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Fair one! I hail the spirit of the place,
Of decent neatness, and of order's grace!
At whose command the spotless cloth is spread,
The clean sand crackles underneath thy tread.
With such a tenant misery flies the door,
And watchful angels bless thy humble store.

And thou?—it shakes my soul with fear
To ask thee, wretch, what dost thou here?

Why camest thou, Faust? what makes thy heart so sore?
Wretched and lost! I know thee now no more.

Ah! should she enter, lovely, now,

How should I then repent my crime :

How would the devil vail his brow

Before that form, in innocence sublime!
Enter MEPHISTOPHELES.

Quick! quick! I see her at the door.
FAUST. Begone yourself! for I go hence no more.
MEPH. Here is a casket for the dame :

Heavy. No matter whence it came.
There, put it-quick-in yonder chest,
I vow you look like one possest.
Within, a little venture lies,
To win for you a greater prize,

FAUST. I know not shall I ?
МЕРН.

Do you ask?

Oh! if you mean to keep the treasure,

You might have done me so much pleasure
At least to spare me half my task.

I did not think you prone to avarice.

Now off! away!

[FAUST places the casket in a press.

To win the beauty in a trice!

And there you stand, enwrapt in gloom,
As if preparing for a lecture room
And Physic's form were standing there,
With Metaphysic's-lovely pair!
Away!

Enter MARGARET, with a Lamp.

MARG. What makes it close and sultry here?
Without, the air is fresh and clear.

I wish my mother's walk and task was o'er;
Somehow I feel as ne'er I felt before:

[They depart.

[Opens the window.

Through my whole frame there runs a shuddering.
I am a silly, foolish, trembling thing.

[She begins to sing while she undresses herself.' We must give one more specimen. It shall be taken from that scene in which, after the seduction of this innocent child has led to the slaughter of her brother, and her mother's death, she is intro

VOL. XXXIV. NO. LXVII.

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duced as kneeling in the midst of the people in the cathedral. Conscience is awake, and the poet dares to clothe the still small voice' in a visible shape. The Evil Spirit creeps close behind her and disturbs her prayers.

'EVILSPIRIT. Margaret, how different thy lot When kneeling at the altar's foot

In thy young innocence;

When, from the mass-book, snatched in haste,
Thy prayer was utter'd;

Prayer which but half displaced

The thought of childish pastime in thy mind.
Margaret!

How is it with thy brain?

Is it not in thy heart

The blackening spot?

Are thy prayers utter'd for thy mother's soul,
Who slept, through thee, through thee, to wake no more?
Is not thy door-stone red?

Whose is the blood?

Dost thou not feel it shoot

Under thy breast, e'en now,

The pang thou darest not own,
That tells of shame to come?

MARGARET. Woe, woe! could I dispel the thoughts
Which cross me and surround

Against my will.

CHORUS. Dies iræ, dies illa,

Solvet sæclum in favillâ.

EVIL SPIRIT. Despair is on thee—

The last trumpet sounds

The graves are yawning.

Thy sinful heart,

From its cold rest,
For wrath eternal,
And for penal flames,
Is raised again!

MARGARET. Were I but hence!

I feel as if the organ's swell
Stifled my breath-

As if the anthem's note
Shot through my soul!

CHORUS. Judex ergo cum sedebit,

Quidquid latet adparebit,
Nil inultum remanebit.

MARGARET. I pant for room!

The pillars of the aisle
Are closing on me!
The vaulted roof
Weighs down my head!

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MARGARET. Help me, I faint!'-vol. ii. pp. 29–33.

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The last exclamation is, in the original, Nachbarin euer fläschen.' The translator probably thought the contrast of the awful Latin chorus, the whispers of a demon, and the poor Margaret asking the girl that kneels next to her for her phial, too violent-too German. But the poet knew what he was doing;-the effect of his three bare common words is terrible. It is among the highest triumphs of genius to blend, without producing the effect of incongruity, the dream and the reality; and this simple girl's agonies, whether of love, sorrow, or despair, would have been comparatively powerless, had she not been taught to utter them in the vivid poetry of such prose as this.

The terrible prison scene with which the poem closes is rendered with fidelity, elegance and strength; and the performance, as a whole, has received the warm praise of one who must be admitted to be a most competent judge,-Professor Schlegel, not only doctissimus utriusque lingua, but himself, perhaps, the first of all poetical translators, ancient or modern,-as displaying distinguished talent in a most difficult undertaking.*

The translator brought to his task a thorough knowledge of the language of his original; he has had the courage to cope with all the perplexities of rhyme; and the warmth of his poetical feeling is as apparent in the passages we have quoted, as the study which he has bestowed on English language and versification. In general, we think he has succeeded better in the tragic than in the lyric parts of the Mystery; but we must acknowledge one exception to this remark, in his treatment of the song, -a wonderful accumulation, or rather weaving together of luxu

* Introduction to Bohte's Catalogue. London. 1825.

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rious images, by which the spirits lull Faust to sleep at the close of his first colloquy with Mephistopheles—

Schwindet ihr dunkeln
Wolbungen droben, &c.

where difficulties, which we should have imagined almost insuperable, have unquestionably been overcome in a manner that does his lordship much honour. We are sorry to observe, that the writer of such verses can condescend occasionally to such rhymes as dawning and morning. This is offensive enough in Mr. Wiffen, but altogether unpardonable in Lord Francis Gower. We have already alluded to some specimens of a translation of this extraordinary poem, which appear in the posthumous works of Mr. P. B. Shelley. As this volume was not prepared for the press by the author, and has had the disadvantage of being published under the inspection of persons ignorant, almost equally as it would seem, of foreign languages and of their own, it would be altogether unfair to make any part of its contents the subject of rigid criticism; and the versions from Faust, in particular, have, in many places, every appearance of being little more than first, however happy, sketches. In several passages the meaning of the original is quite missed; as, for example, in the whole strain of the pedlar witch's speech, in the larger fragment; and, upon the whole, we are inclined to suspect, that Mr. Shelley's knowledge of the German language had been imperfect. But it is impossble for such blemishes to conceal the extraordinary merit of these specimens. Mr. Shelley had a fine ear for harmony, and a great command of poetical language, although he was often seduced by bad example into licenses both of expression and versification at once mean and extravagant. He had, moreover, a fine liveliness both of feeling and of imagination, and in short, wanted little to be a distinguished original poet, but distinctness of conception, and regulation of taste. Accordingly, when he had a model of style before him, and the ideas were supplied; when he translated, whether from the Homeric hymns, from Euripides, from Calderon, or from Goethe, he had every requisite for the attainment of excellence. The vague and idle allegories in which he delighted, to say nothing of dulcia vitia of a worse kind, were banished for the moment from his fancy; and his verse, at once chastened and inspired by the continued contemplation of consummate art, was capable not only of reaching a classical gracefulness, but of reflecting vividly the strength of genius and the projection of its language. Our literature can show few translations from the Greek poets more elegant than his of the Hymn to Mercury and Cyclops of Euripides; nor, in spite of a few inaccuracies, could Goethe himself desire to see the effect

of

of the famous Mayday-night scene of his Kaust transferred into any foreign language with more truth and vigour than Mr. Shelley's version exhibits.

The reader is aware that Mephistopheles carries Faust to the great wizard festival shortly after the consummation of Margaret's ruin. The opening of their adventures in this region of enchantment is thus admirably given.

'MEPH. Would you not like a broomstick? As for me
I wish I had a good stout ram to ride;

For we are still far from th' appointed place.
FAUST. This knotted staff is help enough for me,
Whilst I feel fresh upon my legs. What good
Is there in making short a pleasant way?
To creep along the labyrinths of the vales,
And climb those rocks where ever-babbling springs
Precipitate themselves in waterfalls,

Is the true sport that seasons such a path.
Already Spring kindles the birchen spray,
And the hoar pines already feel her breath:
Shall she not work also within our limbs ?
MEPH. Nothing of such an influence do I feel.
My body is all wintry, and I wish

The flowers upon our path were frost and snow.
But see how melancholy rises now,

Dimly uplifting her belated beam,

The blank unwelcomed round of the red moon,

And gives so bad a light that every step

One stumbles against some crag. With your permission,

I'll call an ignis-fatuus to our aid:

I see one yonder burning jollily.

Halloo, my friend! may I request that you

Would favour us with your bright company?

Why should you blaze away there to no purpose?

Pray be so good as light us up this way.'

The Ignis-Fatuus, after some little parley obeys, and we then have:

FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, and IGNIS-FATUUS in alternate chorus.
'The limits of the sphere of dream,

The bounds of true and false, are past.
Lead us on, thou wandering gleam,
Lead us onward, far and fast,
To the wide, the desert waste.
But see, how swift advance and shift,
Trees behind trees, row by row,
How, clift by clift, rocks bend and lift
Their frowning foreheads as we go.
The giant-snouted crags, ho! ho!
How they snort, and how they blow!

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