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Yes, those must be the cliffs of white

Which mark my native shore,
Unless a mist deludes my sight,

As it has done before ;
And hark! Oh yes, indeed I hear

The breaking waves resound
Far o'er the beach-adieu to fear,

Yon! yon! is English ground.
With joy I see yon white peaks hold

No commerce with the skies,
And my glad heart in hope grows bold

Soon to see woodlands rise;
Full many an hour in early years

I spent 'neath yonder brow,
Oh! 'twould repay an age of tears

To feel as I feel now.
My Emma, does thy once fond heart

Beat still unchang'd for me?
For neither weal nor woe could part

From mine its faith to thee;
Hope whispers still that thy sad sigh

Has echo'd still to mine,
And that thou hast with tearful eye

Gaz'd watchful o'er the brine.
This very eve beneath yon bills

My aged parent's ear
Shall catch each sound blae ether fills,

And joy shall conquer fear;
In bis fond smile I hope to find

Each venial fault forgiven,
And love and friendship thus combin'd

Will make of earth a heaven.
Blow fresher yet propitious breeze,

I long to view the strand,
And once again the proud oak trees

Which shade my native land;
And should amidst the starlight pale

Bright lunar shed no ray,
Each glittring orb I'll gladly hail

To guide my homeward way.

E. B.


Stories of Chivalry and Romance.—Longman & Co. This really seems to us to be a pretty book with a pretty title. There is not a man whose heart is in the right place, or his head in a right condition, that will not like to be told of a book of 300 pages containing six very well written and descriptive tales. For our parts, we wish they had been less in number, so that they might have been longer; the great brevity with which they have necessarily heen treated, has led the author into most of the conspicuous faults which are to be observed. The prevailing fault in all of them, more or less, is, that the author relies more upon his powers of description, than any art or contrivance in the story. We are told this is the first essay of the author, and we almost fear that he is inclined to neglect giving the form of the story a sufficient consideration with a view of making it intelligible and interesting, and to rest upon flowing and somewhat verbose description as a compensation. If he appear again before the public, which we have no doubt he will be encouraged to do, he must bestow a greater share of contrivance in the construction of his plot and incident. In works of this nature, nothing can atone for a want of these. For example, in the first tale, “ Jacques de Wilton," there is, as the young ladies say, hardly a grain of love. The idea of a knight presenting the prize he had won in a tournay to his sister ! A story of chivalry without love, or only fraternal love! But notwithstanding many conspicuous faults in the forms of the stories, the whole are extremely well and unaffectedly written, and will afford pleasure, we think, to readers of every class. There is some very pretty poetry interspersing the stories. We can only afford room for two short extracts from the story of “ The Knight of the Plumeless “ Helm,” which we consider the best of the six. For a specimen of the prose style, we may select the account the hero Gaston de Biern relates to his page of his life and present intentions.

“Nor will I give thee any longer cause to think that I suspect thy loyalty : attend then, while I gratify thy wish. Eight years ago,---young as thou art, thou may'st perhaps remember it---my liege, the warlike Edward, wrested from my hold the fair possessions of my ancestors--- I was branded with the foul name of rebel, unknighted, and imprisoned. Justice is sometimes deaf as well as blind.---Whilst our gallant sovereign tarried upon bis return from Palestine, at the Sicilian court of Charles, his lady, Eleanor, received into her train the fairest and the proudest of the daughters of Britain : among them was one, whose matchless beauty fired my soul with love. I asserted successively the superiority of her charms in the tournay and the joust, using all honorable means to merit her affection; and not altogether in vain, if this memorial prove not the pledge of falsehood ;"---(here Sir Gaston, ungauntleting his hand, exhibited to his page a ring formed of a plaited lock of dark brown hair, ornamented with a small bright topaz.)---John de Langeville,” he continued, “ was my rival in the maiden's love ; and jealous of the preference shewn me, resolved upon my ruin. He whispered vague rumours into Edward's ear, touching my visits to the queen's apartments; and my liege lord, in the full presence of his knightly court, charged me with treason! Indignant and enraged, I swore the charge was false, and in an unguarded moment, threw down the gauntlet at my accuser's feet. Thereat the king, who brooked not this outrageous insult, bade those around disarm me; but I felled to the earth the craven knights who

sought to execute the royal mandate, and flying from the scene of my disgrace, arrived at home in safety. I prepared my castle for a stout defence; but the united arms of England were too powerful for a Gaseon knighat to withstand. In a few days, the banner of St. George floated above my towers; I was deprived of my inheritance and my sword, the proudest badge of knighthood ; and imnured, as thou knowest, in the dark donjons of Winchester ; from which, thank heaven, we have at length escaped! This day, so runs the rumour, the knightly sports of the Lord Mortimer commence at Kenilworth, where, if my information be correct, the royal Edward should preside; him I ani resolved to seek; and, either obtain his pardon, or fall beneath his lance. One day is already lost ; but if fortune prove propitious, to-morrow's sun shall see him in the lists. Should imprisonment have so far unnerved my arm as to deprive me of the power of victory, and I fall, do thou preserve the ring which I have shewn thee; and should'st thou ever discover its lovely owner, restore it, and tell her that Gaston de Bier was foully belied, and parted with her gift but with his life.

The song of the Fairies near the sleeping Knight, has, we think, considerable spirit.


“ MERRILY, cheerily, spirits that shun
The garish light of the noonday sun,

And gaze of mortal eye;
The grass is wet with the sparkling dew,
And the stars are looking aboút for you,
As they wander along through their fields of blue,

Bright fairies of the sky!
“Come to the revel with dance and glee,
Ye that reside in the green-wood tree,

And you who dwell below,
In secret grottos, and gem-lit mines,
Where the ruby glares, and the diamond shines,
And footstep of mortal ne'er marred those designs

Which only fairies know!
“ Behold a knight in the holy shade
of your favorite oak is sleeping laid

Sweet may his slumbers prove !
His dreams, be they all of martial guise,
And the conqueror's wreath, where bcanty's eyes
Enhances the worth of the glittering prize,

And fires the soul with love!
“ Sleep on, Sir Knight, you have nought to fear
From the blunted sword, the pointless spear,

or tilt or wild melée;
Princes to-morrow shall envy thy crown,
And sigh for a lance to equal thine own,
In knightly achievements and deeds of renown,

'Mid valour's proud array !
“ Fare ye well, fare ye well, lance and sword,
The warning voice of the night's own bird,

That speaks of coming day,
Summons us hence to the peaceful realm,
Where pleasure unceasing all cares o'erwhelm,
Then fare ye well, Knight of the Plumeless Helm,

Spirits, away, away!"
Altogether, as we said, it is a pretty book.

Wallenstein, a Dramatic Poem, from the German of Frederick

Schiller. Cadell and Co. Edinburgh, and Simpkin and Marshall, London.

A critic, in an article on “ Historical Romance," in the last number of the Quarterly Review, referring to Coleridge's translation of the master-piece of Schiller's genius, is pleased to observe, “ some

gentleman has lately been so very superfluous as to give another “ version of Wallenstein in blank verse; we have not met with this courageous essay." To this superfluous and ill-natured remark, we will reply in the words of the translator, who modestly says,

“ The translator has never yet seen the previous translations of these Dramas by Mr. Coleridge, and is acquainted with it only by having several years ago perused some extracts, which were then published in a periodical work. But the impression produced by the perusal of these passages would have been sufficient to deter him from this attempt, had he not understood that the translation of Mr. Coleridge, being executed from a manuscript copy, differs essentially from the play as it now exists with the final corrections of Schiller. He understands, from those who have had an opportunity of comparing the translations with the original, that not only is the arrangement of the acts and scenes materially altered, but also, that many passages in the translation were subsequently rejected by the critical taste of Schiller; while many others, some of which are among the finest in the play, are not to be traced at all in the translation of Mr. Coleridge. Had there been any probability that Mr. Coleridge would himself have been induced to revise and re-model his work, the translator would have willingly left the subject in abler hands ; but as that gentleman seems to have declined the task, the present attempt to exhibit the masterpiece of the German drama, as finally corrected by Schiller, is submitted to the public." In addition to these very satisfactory reasons, why a new translation of the Piccolomini is not superfluous, and that therefore the gentleman who wrote it is not SUPERFLUOUS*, as many observe that Coleridge's translation has long been out of print, and is to the very great inajority of English readers perfectly inaccessible. We should, therefore, have considered, that the author of the present version had performed a very acceptable service to the lovers both of German and of English literature, by thus supplying what has long been a desideratum, even were his translation less spirited and elegant than it certainly is.

It is now many years since we read Coleridge's translation, but by comparing these portions of this version, which correspond with the extracts given from Coleridge's in the Quarterly Review, we have not the slightest hesitation in saying, that the present translator has nothing whatever to fear from the comparison, even as to the poetical spirit in which he has rendered the lofty and imaginative spirit of his original. In fidelity, he is immeasurably his superior, as might be easily inferred, since Coleridge executed his work, as the Reviewer acknowledges, from a theatrical manager's MS.-a circumstance which of itself would be sufficient to justify any subsequent attempt; but we repeat, the present work deserves far higher praise. It is in all places correct, it is generally elegant, and in some portions rises even to a par with Schiller. Those passages of Schiller, in

* A " superfluous gentleman,” is an odd expression for a Quarterly Reviewer.

which he is more than usually poetical, have evidently excited the ambition of his translator, and that he is far from being unsuccessful, the following extracts will, we think, prove to our readers. It is taken from the scene between Thekla and Max Piccolomini, and commences with the description of the hall in which Wallenstein was accustomed to consult the stars. It is necessary, perhaps, for some of our readers, to tell them, that Thekla and Max have imbibed for each other a pure and holy affection, which is found to be unsuccessful, owing to the pride, the ambition, and the treachery of their respective parents.

I felt a singular sensation on me,
When from the glare of day I enter'd in,
For darkest night encompass'd me at once,
Half lighted by a strange and glimmering gleam.
Ranged in a semicircle, round me stood
Some six or seven tall kingly forms, that held
A sceptre in their hands, and on their heads
Each bore a star display'd, and all the light
Within the tower seem'd from these stars to stream.
These were the planets, my conductor told me,
That rule our fate, and thence are crown'd as kings.
The outermost, a gloomy, care-worn greybeard,
With the dull-clouded yellow star, was SATURN;
He with the deep-red glow, that fronted him,
In warrior like accoutrement, was MARS
And both were evil-boding stars to man;
But by his side a lovely woman stood,
Soft gleam'd the star above her queenly head,
And this was Venus, the bright star of joy.
On the left hand was winged MERCURY;
Full in the centre shone, in silver light,
A cheerful man, with kingly countenance,
And that was JUPITER, my father's star,
And Sun and Moon were pictured by his side.

O, never will I smile at his belief
In starry influence and ghostly might.
'Tis not alone man's pride that peoples space
With visionary forms and mystic powers ;
But for the loving heart, this common nature
Is all too narrow, and a deeper meaning
Lies in the fables of our childish years,
Than in the truer lore of after life.
The lovely world of wonder 'tis, alone,
That echoes back the heart's ecstatic feeling,
That spreads for men its everlasting room,
And with the waving of its thousand branches
Rocks the enchanted spirit to repose."
The world of fable is Love's bome; he dwells
Gladly with fays and talismans, and gladly
Believes in gods, for he himself is godlike.
The fairy shapes of fable are no more ;
The deities of old have wander'd out;
But still the beart must have a language, still
The early names come back with early feelings ;
And in the starry heaven we seek those forms,
That friendly once in life have walk'd beside us.

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