instead of his own sweet and natural expres ion. There is nothing in the original about "the breast of age being fervid to the last," about "fountains of unbidden tears," or vanished friends "cheering the gloom of intellectual night," or that "to cheerless seas my streams must roll along," or that

"All which gave my maiden muse her grace,

Fades and evaporates into empty space;"

or that o'er his frame a pleasing frenzy strays," or any thing about a resignation of her reign by cold reality. The English, compared with the German, is like a milliner's rose taken out of a bandbox, crisp and scentless, and placed opposite the morning rose blushing on its native stalk. Further, in regard to the nature of the substituted ornaments, there may be a necessity for adopting false ringlets, but there can be none for putting powder in them. The liberties freely taken with the letter of the text, ought to have been justified by some corresponding advantage. No one expects, in the case of poetry, the close precision of an interpreter of evidence in a court of justice. On many, indeed most occasions, it may be impossible to literally transfer from one language to another a burst of tender feeling, and to retain line for line the power and simplicity of the first creation. But in this case and elsewere, as often as the materials of two idioms do not admit of this strict conversion, the talents of a translator are tried by the adopted means to which he has recourse. He should make it “stuff o' the conscience" to remember that the slightest variation from the words and meaning, style and spirit, of his author, is a prima facie offence, for which he must render an account. It will be justifiable or excusable, manslaughter or murder, as the case may be.

Schiller is a much easier writer to deal with than Goëthe; inasmuch as he is original, yet always belongs to the common classical school of Europe. There is something very natural, but quite new, in the design of Wallenstein. The fatal period comprised in it is short-that of the double conspiracy-his own against the Emperor, and the Emperor's against himself. It is broken up into three successive parts-Wallenstein's Camp, the Piccolomini, and Wallenstein's Death; forming in the whole a trilogue which, we suspect, Athens never surpassed. Being thus circumscribed, it has none of the narrative and annalist character of one of Shakspeare's historical plays. Nor does it attempt the progressive growth of a passion, like ambition, driven on by its imperious instinct, as in the tragedies of Miss Baillie, or developed under the fatal temptation of circumstances beckoning on, as in Macbeth. Yet the effect of much of this panoramic view of contempo-rary life, as well as of the glimpses down the interminable vista of the human heart, is admirably combined. This, it appears to us, is principally owing to the singular skill with which the first part is managed, so as to seem painted in, like a grand background and horizon to the remainder of the piece. Coleridge's splendid, but very unequal, paraphrase of the two latter parts, has made the most ordinary reader of English poetry well acquainted with them. But his reader sees them to great disadvantage, deprived of the depth and colouring (the condensed and gathering storm)

We have too long admired Mr. Coleridge as having about him a vein of the true poet-one of Democritus's sort-not to be aware that it is out of the question to expect he should "peruse and settle" his translation, like the draft of a conveyance, or we should have much to say to him thereon. However, on one occasion-Thekla's Song-he expresses himself so dissatisfied with his version, that he gives in the note another experiment by a friend. Is he, in truth, better satisfied with that? In that case, with less diffidence--but in any case, with the spirit in which a peasant offers a basket of apples to a wealthy neighbour-we beg to tender him the refusal of a third. He has claimed, or at least exercised, so much more extensive rights over the text, that we do not

which it was the express object of this bold dramatic preface to work up, and to hang like a dark electric cloud over the principal plot and personages, when they were subsequently brought upon the stage.

This omission Lord Leveson has now supplied, by the translation of the introductory part, called Wallenstein's Camp. The duty required of the ancient prologue was little more than just that amount of information, in the form almost of an advertisement, concerning the parties and their previous story, which should make the medias res intelligible, without beginning at the beginning. Shakspeare, it is true, has found a much more truly poetical use for the prologue, than occurred to any of the ancients, in that beautiful opening to Henry V. By this means, combined with the brilliant choruses from time to time so vividly interposed, Shakspeare has there not only thrown a very sufficient bridge over the loose and crumbling chasm, which the breach of unity of time and place, it must be confessed, often awkwardly creates, but has kept up throughout a dramatic breadth and power, that it would seem otherwise impossible to give to the scattered incidents of a campaign. The first of these objects Schiller did not want. On the preliminary plan which he has here devised, he prepares and accomplishes the second in a more extensive form, and with greater theatrical effect. Schlegel considers Henry V. as Shakspeare's favourite hero. Accordingly, some of the camp-scenes in that play have the same design as that with which Wallenstein's Camp is so skilfully planned-the portraying the devotion of an army towards its victorious leader. By separating this part of his subject, and marshalling it in advance, this precise object is as distinctly attained by Schiller; and with these advantages, there is no necessity afterwards for interrupting the regular course of the principal plot, and interposing a new class of dramatis persone simply for that which, although most important, is yet a collateral purpose. Having set aside a portion of his canvass for a grand military picture, he got also room enough to do justice to a subject perfectly unique, as he has treated it, and which must otherwise have been pushed into a corner.

Wallenstein's Camp, taken by itself, is a more vivid sketch of a soldier's life than a battle by Wouvermans, a campaign by Callot, or a Cossack and his horse by Vernet. We do not wonder that, when it was acted at Berlin, on the opening of one of their campaigns, shouts of enthusiasm from the assembled officers burst from every corner of the house. It is strange that, after mentioning this incident, Madame de Staël should be still so much in bondage to the prejudices of Paris, as to call a piece of such irresistible excitement a burlesque-the reason of this being, to all appearance, nothing more or less than that the dramatis persona are taken every one of them out of the lower classes-the peasant, the sutler's wife, the quibbling capuchin, the recruit, and the private soldiers. To put the soul of poetry

feel it necessary to apologise for "the Blossom on Earth's Tree," as being novas Frondes, et non sua Poma, unless he should consider that the ingrafted slip is out of character with the parent

stem.

"The clouds are flying, the woods are sighing,
The Maiden is walking the grassy shore,
And as the wave breaks with might, with might,
She singeth aloud through the darksome night,
But a tear is in her troubled eye.

"For the world feels cold, and the heart gets old,
And reflects the bright aspect of Nature no more.
Thea take back thy child, Holy Virgin, to thee!

I have pluck'd the one blossom that hangs on earth's tree;
I have lived and have loved--and die.”

into the coarse enjoyments of common life is no ordinary triumph. The Beggar's Bush, or Opera of Burns, is a greater effort of genius than many lyrics. But more than this, Schiller has thrown a dash of heroism, as well as the light of imagination, over these humble groups. The French revolution, it is said, "has brought out a new hero, the greatest of all,—the people." It is impossible, whilst these bold adventurers are comparing notes, and in the earnestness of proud and gay contention unbosoming their feelings, not to acknowledge, that in the camp and the day of battle the ranks of an army contain its thousands who have every thing of heroism equal with their captains, excepting epaulettes and fame. Mere mechanical command on one side, and obedience as mechanical on the other, are poor distinctions. The stronger this conviction-yet, when onej looks as from a height, on a scene such as Schiller here presents to us, and sees the streams from a thousand hills brought down at one man's bidding to meet in the same channel and rush forward-one and the same wave-we bend, with all around us, before the power and predominance of a single mind. Such seem to have been Hannibal, Wallenstein, and Napoleon, surrounded by their troops.

"Upon the gloomy background of this scene-

A bold attempt of au undaunted spirit

A desperately daring man is painted.

You know him, him the raiser up of hosts,"

Crime's worshipp'd idol, and the scourge of kingdoms

The Emperor's prop, and object of his fear;
Fortune's adventurous son, who, borne aloft
Upon the fav'ring influence of the time,
On honour's loftiest summit placed his foot,
And, still unsatisfied, his course pursuing,
A victim to untamed ambition fell?

Not he the pageant of our scene to-night.
Yet, mid the ranks of those his orders lead,
His spirit and his dimly-shadow'd form
Will walk in union."

This translation is meant, we presume, as a sort of installation ode on Lord Leveson Gower's appointment to the War-office. We doubt whether Mr. Hume will receive it as a part payment on account. But it may become popular at the Horse Guards, and with military bands. There is certainly considerable talent, as well as considerable carelessness, displayed in parts; and, as usual, the passages of most poetry are those which are done the worst. We can give only Lord Leveson's version of the song with which the piece concludes. It is a sort of ballad, in which the principal characters of the play take each their verse:

Are we mark'd for the morrow? Time's goblet runs low-
Let us drain the last exquisite drop ere we go.

Sergeant.

"From heaven his lot derives its birth,
By no long toil extorted,
Which still for treasure digs the earth,

By stones and rubbish thwarted.

It digs and it shovels, and fashions with pain
The grave which its maker's own dust shall contain.
First Yager.

"Mid festal lamps, a fearful guest

The trembling bridegroom counts him,
Who thundering comes where none request,
The steed and he who mounts him.

His suit is not settled by parchment or form-
He wins not by parley, who woos but by storm.
Second Cuirassier.

"Why pales the cheek, why drops the tear?
Oh, see him part more coolly!

He has no lasting quarters here

How can the brave love truly?

His fate drives him onward, and how can the mind

Be left with its loves and affections behind?

In a spirit of foolish fairness, we will enable Lord Leveson thus far to take revenge. Should he think the translation that follows a more faded representation of the original than the above, it will only be another proof of the truth of Shakspeare's maxim,-" Were it as easy to do, as to know what ought to be done, chapels had been churches, and poor men's collages princes' palaces." Many a critic has, we fear, been often justified in damning a play, and hissing a performance, though of infinitely less demerit than any possibility of his own. Our verses may claim, at least, the negative propriety of keeping somewhat closer to the metrical movement of the German; nor have we put into the mouth of a dragoon the words of a maudlin maiden, and let him speak of a soldier's death as the term of his sorrows;" nor have we made the last notes of a flourish of trumpets for the charge send these veteran fatalists into the fight with an omen of discomfiture-in the disheartening close," who stakes it may lose"-ringing in their ears :

"To horse, my brave comrades, to horse! once met
In the field, we're again our own;

In the field a man is worth something yet,
And the strength of his heart is known:
There nobody takes of the soldier the wall,
'Tis man and himself-to stand or fall.

"Spirit and freedom are banish'd the land,
Master and slave alone you see;
Falsehood and cunning are high in command,
Down to the vassal of low degree.

Who calmly can look at Death full in the face,
The soldier's the freeman-the last of the race.

"All care about life he has thrown far away,
Nor hears tell of fear or sorrow

Boldly he rides to his fate to day

If it comes not to-day, it will come to morrow!

Then, if we've no morrow, to-day let us sup
Our last joyous drops from Time's holiday cup.

""Tis folly to strive, and to struggle, and toil,
When Heaven sends a life of pleasure;
Let Hodge pass his days in upturning the soil,
And grovelling for hidden treasure:

He digs and he shovels, a pitiful knave,
Till at fourscore he finds himself digging his grave,

"One spring from his steed, and the rider alights,
A swift and fearful guest;

The bride-torch burns bright on the castle heights,
Uninvited, he joins the feast:

He stops not of parley or ransom to hear-
The storm of a midnight's the pay of a year.

"Why mourneth the maiden, and weepeth so sore?
Our motto is-Move, boys, move-

Our billets are quarter'd the wide world o'er,
And leave us small leisure for faithful love.
In no happy valley our tents are cast,

Fierce destiny urges us forward too fast.

"Then up, my brave comrades, and on with the bridle!
More freely we breathe in the thick of the fight;

The foam of youth's torrent is all the idle

Brush off-but let us do our work ere night.

Set your lives on the cast, and dash gallantly in:
Who nothing will venture, they nothing shall win."

Poetry with Lord L. Gower is evidently an art and an accomplishment; not a prophetical impulse, or divine necessity of nature. There is nothing of" that which the spirit putteth into my mouth, that must I speak." The only object in publishing verses written for mere amusement, must be that their author may obtain, in some way or other, the opinion of the public; therefore we feel at liberty to tell Lord Leveson, that he has conceived, from the first, far too humble an idea of poetry, even as an art; and that, if he has found amusement in these matters, he has acquired an art far better than the poetaster's,-to wit, that of being easily amused. Nevertheless, there are scattered up and down sufficient proofs of a light and lively hand, and a versatile management of numbers, to show that (in case he be willing to stoop to the requisite degree of concealed labour) he may look to a higher station than that in which the present volumes will place him among the middling poets of the day. It is our deliberate opinion, that he should patiently adhere to his plan of translating the thoughts of others, rather than risk any rash experiments with his own. As far as the choice of a subject is concerned, he appears much better qualified to do justice to writers characterised by spirited movement, or familiar and pointed sallies, than to masters of a higher mood, or to the minglers of the bright and delicate shades of feeling and expression. He will find ample scope and verge enough in the hourly enlarging field of German literature. Its philosophy, indeed, is too subtle and airy for our coarse and mechanical understandings, which seem to insist on some practical application even in the case of metaphysics. But German poetry has an affinity with our own. There is a beautifully imagined ode by Klopstock, where he represents the Muse of Germany entering the lists,, as for a race, with that of England. The cloud of dust and the intervening distance are supposed, as the competitors approach the goal, to conceal them from his sight. We moderns shall have shame, rather than honour, from the testimony borne in it to our mighty masters, if we can consent to an inglorious repose upon ancient, though