vading passion, mightier than kings, and, strong as death, levelling all distinctions:—
"Unconquered Love! whose mystic sway
Creation's varied forms obey;
Who watchest long at midnight hour
On the soft cheek of beauty's flower:
Now inmate of the sylvan cot,
Now flitting o'er the waves,
Immortal gods escape thee not,
Thou rulest man's ephemeral lot,
And he who hath thee raves.[1]
Thy magic warps the right to wrong,
And troubles now the kindred throng;
The look of love yon destined bride
Darts from her pleading eye,
A subtle counsellor, hath vied
With mighty laws and princedom's pride,
And won the victory."—(A.)
Well might the Chorus now weep, as they express it, "fountains of tears," for they see Antigone led by Croon's guards to be entombed alive in a cavern among the rocks. The horror of no death can equal that of a living grave, the fearful penalty which has been annexed in all ages for certain crimes—to the vestal virgin at Rome and to the nun in the middle ages for broken vows of chastity. But Antigone was pure from sin. She had not stained her hands with blood; much less
