Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

How is it thou dost not shudder at my sight?
And knowest thou whom thou art delivering?

FAUSTUS.

Come, come !-the darkness of the night is fading.

MARGARET.

My mother, I have murdered her-my child
I drowned my child-and was it not thy child,
Thy child and mine? yes, thine! and thou art here,
I scarcely can believe it is thyself.

Give me thine hand-it is not then a dream;

Thine own dear hand. Oh, God! his hand is moistWipe, wipe it off! methought it felt like blood!

What hast thou done? Ah, sheath thy bloody sword; Ah, hide it from me.

FAUSTUS.

Think not of the past;

That which is done, is done. Come, this delay

Is death to me!

No;

MARGARET.

thou must yet remain,
Till I describe to thee the graves, which thou
To-morrow must see made the best place give
To my poor mother; near her lay my brother;
And by their side a little space away,

Place me; and on my right breast lay my child;
No other will lie with me in that bed!
To nestle down in quiet side by side
To thee-oh what a happy thing it was-
A happy thing that never more can be.
I feel as if I forced myself on thee,
And that thou wert repelling my embrace;
And yet thou art the same-and yet thy looks
Are good and kind, as they have ever been.
FAUSTUS.

Oh, if thou feelest that 'tis I, come, come.

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

Day! yes, 'tis day, the last, the judgment-day;
My bridal day it should have been; tell none
That thou hast been with poor weak Margaret.
Alas! my garland is already withered ;
We'll meet again, but not at dances, love :
The crowd is gathering tumultuously,

The square and street are thronged with crushing thousands;

The bell hath sounded; the death wand is broken;

They bind and blindfold me, and force me on;

On to the scaffold they have hurried me ;

Down in the chair of blood they fasten me :

And now through every neck of all that multitude
Is felt the bitter wound that severs mine.
The world is now as silent as the grave!

FAUSTUS.

Oh, that I never had been born!

MEPHISTOPHELES (appears at the door.)

Away, or you are lost;

This trembling, and delay, and idle chattering,
Will be your ruin; hence, or you are lost;
My horses shiver in the chilling breeze
Of the grey morning.

MARGARET.

What shape is that which rises from the earth?

'Tis he, 'tis he, oh, send him from this place ;

What wants he here? Oh, what can bring him here?

Why does he tread on consecrated ground?

[blocks in formation]

Large as have been our extracts from this truly original poem, the reader who confines himself to them can have but little idea of its power and beauty as a whole. Considered strictly as a dramatic composition, its great merit consists in the characters of Mephistopheles and Margaret. That of the former is a masterpiece. Pure intellect, exerted in ceaseless activity and in one steady direction, by the force of habit, without motive, without emotion, without gratification, would, in the first instance, appear the most unmanageable of all personifications; it would seem impossible to prevent it from becoming a cold, unreal, and uninteresting abstraction, or impossible to preserve it amid the working of passions and the bustle of real life in unimpassioned and unmoved consistency-yet the triumph of the poet is here complete. No touch of human feeling, no stirring of desire, no enjoyment of gratified affec

tion or appetite ever mingles with the constant operation of the Dæmon's deep and unclouded wit; every superstitious fancy, every mysterious feeling, every fearful recollection of the reader's own breast, all the externals connected with the legendary fiend, are set at work by the poet to give full and distinct personality to this creature of his fancy; but through all the apparently wild and wayward extravagancies of his action, the unearthly consistency of the Dæmon's character is observed without a break. Margaret and Martha were probably suggested to the author by Juliet and her Nurse. We find in Margaret the same girlish simplicity as in Juliet, modified only by the differences of her country and condition, the same love at first sight, the same ready confession of her passion, and when her affections are engaged, the same

"Bounty as boundless as the sea,
And love as deep;"

but in the terrific sequel of her career of guilt and shame, the bard has exbibited the character suggested to him under circumstances unparalleled in the original—has vindicated his claim to it, and fairly made it his own. Considered in each scene by itself, Faustus is admirably drawn. Each scene is an exhibition of human nature in some particular posture, but that harmony is failed of, which makes these the postures of the same individual mind, and fixes them to one person. Faustus wants personality, and the reader feels little interest in the nominal hero of

To judge,

the piece throughout.
however, of this poem by the rules of
the regular drama would be absurd.
The best critic, after all, is the reader's
own mind and feeling; and we are
mistaken if our extracts have not sup-
plied him with materials for forming some
judgment of the poetry in this volume.
We must add one more, and that one,
because in the whole compass of
English Lyrical Poetry-and to Eng-
lish poetry it now belongs-we do
not think that there is any thing which
surpasses it-it is from the prelude at
the theatre :-

Give me, oh! give me back the days
When I-I too-was young-

And felt, as they now feel, each coming hour

New consciousness of power.

Oh happy, happy time, above all praise!

Then thoughts on thoughts and crowding fancies sprung,
And found a language in unbidden lays;

Unintermitted streams from fountains ever flowing;-
Then, as I wander'd free,

In every field, for me

Its thousand flowers were blowing!

A veil through which I did not see,

A thin veil o'er the world was thrown

In every bud a mystery;

Magic in every thing unknown :

The fields, the grove, the air was haunted,
And all that age has disenchanted.

Yes! give me give me back the days of youth,
Poor, yet how rich!-my glad inheritance,
The inextinguishable love of truth,
While life's realities were all romance-
Give me, oh! give youth's passions unconfined,
The rush of joy that felt almost like pain,
Its hate, its love, its own tumultuous mind;
Give me my youth again!

Whether Mr. Anster may not have some right to complain that we have considered this work rather as an original poem than as a translation we cannot pretend to determine. On himself, after all, the guilt, if there be any, mainly rests. We have read the poem with an unbroken and unoffended interest which we should have thought it impossible for a translation to create and sustain, and even still find it hard to recur to it with any permanent recollection that it is one. This, we consider—and we think that most readers will agree with us-constitutes its greatest excellence. The poet whose mind moves so freely and so truly through the whole

train of another's operations as never
in their exhibition to remind us of
effort or constraint, may certainly
stand on fair ground of rivalry with
his original :-Could higher praise
than this belong in the present case to
any poet? The poem is one which
tries the translator's skill in every
species of poetic composition, and in
each taxes his powers to the very
utmost:--
--Mr. Auster has shrunk from
none, and in all he has been emi-
nently successful. The conceptions of
his author are not preserved in the
cumbrous folds and wrappings of the
Embalmer's art, but start up before us
in the fair forms and proportions
of living things. Even without the

reader's possessing a knowledge of the original language which would enable him to judge of Mr. Anster's merit as a critically faithful translator, there is an internal evidence of the general fidelity of a translation, arising from the consistency of its parts, which all can appreciate, and which this work possesses in the highest degree. Germany owes a deep debt of gratitude to Mr. Anster for being the first who, after years of incredulity, has in these countries fully justified her enthusiastic admiration of her mighty bard. As Irishmen we feel justly proud that this high triumph has been achieved by our countryman. The man who, under any circumstances, gives a new impulse to the literature of his country, has a strong claim on her gratitude; but this claim is greatly enhanced when, as in Mr. Anster's case, he has made the attempt amid the absorbing interest of political excitement and the conflict of angry and tumultuous factions. His work must, we confidently expect,

as

assume a permanent station in the highest rank of English poetry. Under these circumstances, and with these feelings, we cannot bring ourselves to notice such lesser imperfections must be found in any of man's labours; and we take our leave of Mr. Anster with the sincerest admiration of his genius, and congratulation of this triumphant display of it.

The other translations in the volume are executed with the same spirit and vigor as the larger one, on which we have dwelt so long, and present the same indications of extraordinary original power in the translator. În the Notes the reader will find much rare and interesting information. The Preface is written with an elegance that does honour to the author's taste, and a kindliness towards his brother labourers which does honour to his feelings, and the Dedication associates with his own a name dear to every scholar, every man of worth or genius, and every Christian in this country.

CORPORATION REFORM.

IN February last, on the meeting of parliament, the House of Commons, at the suggestion of Lord Morpeth, inserted a clause in their address to the King, in which they expressed their regret that the progress of many useful reforms had been interrupted by the dissolution of the preceding parliament. To those who remembered that but a little time before that dissolution, the Whig Lord Chancellor had declared that if the session of 1834 had effected little, the session of 1835 would effect less, this proceeding of the House of Commons appeared strange and unaccountable. It was, however, adopted upon the distinct and emphatic assurance of Lord John Russell, that, at the time when the Melbourne cabinet was broken up, a variety of measures of reform were actually in the course of preparation, when, unhappily, the sudden dismissal of the industrious and honest statesmen who composed the Melbourne Cabinet had deprived the country of the promulgation of those marvellous measures that were to be

enduring monuments of the wisdom and the patriotism of their authors.

Those assertions of Lord John Russell were certainly strangely at variance with the no less positive declarations of Lord Brougham. The House of Commons, however, chose rather to believe the word of the ex-minister; and, on the assurance of that word, they committed themselves to the truth of his statements. This was probably all that Lord John desired— the statement served the party purpose for which it was designed--it furnished the pretext for an unmeaning amendment to the address to the King, and gave honourable members an opportunity of shewing their factious opposition to ministers whom they had determined to find guilty, but against whom the only difficulty was to find a charge.

The noble lord perhaps prided himself on the ingenuity of his device. It was something to have framed an excuse for faction--to have invented a story that served as a pretext for the base manœuvres of party.

Satisfied

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »