The interview between the bland spirit and the prime cause of his guilt is full of the energy of passion, and the rhetoric of the conversation has a masculine beauty of which Mrs. Brooks alone of all the poets of her sex is capable. Zophiel returns to Medea and the drama draws to a close, which is painted with consummate art. Egla wanders alone at twilight in the shadowy vistas of a grove, wondering and sighing at the continued absence of the enamored angel, who approaches unseen while she sings a strain that he had taught her. His wings were folded o'er his eyes; severe As was the pain he'd borne from wave and wind, The dubious warning of that being drear, Who met him in the lightning, to his mind Was torture worse; a dark presentiment Came o'er his soul with paralyzing chill, As when Fate vaguely whispers her intent To poison mortal joy with sense of coming ill. He searched about the grove with all the care Of trembling jealousy, as if to trace By track or wounded flower some rival there; And scarcely dared to look upon the face Of her he loved, lest it some tale might tell To make the only hope that soothed him vain: He hears her notes in numbers die and swell, But almost fears to listen to the strain Himself had taught her, lest some hated name Had been with that dear gentle air enwreathed. While he was far; she sighed--he nearer came, Oh, transport! Zophiel was the name she breathed. He saw her--but Paused, ere he would advance, for very bliss. The joy of a whole mortal life he felt In that one moment. Now, too long unseen, He fain had shown his beauteous form, and knelt But while he still delayed, a mortal rushed between. This scene is in the sixth canto. In the fifth, which is occupied almost entirely by mortals, and bears a closer relation than the others to the chief works in narrative and dramatic poetry, are related the adventures of Zameia, which, with the story of her death, following the last extract, would make a fine tragedy. Her misfortunes are simply told by an aged attendant who had fled with her in pursuit of Meles, whom she had seen and loved in Babylon. At the feast of Venus Mylitta, Full in the midst, and taller than the rest, Zameia stood distinct, and not a sigh Disturbed the gem that sparkled on her breast; Her oval cheek was heightened to a dye That shamed the mellow vermeil of the wreath Which in her jetty locks became her well, And mingled fragrance with her sweeter breath, The while her haughty lips more beautifully swell With consciousness of every charm's excess; While with becoming scorn she turned her face From every eye that darted its caress, As if some god alone might hope for her embrace. Again she is discovered, sleeping, by the rocky margin of a river: