bers of our own great poet, which often affect the heart and ear like a spell.* The volume opens with some beautiful and very affecting stanzas. Few men, even in early life, have not to think of disappointed hopes, and to lament the removal of the friends whom they were most anxious to please. Who is there who has not, in the course of his toils, been interrupted, and paused to ask himself, "for what am I labouring now?" "Where are the smiles we longed to gain, The pledge of labour not in vain ?" The following are Goethe's introductory stanzas: Again, fair images, ye flutter near, As erst ye shone to cheer the mourner's eye, And may I hope that ye will linger here? Will my heart leap as in the days gone by? Ye throng before my view, divinely clear, Like sun-beams conquering a cloudy sky! Beneath your lightning-glance my spirit burns, Magic is breathing-youth and joy returns! past ; Renewed each sorrow and each joy appears That marked life's changing labyrinthine waste; The friends return, who past in youth away, Departed is, alas! the friendly throng, wide, To men unknown my griefs must I impart, Whose very praise is sorrow to the heart! Again it comes! a long unwonted feeling, A wish for that calm solemn phantom land My song is swelling now, now lowly stealing, Like Eol's harp, by varying breezes fanned, Tears follow tears, my weaknesses revealing, And silent shudders shew a heart un manned, -Dull forms of daily life before me fice, The PAST-the PAST alone, seems true to me!. There are two preludes to the main work; one, a dialogue between the poet and the stage-manager, in which some of the difficulties of a writer for the theatre are pointed out in a lively and pleasing manner; and the other, entitled, "Prologue in Heaven,' which is founded on the passage in Job, where Satan is introduced as coming with the Sons of God to present himself before the Lord. This contains a great deal that is written in a light and irreverent tone, and possesses, we think, very little merit of any kind. The play itself opens like "Marlowe's Tragicall Historie of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus," with an exhibition of Faustus in his study, complaining of the vanity of the dif ferent sciences. In the play before us "A damsel with a dulcimer Singing of Mount Abora. Kubla Khan. Can any thing be more divine than the musical versification of these passages? And surely it is most appropriate. We could easily multiply such passages from Coleridge's works. See the incantation in the "REMORSE." more there is not the scholastic pedantry restless. Fa. Alas! I have explored Philosophy, and law, and medicine, With useless learning cursed, They call me doctor-and I lead And now to feel that nothing can be This is a thought that burns into my heart; I have been more acute than all those triflers; Doctors and authors, priests, philosophers; And would not yield a point to Hell or And now to feel that nothing can be known; ) Of words, mere words, repeated ever. dow 'Mong volumes heaped from floor to ceiling, (He opens the book, and glances over Was it a God, who wrote this sign? "Man's eye is dim and it cannot see, "Man's heart is dead and it cannot feel, "But thou, who would'st know the things that be, "Bathe thy heart in the sunrise red, "Till its stains of earthly dross are fled." (He looks over the sign attentively.) Oh! how the spell before my sight Brings nature's hidden acts to lightSee! all things with each other blendingEach to all its being lendingAll on each in turn dependingHeavenly ministers descendingAnd again to Heaven up-tendingBreathing blessings see them bendingBalanced Worlds from change defending, Thro' all diffusing harmony unending! Oh, what a vision, but a vision only, For how can man, imperfect abject creature, Embrace thy charms, illimitable nature! Waters of life, all heavens and earth that cheer In vain man's spirit sighs to feel ye near, Onward ye haste, we sigh to taste, Lingering in mute despair, complaining, lonely! (He turns over the book sorrowfully, and glances over the sign of the Spirit How differently this sign affects my frame! How fearlessly I read this sign, And feel, even now, new powers are mine, While my brain burns, as though with wine! I feel within my soul the birth Of strength, enabling me to bear, And thoughts impelling me to share Or plunge where shipwreck grinds his teeth! All around grows cold and cloudy, Ha!-round my brow what sparkles ruddy Spirit to my sight be present- Though death may be the price, I cannot chuse but see! (He clasps the book, and pronounces the sign of the spirit mysteriously-a red flame, and in the flame the Spirit.) Spirit. Who hath called me? Faus. (averting his face.) Fearful sight! Spirit. Hither from my distant sphere Where is the courage, that could dare Whose mighty spirit pressed itself to mine! Art thou the same? whose senses thus are shattered, Whose very being in my breath is scattered, Whose soul into itself retreating, Vain worm can scarce endure the fearful meeting! Fa. Creature of flame, shall I grow pale before thee? 'Twas I that called thee-Faustus-I, thy equal! Spirit. In the currents of life, in the Hear the murmuring wheel of time, unawed, As I weave the living mantle of God! How near akin to thine I feel my nature. like thee! Formed in the image of the Deity, We have been induced to transcribe this entire scene, partly because the dialogue, being less broken into short sentences, is more easily separable from the piece, but chiefly because it which bears the greatest resemblance seems the part of Goethe's tragedy to Manfred. We cannot indeed avoid assenting to Goethe's supposition, that Faustus suggested Lord Byron's wonderful drama. Manfred, however, like the rest of Lord Byron's poems, soon becomes a personification of the author's own feelings, and he forgets Faustus, and Goethe, and every thing but himself, long before the dark termination of the story. In the play before us, on the contrary, it is easy to see the author's perfect dominion over his subject; that "he possesses, (to use Coleridge's language on a different occasion) and is not possessed by his genius;" that the successive scenes are brought forward to our view by the author, as a sympathizing witness, not as one of the sufferers or agents he allows us to feel for the distress occasioned by the hero of his tale, and does not concentrate the entire interest on the workings of a single bosom-on the alternation of feverish excitement and indolent despair-of passion and apathy-of adoration towards nature's beauties and sublimities, followed and contrasted by blasphemies against the author of nature. Lord Byron is too fond of bringing before us the infidelity of a strong mind. It is a dangerous contemplation, for we endeavour instinctively to find a justification for the errors of an intellect we admire. We suffer-it is well if we do not half approve the evil for the sake of the good with which it is associated. The early works of Goethe, in common with much of the German literature, were subject to this charge, but we think this drama quite free from the offence. Faustus is represented as being stable as water," with an active impatient imaginative mind, with a kindly and affectionate heart. We feel that he loves the poor girl whom he destroys we transfer his guilt to the Satanic being by whom he is attended -we pity and forgive him. The moral sense is not wounded by an endeavour to justify his crimes, for we regard him not as a culprit, but as a sufferer under the influence of an evil demon. un A few sentences from a work of Goethe's, which we have not yet seen, have been translated in Baldwin's London Magazine for last month. They are curious, as shewing his opinion of Lord Byron's obligations to Faustus, which, however, are not as great as he imagines-and still more curious, as shewing how strongly Lord Byron is identified by his readers with his heroes, when such a man as Goethe could believe and publish such ridiculous scandal as the personal adventure which he attributes to his Lordship. "The tragedy of Manfred, by Lord Byron, is a most singular performance, and one which concerns me nearly. This wonderful and ingenious poet has taken possession of my Faust. and hypochondriacally drawn from it the most singular nutriment. He has employed the means in it which suit his object in his particular manner, so that no one thing remains the same, and on this account I cannot sufficiently admire his ability. The recast is so peculiar, that a highly interesting lecture might be given on its resemblance, and want of resemblance, to its model-though I cannot deny, that the gloomy fervour of a rich and endless despair becomes at last wearisome to us. However, the displeasure which we feel is always connected with admiration and esteem. "The very quintessence of the sentiments and passions, which assist in constituting the most singular talent for self-commentary ever known, is contained in this tragedy. The life and poetical character of Lord Byron can hardly be fairly estimated. Yet he has often enough avowed the source of his torments; he has repeatedly pourtrayed it; but hardly any one sympathizes with the insupportable pain with which he is incessantly struggling. "Properly speaking, he is continually pursued by the ghosts of two females, who play great parts in the above-named tragedy, the one under the name of Astarte, the other without figure or visibility, merely a voice. "The following account is given of the horrible adventure which he had with the former: "When a young, bold, and high ly attractive personage, he gained the favour of a Florentine lady; the husband discovered this, and murdered his wife; but the murderer was found dead in the street the same night, under circumstances which did not admit of attaching suspicion to any one." "Lord B. fled from Florence, and seems to drag spectres after him ever afterwards! "This strange incident receives a high degree of probability from innu merable allusions in his poems; as for instance, in his application of the story of Pausanias to himself. "What a wounded heart must the poet have, who selects from antiquity such an event, applies it to himself, and loads his tragic resemblance with it!" This is a long digression; but we could not resist the temptation of laying before our readers so singular a passage. We will not delay them, however, by any remarks of our own on the justice of Goethe's criticism, but hasten to continue our sketch of his tragedy. Faustus is interrupted in his reflections on the interview with the Spirit of the Earth, by a visit from his pupil, Wagner, which we agree with him in feeling disposed to resent as an untimely intrusion. Wagner appears to us to be a very commonplace sort of person-a man of some common sense, but no imaginationdevoted steadily and industriously to literary pursuits-learning from the critics the beauties of the poets-a good impersonation of the combined qualities of a private tutor and a reviewer-Mr Cobbett writing on gram mar or lecturing on taste. Nothing, however, can be farther from the poet's mind than the idea of speaking irreverently of so important a per sonage. And blow, with puffing breath, a struggling Glimmering confusedly now, now cold in heart! Wag. EXPRESSION, graceful utterance, is the first And best acquirement of the orator. Fa. Dost thou seek genuine and worthy Not as our town-declaimers use, delighted, Like a brute beast, with chimes of jingling bells. Reason and honest feeling want no arts In which you robe your worn-out common places, Are lifeless, unproductive, as the wind leaves ! Wag. The search of knowledge is a weary one, And life, alas! is short!How often have the heart and brain, o'er tasked, Shrunk back despairing from inquiries vain! Oh! with what difficulty are the means Acquired, that lead us to the springs of knowledge! And when the path is found, ere we have trod Enter Wagner, in his dressing-gown and Half the long way-poor wretches! we night-cap-a lamp in his hand. turns round displeased. Faustus Wag. Forgive me, but I thought you were declaiming. You have been reciting some Greek play, no doubt; I wish to improve myself in this same art; 'Tis a most useful one. I've heard it said, An actor might give lessons to a parson. Fa. Yes! when your parson is himself an actor ; A circumstance which very often happens! for ever In his dull study; if he sees the world If from the soul the language does not come, Toil on for ever; piece together fragments; must die! Fa. Are mouldy records, then, the holy springs, Whose healing waters still the thirst within? Oh! never yet hath mortal drunk A draught restorative, That welled not from the depths of his own soul! Wag. Pardon me-but you will at least That 'tis delightful to transfuse yourself To see how wise men thought in olden time, And how far we outstep their march in knowledge. Fa. Oh yes! as far as from the earth to heaven! To us, my friend, the times that are gone by Are a mysterious book, sealed with seven seals: That which you call the spirit of ages past A mass of things confusedly heaped together; |