What nobler task could a republican poet set before himself, than to rescue the reputation of this martyred hero from obloquy and shame? Well, too, has Judge Conrad fulfilled his pious labor. The principal character of the play is Aylmere, of course; indeed he may be said, in one sense, to be the entire play. His lofty courage, his abhorrence of wrong, his high aspirations after liberty, and the fiery enthusiasm which he breathes into his followers, form, as it were, the deep undertone, whose thunders roll incessantly through this grand anthem of freedom. Other characters, however, contribute materially to the action of the piece, and furnish the author with opportunities to display his dramatic powers. The portrait of Marianne, the wife of Aylmere, is drawn with great tenderness of feeling, and delicacy of touch: she is, like her own native Italy, a vision of immortal beauty hallowed and sanctified by wo. The cruel, vindictive and insolent Say; the gay, careless, yet not wholly wicked Clifford; the friend of the people, Friar Lacy; and the yeomen, Wat Worthy and Will Mowbray, all stand prominently out from the canvas. The drama is full of noble poetry. It would give us pleasure to quote more largely from it, in proof of this; but the quantity of books upon our table, requiring notice, forbids a monopoly of our limited space by one. We cannot, however, resist making a few extracts. Here is one, in which Aylmere, after his return from Italy, eloquently describes the bondage which he shared in common with his fellow-Englishmen. Ten years of freedom have not made me free. I’ve throttled fortune till she yielded up Her brightest favors; I have wooed Ambition, Wooed with a fiery soul and dripping sword, And _would not_ be denied; I turned from her, And raked amid the ashes of the past, For the high thoughts that burn but cannot die, Until my spirit walked with those who now Are hailed, as brethren, by archangels:—_Yet,_ _Have I come home a slave—a thing for chains_ _And scourges—ay, a dog,_ _Crouching, and spurned, and spit upon._ In fine contrast to this picture, is the following one of Italy, _as Italy was four centuries ago_. ’Tis free; and want, fear, shame, are aliens there. In that blest land the tiller is a prince. No ruffian lord breaks spring’s fair promises; And summer’s toils—for freedom watches o’er them— Are safe and happy; summer lapses by, In its own music; And pregnant Autumn, with a matron blush, Comes stately in, and with her, hand in hand, Labor, and busy Plenty. Then old Winter, With his stout glee, his junkets, and a laugh That shakes from his hoar beard the icicles, Makes the year gay again. There are no poor Where freedom is. The whole of the following is in the same fine strain.