When trumpet-notes are stirring every heart,
And banners proudly waving in the air.
Think of thine ancient comrade! And the day
Following the combat, when upon the field
Amidst the deep and solemn harmony
Of dirge and hymn, the priest of funeral rites,
With lifted hands is offering for the slain
His sacrifice to heaven;—forget me not!
For I, too, hoped upon the battle plain
E'en so to die.
Anton. Have mercy on us, Heaven!
Car. My wife! Matilda! Now the hour is nigh,
And we must part—Farewell!
Mat. No, father! no!
Car. Come to this breast yet, yet once more, and then
For pity's sake depart!
Anton. No! force alone
Shall tear us thence.
(A sound of arms it heard.)
Mat. Hark! what dread sound!
Anton. Great God!
(The door it half opened, and armed men enter, the chief of whom advances to the Count. His wife and daughter fall senseless.)
Car. O God! I thank thee. O most merciful!
Thus to withdraw their senses from the pangs
Of this dread moment's conflict!
Thou, my friend.
Assist them, bear them from this scene of woe,
And tell them, when their eyes again unclose
To meet the day—that nought is left to fear.
Notwithstanding the pathetic beauties of the last act, the attention which this tragedy has excited in Italy, must be principally attributed to the boldness of the author in so completely emancipating himself from the fetters of the dramatic unities. The severity with which the tragic poets of that country have, in general, restricted themselves to those rules, has been sufficiently remarkable, to obtain, at least, temporary distinction, for the courage of the writer who should attempt to violate them. Although this piece comprises a period of several years, and that, too, in days so troubled, and so "full of fate," days in which the deepest passions and most powerful energies of the human mind were called into action by the strife of conflicting interests; there is, ne-
