God of the Jews, 'tis thou that dost prevail! Ay, it is Joash; all without avail Seek I to cheat myself with other thought: I know the wound my weapon on him wrought; I see his father Ahaziah's face; Naught but brings back to me that hated race. David doth triumph, Ahab only fall,-- Unpitying God, thou only hast done all! 'Tis thou that flattering me to hope in vain For easy vengeance, o'er and o'er again Hast with myself myself embroiled anew, Now pangs of conscience rousing, not a few, Now dazzling me with thy rich treasures rare, Which I to burn or pillage did not dare. Let him, then, reign, this son, thy care, thy toil, And, so to signalize his new-got spoil, Let him into my bosom plunge the knife, And take with filial hand his mother's life. Hearken what wish for him she dying breathes-- Wish? nay, what hope, assured hope, bequeaths,-- That, disobedient, proud, rebellious, he, Faithful to Ahab's blood received from me, To his grandfather, to his father, like, Abhorrent heir of David, down may strike Thy worship and thy fane, avenger fell Of Athaliah, Ahab, Jezebel! With words thus rendered into such English verse as we could command for the purpose, Athaliah disappears from the stage. Her execution follows immediately. This is not exhibited, but is announced with brief, solemn comment from Jehoiada. And so the tragedy ends. The interest of the piece, to the modern reader, is by no means equal to its fame. One reproaches one's self, but one yawns in conscientiously perusing it. Still, one feels the work of the author to be irreproachably, nay, consummately, good. But fashions in taste change; and we cannot hold ourselves responsible for admiring, or, at any rate, for enjoying, according to the judgment of other races and of former generations. It is--so, with grave concurrence, we say--It is a great classic, worthy of the praise that it receives. We are glad that we have read it; and, let us be candid, equally glad that we have not to read it again. As has already been intimated, Racine, after "Athaliah," wrote tragedy no more. He ceased to interest himself in the fortune of his plays. His son Louis, in his Life of his father, testifies that he never heard his father speak in the family of the dramas that he had written. His theatrical triumphs seemed to afford him no pleasure. He repented of them rather than gloried in them.