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1817.] draws from him a single word; but as soon as they retire, he apostrophizes the rivers, the ocean, the earth, the air, and the sun; and calls upon them to witness the injustice of his punishment. The sound of his lamentations draws to the scene of his sufferings a company of ocean nymphs, who form the Chorus, and consequently never leave the stage. They come as friends, to sooth and to sympathise; and to them he explains, that by his counsels Jupiter had succeeded in his designs on his father's throne, and that in him they may see what reward they have to expect who serve a tyrant. To them he likewise narrates, at full length, the favours he had conferred on man. With Ocean, who was also attracted to the place by his complaints, he holds a dialogue on the same subject,—who, after having reasoned with him in vain on the inutility of resistance, and advised submission, quits the stage. Io then enters. She, like Prometheus, was the victim of the cruelty and the crimes of Jupiter, and was wandering over the earth in solitary wretchedness, goaded on by the jealousy of Juno. Prometheus foretells her future wanderings, and gives a short but rapid and poetical description of the countries which she is to traverse. In the last scene, Mercury appears, commissioned by Jupiter to extort from Prometheus a secret at which he had hinted in his conversation with Io,—that it was in the decrees of fate that the tyrant himself should be dethroned, and that he alone knew the means by which the danger might be averted. On the sight of this minion of the despot, he addresses him in the language of sarcasm and defiance, confessing his knowledge of the secrets of fate, and his resolution never to reveal them till his bonds should be loosed. The rock to which he is fixed is struck with thunder, and he descends to the infernal regions amid the convulsions of nature.

Such, divested of all poetical ornament, is an abstract of this singular play. Here there is none of the interest that arises from the hurry of incident, and the unexpected change of fortune. From the conclusion of the first scene to the beginning of the last, the action stands still—the intermediate scenes being merely conversational, and in nowise forwarding the plot. The only thing like business is in the first scene, where Prometheus is chained; and in the last, when he sinks amid the thunder. Nor are the subordinate characters more interesting than the incidents, displaying none of those fine creations in which the charm of dramatic poetry consists, nor of the language well imagined, yet suitable to the situation of the speaker. They do nothing more than utter common places of sympathy and submission to the powers that be; and what is said by one, may, with equal propriety, be put into the mouth of any other. In what then, it may be asked, does the merit of this tragedy consist? In the character of Prometheus alone;—in the benevolence that refines, and in the sublimity that elevates, the soul of man;—in the consciousness of rectitude, that reposes on itself, independent of fortune;—in the glorious energy of spirit, that resists oppression, though armed with omnipotence;—and in the fortitude that rises superior to unmerited sufferings. It was the love of independence, and the hatred of tyranny, and the unquenchable daring of a lofty mind, that rendered it the delight of the Athenians. It was the bright reflection of their own souls, and the fair image returned to them again with all