the light of which we could have desired to recognise more frequently in this deeply thoughtful work:

PRESENTIMENT OF HIS RUIN.

"Alas! too well I feel, too true a voice
Within me whispers, that the Mighty Power
Which, on sustaining wings of strength and joy,
Bears up the healthful spirit, will but cast
Mine to the earth-will rend me utterly !-
I must away!"

66

ON A FRIEND'S DECLARING HERSELF UNABLE TO
RECOGNISE HIM.

Rightly thou speak'st-I am myself no more;
And yet in worth not less than I have been.
Seems this a dark, strange riddle? Yet, 'tis none!
The gentle moon that gladdens thee by night,

Thine eye, thy spirit irresistibly

Winning with beams of love-mark! how it floats Through the day's glare, a pale and powerless cloud! I am o'ercome by the full blaze of noon;

Ye know me, and I know myself no more!"

66

ON BEING ADVISED TO REFRAIN FROM COMPOSITION.

Vainly, too vainly, 'gainst the power I strive,

Which, night and day, comes rushing through my soul!
Without that pouring forth of thought and song
My life is life no more!

Wilt thou forbid the silkworm to spin on,
When hourly, with the labour'd line, he draws
Nearer to death?-in vain!-the costly web

SCENES, ETC., FROM GOETHE'S " TASSO."

Must from his inmost being still be wrought,
Till he lies wrapp'd in his consummate shroud.
Oh! that a gracious God to us may give

297

The lot of that bless'd worm!-to spread free wings And burst exultingly on brighter life,

In a new realm of sunshine!"

He is at last released, and admitted into the presence of the Princess Leonora, to take his leave of her before commencing a distant journey. Notwithstanding his previous doubts of her interest in him, he is overcome by the pitying tenderness of her manner, and breaks into a strain of passionate gratitude and enthusiasm:

"Thou art the same pure angel, as when first Thy radiance cross'd my path. Forgive, forgive, If for a moment, in his blind despair,

The mortal's troubled glance hath read thee wrong! Once more he knows thee! His expanding soul Flows forth to worship thee for evermore,

And his full heart dissolves in tenderness:

*

Is it false light which draws me on to thee?
Is it delirium?-Is it thought inspired,
And grasping first high truth divinely clear?
Yes! 't is even so -the feeling which alone
Can make me bless'd on earth!"

The wildness of his ecstasy at last terrifies his gentle protectress from him; he is forsaken by all as a being lost in hopeless delusion, and being left alone to the

insulting pity of Antonio, his strength of heart is utterly subdued; he passionately bewails his weakness, and even casts down his spirit almost in wondering admiration before the calm self-collectedness of his enemy, who himself seems at last almost melted by the extremity of the poet's desolation, as thus poured forth:

"Can I then image no high-hearted man
Whose pangs and conflicts have surpass'd mine own,
That my vex'd soul might win sustaining power
From thoughts of him?—I cannot !—all is lost!
One thing alone remains-one mournful boon
Nature on us, her suffering children, showers
The gift of tears-the impassion'd cry of grief,
When man can bear no more;-and with my woe,
With mine above all others, hath been link'd
Sad music, piercing eloquence, to pour

All, all its fulness forth! To me a God

Hath given strong utterance for mine agony,
When others, in their deep despair, are mute!

Thou standest calm and still, thou noble man!
I seem before thee as the troubled wave:
But oh! be thoughtful!-in thy lofty strength
Exult thou not! By nature's might alike
That rock was fix'd, that quivering wave was made
The sensitive of storm! She sends her blasts,—
The living water flies-it quakes and swells,
And bows down tremblingly with breaking foam;
Yet once that mirror gave the bright sun back
In calm transparence-once the gentle stars
Lay still upon its undulating breast!

99

SCENES, ETC., FROM GOETHE'S " TASSO. 299
Now the sweet peace is gone-the glory now
Departed from the wave! I know myself
No more in these dark perils, and no more

I blush to lose that knowledge. From the bark
Is wrench'd the rudder, and through all its frame
The quivering vessel groans. Beneath my feet
The rocking earth gives way
I grasp thee with mine arms.

to thee I clingIn wild despair

So doth the struggling sailor clasp the rock
Whereon he perishes!"

And thus painfully ends this celebrated drama, the catastrophe being that of the spiritual wreck within, unmingled with the terrors drawn from outward circumstances and change. The majestic lines in which Byron has embodied the thoughts of the captive Tasso, will form a fine contrast and relief to the music of despair with which Goethe's work is closed ;

“All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear,
But must be borne. I stoop not to despair,
For I have battled with mine agony,
And made me wings wherewith to overfly
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall;
And freed the holy sepulchre from thrall;
And revell'd among men and things divine,
And pour'd my spirit over Palestine,
In honour of the sacred war for Him,

The God who was on earth and is in heaven;
For He hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb.
That through this sufferance I might be forgiven,
I have employ'd my penance to record

How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored."

ON THE " IPHIGENIA" OF GOETHE.

AN UNFINISHED FRAGMENT.

THERE is a charm of antique grace, of the majestic repose resulting from a faultless symmetry, about the whole of this composition, which inclines us to rank it as among the most consummate works of art ever achieved by the master-mind of its author. The perfection of its design and finish is analogous to that of a Grecian temple, seen as the crown of some old classic height, with all its pure outlines-all the delicate proportions of its airy pillars-brought into bold relief by the golden sunshine, and against the unclouded blue of its native heavens. Complete within itself, the harmonious edifice is thus also to the mind and eye of the beholder; they are filled, and desire no more they even feel that more would be but incumbrance upon the fine adjustment of the well-ordered parts constituting the graceful whole. It sends no vague dreams to wander through infinity, such as are excited by a Gothic minster, where the slight pinnacles striving upward, like the free but still baffled thought of the architect-the clustering pillars and high arches imitating the bold combinations of mysterious forests -the many-branching cells, and long visionary aisles, of which waving torchlight or uncertain glimpses of the noon seem the fittest illumination—ever suggest ideas of some conception in the originally moulding mind, far more vast than the means allotted to human accomplishment-of struggling endeavour, and pain