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! Evil ONE. Hide thyself!

Sin and shame
May not be hidden.
Light and air for thee?

Despair ! despair !
Chorus. Quid sum miser tunc dicturus,

Quem patronum rogaturus ?

Cum vix justus sit securus.
Evil ONE. The glorified are turning

Their foreheads from thee;
The boly shun
To join their hands in thine.

CHORUS. Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
Margaret. Help me, I faint !' - vol. ii. pp. 29–33.

. 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 coinmon 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 girls 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 the famous Mayday-night scene of his Faust 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 kpotted 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 boar pines already feel ber breath :

Sball 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


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-spouted crags, ho! ho !
How they snort, and how they blow!


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Through the mossy sods and stones,
Stream and streamlet hurry down,
A rushing throng! A sound of song
Beneath the vault of Heaven is blown!
Sweet notes of love, the speaking tones
Of this bright day, sent down to say
That Paradise on Earth is known,
Resound, around, beneath, above.
All we hope and all we love
Finds a voice in this blithe strain,
Which wakens hill and wood and rill,
And vibrates far o'er field and vale,
And which echo, like the tale
Of old times, repeats again.

To whoo! to whoo! near, nearer now
The sound of song, the rushing throng!
Are the screech, the lapwing, and the jay,
All awake, as if 'twere day?

See, with long legs and belly wide,
A salamander in the brake!

Every root is like a snake,

And along the loose hill side,

With strange contortions through the night,
Curls, to seize or to affright;
And, animated, strong, and many,
They dart forth polypus-antennae,
To blister with their poison spume
The wanderer. Through the dazzling gloom
The many-coloured mice, that thread
The dewy turf beneath our tread,
In troops each other's motions cross,
Through the heath and through the moss;
And, in legions intertangled,

The fire-flies flit, and swarm,
and throng
Till all the mountain depths are spangled.
Tell me shall we go or stay?
Shall we onward? Come along!
Every thing around is swept
Forward, onward, far away!'

Nor is the following, in another style, less exquisite.

'MEPH. Why did you let that fair girl pass from you,
Who sung so sweetly to you in the dance?
FAUST. A red mouse in the middle of her singing
Sprung from her mouth.


That was all right, my friend,
Be it enough that the mouse was not grey;
Do not disturb your hour of happiness
With close consideration of such trifles.
FAUST. Then saw I-



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Seest thou not a pale
Fair girl, standing alone, far, far away?
She drags herself forward now with slow steps,
And seems as if she moved with shackled feet :
I cannot overcome the thought that she

Is like poor Margaret,

Let it be-pass on-
No good can come of it-it is not well
To meet it—it is an enchanted phantom,
A lifeless idol with its numbing look
It freezes


the blood of man; and they
Who meet its ghastly stare are turned to stone,

Like those who saw Medusa.

Oh, too true!
Her eyes are like the eyes of a fresh corpse
Which no beloved hand has closed--Alas!
That is the heart which Margaret yielded to me

Those are the lovely limbs which I enjoyed !
Meph. It is all magic, poor deluded fool ;

She looks to every one like his first love.
Faust. Oh, what delight! what woe! I cannot turn

My looks from her sweet piteous countenance.
How strangely does a single blood-red line,
Not broader than the sharp edge of a knife,

Adorn her lovely neck !

Aye, she can carry
Her head under her arm upon occasion ;

Perseus bas cut it off for her.To show how well the man who could serve the Gothic muse in this way, could feel and transfer the polished graces of an Attic master, we shall transcribe part of the first chorus in Mr. Shelley's version of the Cyclops (Πά δή μοι γενναιων μεν πατέρων, &c.)

Where has be of race divine
Wandered in the winding rocks?
Here the air is calm and fine
For the father of the flocks;
Here the grass is soft and sweet
And tbe river eddies meet
In the trough beside the cave,
Bright as in their fountain-wave.
Neither here nor on the dew
Of the lawny uplands feeding ?
Oh, you come !-a stone at you
Will I throw, to mend your breeding ;--
Get along, you horned thing,
Wild, seditious, rambling !

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