Philocles."

Perhaps the most striking defect of Dryden was a total absence of pathos-the power of affecting the human heartexcepting, perhaps, in a scene or two in the " All for Love," we doubt whether Dryden ever drew a tear: there are no gentle appeals to loved associations in his writing, no mention of those simple images and natural objects, which flow from a heart throbbing with half painful, half pleasing, emotions; no scenes of writhing distress worked up with the unadorned eloquence of true passion; no visions of shadowy beauty, which appear for an instant, and leave a melancholy impression of their having come and so departed. His mind was stored with information: he had wonderful aptness at seeing the likenesses of things, and he was a master of analogy: he was a rich and excellent reasoner: his fancy was brilliant, but his imagination was confined and vulgar: the powers of his mind were perfect and active, but his heart was cold-it was He wrote a never o'er-informed with " gushing tenderness." scene, in the spirit with which a man would set about to unravel a puzzle. Otway was a poet who wept over, and bathed his productions in his tears. Dryden would feel a selfsatisfied delight, as he brought to a close some of, what he would think the most striking passages of his plays,-a satisfaction something similar to that of a mathematician who observes his investigation proceeding favourably to the solution of the problem before him. In general, he avoids dwelling upon a pathetic incident of his play; when he feels the necessity of it, and attempts to be affecting, he becomes common-place. We cannot give our readers a better idea of the extent of Dryden's inability

"To ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears,"

than by quoting the prison scene in Cleomenes, by which a truly pathetic poet must, if he had chosen the subject, have excited emotions too painful to bear. It will be seen how Dryden has succeeded:

Cleom. No food: and this the third arising sun:
But what have I to do with telling suns,

And measuring time? that runs no more for me!
Yet sure the Gods are good: I wou'd think so,

If they wou'd give me leave;

But Virtue in distress, and Vice in triumph,
Make atheists of mankind.

Enter Cratesiclea.

What comfort, mother?

Crut. A soul, not conscious to itself of ill,
Undaunted courage, and a master-mind :
No comfort else but death,

Who like a lazy master stands aloof,

And leaves his work to the slow hands of famine.
Cleom. All I would ask of Heav'n,

Is, but to die alone; a single ruin :

But to die o'er and o'er, in each of you,

With my own hunger pinch'd, but pierc'd with your's!
Crat. Grieve not for me!

Cleom. What! not for you, my mother!

I'm strangely tempted to blaspheme the gods,
For giving me so good, so kind a parent :

And this is my return, to cause her death

Crat. Peace! your misfortunes cause it, not your fault."
Enter Cleora.

Cleom. What! my Cleora?

go,

I stretch'd my bounds as far as I could
To shun the sight of what I cannot help ;

A flower withering on the stalk for want

Of nourishment from Earth, and showers from Heaven:
All I can give thee is but rain of eyes.-

[Wiping his eyes.

Cleor. Alas! I have not wherewithal to weep:

My eyes grow dim, and stiffen'd up with drought,
Can hardly roll and walk their feeble round:
Indeed- -I am faint.

Crat. And so am I-Heaven knows! However,
In pity of 'em both, I keep it secret;
Nor shall he see me fall-

[Aside.

[Exit Cratesiclea.

Cleom. How does your helpless Infant ?
Cleor. It wants the breast, its kindly nourishment:
And I have none to give from these dry cisterns,
Which unsupply'd themselves, can yield no more:
It pull'd and pull'd but now, but nothing came.
At last it drew so hard, that the blood follow'd:
And that red milk I found upon its lips,
Which made me swoon with fear.

Cleom. Go in and rest thee,

And hush the child asleep.

Look down, ye Gods

Look, Hercules, thou author of my race,
And jog thy father Jove, that he may look

On his neglected work of human-kind;

Tell him-I do not curse him: but devotion

Will cool in after-times, if none but good men suffer—
What! another increase of grief?