**Su per la soglia, e fuor per le colonne "Chè si può ben così nomar quel loco, "Quì, dove con serena, e lieta fronte Par ch' ogn'or rida il grazioso aprile Giovani, e Donne, son: qual presso a fonte Canta con dolce, e dilettoso stile; Qual d'un arbore all'ombra, e qual O gioca, o danza, o fa cosa non vile; "Per le cime de' pini, e degli allori, "Upon the sill and through the columns there, Ran young and wanton girls, in frolic sport; Had they observed a woman's fitting port. Nor finds a place in any bosom. Dearth, prey; One wets his arrows in the brook which winds, We earnestly hope Mr Rose may go on and conclude this great undertaking as happily as he has begun it.-It is impossible to wish anything better than this, either for his own sake, or for our own. LORD F. L. GOWER. We now come to a bold venture Goethe's FAUST, by Lord Francis Leveson Gower. This young nobleman, for we believe he is very young, has, we must confess, surprised us. He has not given a perfect Faust, that nobody ever will do-but he has come so near perfection, that we may safely congratulate him on an achievement of which there are few practised poets now living in Britain that might not be proud. By turning to the number of this Magazine for June 1820, the reader may refresh his recollection of the story of this wonderful masterpiece. The analysis there VOL. XIV and the copious specimens of translation, were from the pen of a young Irish friend of ours, a young man certainly of highly distinguished accomplishment and most promising genius. He, however, will, we are sure, be the first to approve of what we do, when we candidly say, that Lord Francis Gower has put us somewhat out of conceit with his efforts upon Faustus. They were spirited-but they were hastythey want the refinement, and what is of still greater moment, they want the flow of this young lord's parallel passages. It would be ridiculous in us to give a second analysis of the original poem :-that our friend has done E as well as is at all necessary. We shall therefore be contented with quoting a few of Lord Francis's scenes. The first shall be that in which Faust and Mephistopheles walk and converse with Margaret and Martha in the garden. The scene is one of the finest in Goethe; and nothing, we apprehend, can be more happy than the version. What delightful stageeffect-what rich contrasts among all the four personages-the bewildered, innocent, timid MAIDEN-the crafty, worldly WOMAN-the FIEND-and his perplexed VICTIM! what satire ! what poetry! what pathos! "A Garden. MARGARET on FAUST's arm. MEPHISTOPHELES and MARTHA walking up and down. Marg. Too well I feel it, thus you con- Merely to shame me in the end. With anything that one like me lets fall. graves, Is a black prospect for your latter lives. Meph. Such end, with horror, I expect. Mar. Then, worthy sir, in time reflect. (They pass back, as before. Marg. Yes, you are courteous, kind, and good, But then you come of gentle blood, Faust. Dulness, not knowledge, wrin- Folly will often dress at wisdom. Faust. Strange, that simplicity should To see the beauty of its innocence ! Before its birth my father was no more, It pined, and then recover'd by degrees; Faust. How sweet your task to rear the Marg. And yet it cost me many a weary hour; And then, besides, to tend the house affairs "Twould weary you to tell you all my cares. (They cross over. Mar. to Meph. Indeed 'tis uphill work to teach You bachelors. Excuse the speech. Meph. Would one like you my steps conduct, I should be easy to instruct. Mar. Now tell me true, in any place or station, Has your heart never felt the least sensation ? Meph. A good man's hearth, the while his wife sits by, Pearls cannot equal, treasures cannot buy! 'Tis thus the proverb says, and so say I. Mar. I mean, if e'er your heart to love To be accosted by a man like you. me Some sign of wantonness, or levity? As when, neglecting all his own affairs, And thus their talk would be of me and you, And of these two. Good night!" We are very loath to turn over so many pages, but we must pass to the last scene of all. The poor ruined girl, who has innocently killed her mother, and madly her child, is alone in her dungeon-She is to leave it for the gallows at day-break. Faust, her miserable betrayer, more miserable than she, appears at the door with a bundle of keys and a lamp.-But we entreat our reader to turn back to the number of June 1820, ere he proceeds to read what follows-or if Madame de Stael's Germany be at hand, it will do equally well. "Dungeon. lies, Frenzy the crime for which her blood must flow. Traitor, thou darest not enter in Forward! thy cowardice draws down the blow. Marg. (within) sings. Now shame on Who brought me to light, Who nursed me in spite. Faust. (unlocking the door.) She dreams not that her lover hears the strain, The straw's sad rustling, and the clinking chain. Marg. (hiding herself in the straw on which she lies.) Woe, woe! they wake me! bitter fate! Faust. Hush, hush! I come to give thee means to fly. Marg. Art thou a man? then be compassionate. Faust. Soft! thou wilt wake thy jailers with that cry. [He seizes the chains to unlock them. Marg. (on her knees.) Who gave the hangman power So soon to wake and slay? Why call'st thou me at midnight's hour?— O! let me live till day!— Is it not time when morn has sprung? [She stands up. And I am yet so young! so young! And yet so soon to perish by your laws. Once I was fair too-that is just the cause. One friend was near me then: he too is fled." My flowers are wither'd, and my garland dead. Seize me not thus! it gives me pain. Have I e'er wrong'd thee? why then bind me so? Let not my woman's voice implore in vain Can I have hurt one whom I do not know? Faust. Can I outlive this hour of woe! Marg. Ah! I am now within thy power; Yet let me clasp my only joy, My child! I nursed it many an hour, But then they took it from me to annoy, And now they say the mother kill'd her boy. And she shall ne'er be happy more'— That is the song they sing to give me pain; It is the end of an old strain, But never meant me before. Faust. He, whom you deem'd so far, before you lies, To burst your chains, and give the life you prize. Marg. Oh! raise we to the saints our For see, beneath the stair, In pitiless wrath, Faust. (aloud) Margaret! Margaret! Marg. (starting) That was his voice! [She springs up; her chains fall off. Where is he? for I know 'twas he. None, none shall stay me; I am free! "Tis to his bosom I will fly, In his embraces I will lie. His Margaret he calls, on the threshold he stands, 'Mid the laughter and howls of the fiendish bands; Through the shouts of their malice, their hissings of scorn, How sweetly his voice of affection was borne ! Faust. 'Tis 1. Marg. Oh, say it, say it, once again, My friend, my lover! Where is now my pain? Where is my chain, my dungeon, and my grave? He comes himself to comfort and to save. I see the church's aisle, the street, Where first we dared to gaze, to meet: The garden blooms before me now, Marg. What, thou canst kiss no more! And hast so soon forgot to kiss! Why are my joys less ardent than they were? Once in those folding arms I loved to lie, Clung to that breast, and deem'd my heaven was there, Till, scarce alive, I almost long'd to die! Those lips are cold, and do not move, Alas! unkind, unkind! Hast thou left all thy love, Thy former love, behind? Faust. Follow me! follow, Margaret! be not slow: With twice its former heat my love shall glow. Margaret, this instant come, 'tis all I pray. Marg. And art thou, art thou, he for certain, say? Faust. I am; come with me. Marg. Thou shalt burst my chain, And lay me in thy folding arms again. How comes it, tell me, thou canst bear my sight? Know'st thou to whom thou bring'st the means of flight? Faust. Come, come!-I feel the morning breeze's breath. Marg. This hand was guilty of a mo- I drown'd my child! And thou canst tell, Faust. Oh Margaret! let the hour be Forget it, or I breathe my last. Marg. No; you must live till I shall For each their separate burial-place. For my poor mother keep the best; me. How can I fly? They glare upon me still! It is so sad to beg the wide world through, And with an evil conscience too! It is so sad to roam through stranger lands, And they will seize me with their iron hands! Faust. I will be with you. Save it, or the child will die! It lifts its head! Oh save it, save it! Faust. Reflect, reflect! One step, and thou art free! Marg. Had we but pass'd the hillside My mother there sits on a stone. o'er ; She slept for so long, that she wakes no more. Faust. Since words are vain to rouse thy sleeping sense, I venture, and with force I bear thee hence. Marg. Unhand me! leave me! I will not consent! Too much I yielded once! too much repent! Faust. Day! Margaret, day! your hour will soon be past. Marg. True, 'tis the day; the last the last! My bridal day!-'twill soon appear. We shall see one another, and soon shall see But not at the dance will our meeting be. We two shall meet In the crowded street: The citizens throng-the press is hot, Off! or your life will be but short; 'Tis he!-the evil one of hell! Faust. To bid thee live. that vulgar and petulant sneering, with which the gentlemen of the press are ever ready to insult the first appearance of a gentleman-still more of a nobleman. But all this will be of no avail. He has a right to be tried by his literary peers, and from their deci Marg. Justice of Heaven! to thee my sion he has no reason to shrink. Mr soul I give! Meph. (to Faust.) Come! come! or tarry else with her to die. Marg. Heaven, I am thine! to thy embrace I fly! Hover around, ye angel bands! We notice that Lord F. Gower has given but a very mutilated version of the May-day night scene. This was wrong in every point of view. It destroys the poem of Goethe; and, if his Lordship thought, (which he probably did, and certainly might well do,) that he could not outstep Shelley in this why not adopt the fragment at once? We trust this may yet be done. As it is, Lord Francis has produced a work which must at once give him a place, and no mean one, among the literary men of his time. He must prepare himself for encountering something of Coleridge himself will not now dream of translating the Faust-another hand has done almost all that could be done even by him; and the English public may congratulate themselves upon the possession of one more work worthy to be associated with Coleridge's Wallenstein-worthy of being placed above even the best of Mr Gillies's translations from the German theatre-and worthy of being placed above them for this one plain, simple reason-that Goethe is what Müller, Grillparzer, and Oehlenshlaeger aspire to be--and may perhaps be ere they die; but certainly have not as yet shewn themselves to be. We hope this splendid example will not be lost upon Mr Gillies. We earnestly hope he will turn seriously to the true masterpieces of German genius, and not meddle with the pupils, however meritorious, until their great, and we half fear, inimitable masters have been exhausted. Let him give us the BRIDE OF MESSINA-or the WILLIAM TELLor the EGMONT, and take his place where he is entitled to be. Most of our readers must have seen the print of Gérard's picture of the battle of Austerlitz-indeed it is on many a snuff-box. They may remember the cavalry officer, who, with his hat off, and sabre broken, is galloping up to Napoleon, who receives him, surrounded by his suite. This is no other than the author of the autobiographical volume now before us, the General Rapp himself. He was returning from the decisive charge which he had led in person, and which decided the day. "My sabre half broken," says he, "my wound, the blood with which I was covered, the decisive advantage gained over the choice of the enemies' troops, inspired the Emperor at the moment with the idea of the picture, afterwards executed by Gérard." Rapp was a native of Alsace; he early distinguished himself under Desaix, and was taken notice of by that talented general. He soon rose to favour under Napoleon, whose esteem at times, and whose suspicion and displeasure, at others, he won by a military frankness and bluntness of speech. Whenever any of Rapp's friends fell into disgrace with Napoleon, the blunt Alsacian was sure to shew it by some expression of spleen or ill-timed expostulations. And he thus became • Mémoires du Général Rapp, Aide-de-camp de Napoléon écrits par lui-même. Paris et Londres, 1823. |