There is in them something of the cadence of Milton and something of the cadence of Shakespeare, and they are very Swinburne. Yet, after reading _Locrine_, and with _Atalanta_ and _Erechtheus_ in memory, it is difficult not to wish that Swinburne had written all his plays in rhyme, and that they had all been romantic plays and not histories. _Locrine_ has been acted, and might well be acted again. Its rhyme would sound on the stage with another splendour than the excellent and well-sounding rhymes into which Mr. Gilbert Murray has translated Euripides. And there would be none of that difficulty which seems to be insuperable on the modern stage: the chorus, which, whether it speaks, or chants, or sings, seems alike out of place and out of key. The tragic anecdote which Swinburne has told in _Rosamund, Queen of the Lombards_, is told with a directness and conciseness unusual in his dramatic or lyric work. The story, simple, barbarous, and cruel--a story of the year 573--acts itself out before us in large clear outlines, with surprisingly little of modern self-consciousness. The book is a small one, the speeches are short, and the words for the most part short too; every speech tells like an action in words; there is scarcely a single merely decorative passage from beginning to end. Here and there the lines become lyric, as in Thou rose, Why did God give thee more than all thy kin, Whose pride is perfume only and colour, this? Music? No rose but mine sings, and the birds Hush all their hearts to hearken. Dost thou hear not How heavy sounds her note now? But even here the lyrical touch marks a point of 'business.' And for the most part the speeches are as straightforward as prose; are indeed written with a deliberate aim at a sort of prose effect. For instance: ALMACHILDES. God must be Dead. Such a thing as thou could never else Live. ROSAMUND. That concerns not thee nor me. Be thou Sure that my will and power to serve it live. Lift now thine eyes to look upon thy lord. Compare these lines with the lines which end the fourth act: ALMACHILDES. I cannot slay him Thus. ROSAMUND. Canst thou slay thy bride by fire? He dies, Or she dies, bound against the stake. His death Were the easier. Follow him: save her: strike but once. ALMACHILDES. I cannot. God requite thee this! I will. [_Exit._ ROSAMUND. And I will see it. And, father, thou shalt see. [_Exit._