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 knight 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 immured, 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 am 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 Biern 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.

SONG.

"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 about 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 beauty'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,
Of 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 majority 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.

THEKLA.

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.
MAX.

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 home; 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 heart 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.

Still from yon sky they smile on lovers down,
And all that's great on earth even now is sent us
From Jupiter, from Venus all that's fair!

THEKLA.

Is that astrology? if so, with joy

To this consoling faith I am a convert.
It is a lovely and a gladd'ning thought,
That, in the boundless realms of space above us,
A crown of love, entwined of sparkling stars,
Was wreathed for us even in our first existence.
COUNTESS.

But heaven hath thorns as well as roses too,
And well for thee if thou escap'st their sting.
What Venus twin'd, the harbinger of joy,
May Mars, the star of evil, rend asunder.
MAX.

Soon will his gloomy reign be at an end,
Thanks to the earnest efforts of the Prince;
The olive with the laurel will be blended,

And peace revisit the rejoicing world:

Then hath his mighty mind no more to wish for;
Already he hath done enough for fame,

And for himself, and for his own, may live

In calm retirement on his wide domains.
He hath a princely residence at Gitschin,
And fair lie Reichenberg and Castle Friedland;
Even to the bases of the Giants' Hills,
The boundless forests of his chase extend.
There, unrestrain'd and free, may he indulge
His master passion, to create the splendid-
With princely favor foster every art-

Protect and guard the worthy and the good;

There may he build, and plough, and watch the stars-
And if his daring spirit cannot rest,

There he may combat with the elements,

May turn the river's bed, or burst the rock,

Or with new roads give life to trade and commerce;

While warlike histories of days of old

May cheat the weary winter night away.

COUNTESS.

And yet if thou would'st take my counsel, cousin,
Thou would'st not lay the sword too soon aside.
A bride like this is sure an object, worthy,
By warlike prowess, to be wooed and won.

MAX.

O, would she were to be acquired by arms!

COUNTESS.

Ha! what was that? heard ye? Methought I heard
Some noise and quarrel in the banquet-room.

SCENE V.-THEKLA. MAX PICCOLOMINI.

THEKLA (after the COUNTESS goes out, quickly and secretly to PICCOLOMINI.)

[Taking him tenderly by the hand. Follow but me-

Let us not trust too much to others aid.

We will be grateful for these Terzkys' kindness,
But trust them only as we find them worthy,-
And for the rest rely on our own hearts.

Even those who are unacquainted with German, must be familiar with the name of Schiller, and be desirous of learning the nature of those writings which have procured for him so splendid and so deserved a reputation. To them we pledge ourselves, that the volumes before us will give a very accurate idea both of his merits and defects, making due allowance for the difference which must always exist between the translation and the original, where not the greatest care can prevent the poetry from being sometimes sacrificed to fidelity. The degree of pleasure which it will afford, will