« ZurückWeiter »
to the care of Mr Markham, of the King's For months; or that the birds, more joyous grown,
Catch once again their silver summer tone, Head, who will set before you provisions
And they who late from bough to bough did and wine worthy of a more important coun
creep, try town: and he will add to your enter
Now trim their plumes upon some sunny steep,
And seem to sing of Winter overthrown: tainment the pleasant garniture of a civil
No with an equal march the immortal mind, and respectful demeanour.
As tho' it never could be left behind “ Here, my friends, I take my leave, and Keeps pace with every movement of the
And (for high truths are born in happiness) recommend you to stay two or three days As the warm heart expands, the eye grows clear, and achieve the following walks in the And sees beyond the slave's or bigot's guess. neighbourhood.-To Bull's Cross, and on
B wards through Theobald's Park to Cheshunt.
SUMMER. To White-webs Wood and its vicinity : Now have young April and the blue eyed May (near this spot, the conspirators in James
Vanished awhile, and lo! the glorious June
(While nature ripens in his burning noon), the First's reign used to meet ; possibly to Comes like a young inheritor; and gay, watch the motions of the court whenever it Altho' his parent months have passed away: was held at Theobald's). To Clay-hill and
But his green crown shall wither, and the tune
That ushered in his birth be silent soon, its neighbourhood. To Northaw, Hadley, And in the strength of youth shall he decay. and East Barnet. Over all this ground has What matters this so long as in the past
And in the days to come we live, and feel my
The present nothing worth, until it steal Careless childhood strayed, a stranger yet to pain. Away, and, like a disappointment, die ?
C. C. C.
For Joy, dim child of Hope and Memory,
Flies ever on before or follows fast. We must find room for a few specie
B mens of the poetry. The following
AUTUMN. little composition is precisely fitted for There is a fearful spirit busy now. a Pocket-Book, kind, pure, and affec
Already have the elements unfurled
Their banners: the great sea-wave is upcurled : tionate,--and awakening the best feel- The cloud comes: the fierce winds begin to blow ings of our nature, all the most pleasant about, and blindly on their errands go
And quickly will the pale red leaves be hurled recollections of domestic life. It is by Stripped of its pride, Be like a desert show.
From their dry boughs, and all the forest world! Mr Charles Lloyd, author of Nugæ i love that moaning music which I hear Canoræ, reviewed in our last Number In the bleak gusts of Autumn, for the soul
Seems gathering tidings from another sphere, in a manner worthy of their great And, in sublime mysterious sympathy, merit.
Man's bounding spirit ebbs, and swells more
high, TO PRISCILLA LD.-Written in May. Accordant to the billow's loftier roll. My Friend, Priscilla, as in days of old
B When Ossian's wild harp rang, the hero's breast
This is the eldest of the seasons: he
Moves not like spring with gradual step, nor Soft as the beam which from the evening sky
grows Smiles on the face of nature. Oft at night
From bud to beauty, but with all his snows Do I from melancholy dreams awake
Comes down at once in hoar antiquity. And think on thee. I know the bitter tears
No rains nor loud proclaiming tempests flee Which thou must often shed, ere Peace enshrine
Before him, nor unto his time belong Her treasure in thy breast. Yet there are gleams The suns of Summer, nor the charms of song, Of comfort here, though many storms of woe : That with May's gentle smiles so well agree. There are sweet calls of morn's rejoicing voice, But he, made perfect in his birth-day cloud But there are many more departing days
Starts into sudden life with scarce a sound, Clothed in grief's interminable cloud.
And with a tender footstep prints the ground, Now Spring returns again! then come to me
As tho' to cheat man's ear: yet while he stays Gay thoughts of joy,-ah, hopes long absent, come!
He seems as 'twere to prompt our merriest The air is calm, serene and soft the sky,
days, Blue lies the water 'mid the swell of meads
And bid the dance and joke be long and loud. That glow with summer hues. The oak assumes
ß A yellower green: the elm, and sycamore, And trembling lime, a darker verdure wave; We now put both the numbers of And many a shrub, in nearer view, delights With various foliage, underneath whose shade the Literary Pocket-Book into their The tufted daisy and the primrose peep.
place on our shelves and recommend Surely such forms of innocent delight Should warm my breast, and when to these I bring them to our readers. The idea is The memory of thy form, and mingle still good and ingenuous, and the execution With nature's every charm thy valued love, I were ungrateful did my vacant heart
is, on the whole, excellent. The price Beat not with renovated thankfulness.
is only five shillings, and to a stranger Sweet sounds, sweet shapes, and perfumes mild and
in London it is worth three times pure, Solicit every sense, and thou the while
five, if it were for nothing but the Dwell'st in my bosom.-Now, sweet girl, farewell !
L. lists. But there is also much clever, We close our extracts with four and some very fine writing in it, and sonnets by Mr Cornwall, which are independent of all the lists, and of the perfect in their beauty and majesty. diary too, the original matter is worth SONNETS ON THE SEASONS.
the price. It may and will be im. SPRING.
proved upon year after year. To shew our It is not that sweet herbs and flowers alone
own estimation of it, we have not only Start up, like spirits that have lain aslecp Ia thair great mother's icod bosom deep
made it now furnish an article to us,
but we have purchased six copies for Olliers' shop in Vere Street. Our readnew-year's gifts to six young ladies of ers will observe a list of some new our acquaintance, on condition of have things in our Literary Intelligence of ing them returned to us at the close this month. We look hopefully to of 1820, after which we will keep them all—and long for an opportunity them sacred in our escrutoire among of saying something kind of “ Enethe gathered treasures of twice twenty silla.” “ Altham and his Wife,” by years.
the same anonymous, and to us un. We cannot conclude without re- known author, shewed both sensibility marking, that many very interesting and genius. little works keep issuing from Messrs
No. II. The Ancestress; a Tragedy. By Grillparzer. * ANOTHER astonishing genius has very tisfy our readers, that the genius of lately devoted himself to the dramatic Grillparzer is one of the most pure, career in Germany; by name Francis masterly, and majestic order. Grillparzer. He is even a younger We have already hinted, that the man than Adolphus Müllner ; and on German poets of the present day are the whole, perhaps, promises to ef- very fond of the doctrine of fatalism; fect still greater wonders in the de- indeed very few of them seem to think partment which he has chosen. We it possible to compose a powerful traare yet acquainted with only two of gedy without introducing the idea of his plays, the Sappho and the Ances- some dark impending destiny long tress, and each in its way appears to predetermined long announced imus to be a master-piece. The former perfectly—long dreaded obscurely-in is written on the strict Greek model, the accomplishment of which the chief and breathes throughout the truest persons of the drama are to suffer mispirit of antique lyrical inspiration, series for which their own personal ofturned to the delicate display of all fences have not been sufficient to furthe workings of that most beautiful of nish any due cause. We have no bethe passions, on which, in its finest lief that they are wise in entertaining and purest shapes, the dramatic write so exclusive a partiality for this species ings of the Greeks themselves can of interest; but there is no question scarcely be said to have touched. The the effect it produces in their hands is latter, of which we now propose to such as to account very easily for the give a short account, is written en- partiality with which dramas, comtirely on the romantic plan of Cal- posed on this principle, are now rederon, but its interest is chiefly founded garded by all the audiences and alon the darkest superstitions of north- most all the critics of Germany. Neiern imagination. It is composed ther is it to be denied, that many of throughout, as indeed many of the the most perfect creations of preceding German dramas of the present time dramatists have owed much of their are, in the same light and lyrical kind power to the influence of the same of versification of which the most idea. It lies at the root of all those charming specimens are to be found in Greek tragedies, in which the early the works of the great Spanish mas- history of the heroic houses is emter. It must lose, therefore, not a bodied; and in later times it has been little of its peculiar character and frequently used both by Calderon and beauty by being rendered in a style so Shakspeare. It is sufficient to men
a different as that of our English blank- tion the Meditation on the Cross of the verse-but even in spite of this dis- one, and the Macbeth of the other. advantage, enough will remain to sa- The present tragedy is a terrible ex
• We have been permitted to make use of a MS. translation of this play by Mr Gillies. We have also been promised the use of several other versions of fine German tragedies which he has already executed all of thein in a manner quite worthy of his fine talents.
emplification of this terrible idea ; and Its import I had guess'd. 'Tis the conviction,
That evermore is closely forc'd upon me, it is the more terrible, because the
That destiny resistless has determined sins of the Ancestress are represented To hurl from earth the race of Borotin.
See here they write me, that our only cousin as being visited, not by sufferings on- (Whom scarcely I have seen), of all the last, ly, but by sins on her descendants. Besides myself, that bore our name-(he too
In years, and childless) --suddenly by night The scene opens in the chief hall of a Has died. Thus, of our house, at length, am I gothic castle, the family of which has Sole representative. With me it falls.
No son will follow to the tomb my bier : already become nearly extinct under The hireling herald there will bear my shield, the influence of that ancestral Ate, the
That oft has shone in battle, and my sword
Well proved, and lay them with me in the grave. final expiation of which now draws There is an old tradition, that has long near its close. Count Borotin and his
Pass'd round from tongue to tongue, that of our
house daughter Bertha are alone in this The ancestress, for some dire crimes long past, hall; and the conversation which they The last frail branch (even of the stem that she
Must wander without rest, till she behold hold will put us in possession of every Herself had planted) from this earth remov'd.
Well then she may rejoice, for her design thing that is requisite for understand
Is near fulfilment. Almost I believe ing the structure of the piece.
The tale, though strange; for sure a powerful hand Count. (Sitting at a table, and looking fixedly
For our destruction must have been employed. at a letter, which he holds with both hands.)
In strength I stood, magnificently blooming, Well, then, what must be let it come-I see
Supported by three brothers. On them all Branch after branch depart; and scarcely now
Death prematurely seized. Then home I brought The wither'd stem can longer be supported.
A wife, as young, as amiable, and lovely,
As thou art now. But one blow more is wanting; in the dust
Our nuptials were most happy. Then lies the oak, whose blissful shade so far
From our chaste union sprung a boy and girl: Extended round. What centuries have beheld
Soon ye were left my only consolation, Bud, and wither, shall like them depart.
My life's last hope. Thy mother went to Heaven.) No trace will of our ancestors remain
Carefully as the light of mine own eyes, How they have fought and striven. The fiftieth year
These pledges I watched over, but in vain; Scarce will have passed; no grandchild more will
Fruitless the strife. What caution or what strength know
Could from the powers of darkness save their victim? That even a Borotin has lived
Scarcely thy brother had three years attain'd, Bertha. (At the window.) The night,
When, in the garden for his recreation, In truth, is fearful: cold and dark, my father,
He wander'd from his nurse. The door stood open, Even as the grave. Thelet-loose winds are moaning
That leads out to the neighbouring pond. Till then
It had been ever closed, but now stood open.
For otherwise the blow had not succeeded.
Ah! now I see thy tears unite with mine-
Thou know'st the rest already!-I, weak man ! Nay, heaven itself, so void and starless, glares,
Have garrulously told too oft before As from wide hollow eyeballs, blackly down
The mournful tale-What more!--Why, he was
drowned On the vast grave beneath! Count. How wearily
But many have been drowned. And that he chanc'd The hours are lengthening! Bertha, what's o'clock?
To be my son-my whole, my only hope Bertha. (Coming back from the window, and
The last support of my declining ageseating herself with her work opposite to her
Who could help this? --So he was drowned, and I
Childless remain. father.) My father, seven has just now struck. Count. Indeed!
Ber. Dear father! But seven! Dark night already! Ah! the year
Count. I can feel Is old-her days are shortening-her 'numbed pulse
The gentle reprehension of thy love. Is fault'ring, and she totters to the grave.
Childless, unthinking, do I call myself, Ber. Nay, but the lovely May will come again;
When I have thee? Thou dear and faithful one! The fields be clad anew; the gales breathe soft;
Ah, pray forgive the rich man who had lost The flowers revive.
Half his possessions in misfortune's storm, Count. Aye-truly will the year
And, long by superfluity surrounded, Renew itself; the fields unfold their
Held himself now a mendicant. Forgive me,
green; The rivulets flow; and the sweet flower, that now
If, in the lightning flash that brought destruction, Has died away, will from long sleep awake,
The object of affection shone too brightly! And from the white soft pillow gayly lift
Nay, 'tis most true, I am unjust. - A name!Its youthful head, open its glittering eyes,
Is this of such importance? Did I live And smile as kindly as before. The tree,
But for the reputation of my house? That now amid the storm imploringly
Can I the sacrifice with coldness take, Stretches its dry and naked arms to heaven,
thou present'st to me, of youth's enjoyments Will clothe itself with verdure. All that now
And life's prosperity ? Of mine existence Lurks in the mighty house of Nature, far
Shall the last days be to thy good devoted. On woods and plains, then shall rejoice anew
Yes; by a husband's side, who loves thee truly, In the fresh vigour of the spring.-But never
And can deserve thy favour, may to you The oak of Borotin shall know revival.
Another name and other fortune flourish! Ber. Dear father, you are sad.
Choose freely from our countrymen. Thy worth Count. Him blest I call,
To me will guarantee thy choice. But now Whom life's last hour surprises in the midst
Thou sigh'st !-Hast thou already chosen then ? Of his lov'd children. Give not to such parting That young man, Jaromir, methinks, of EsschenThe name of death: for he survives in memory
Is it not so ? Lives in the fruits of his own labour-lives
Ber. Dare I confess? In the applause and emulating deeds
Count. Didst thou Of his successors. Oh! it is so noble,
Believe, that from a father's eyes could be Of his own toil the scattered seeds to leave
Concealed the slightest cloud upon thy heaven? To faithful hands, that carefully will rear
Yet should I not indulge in some reproof Each youngling plant, and the ripe fruits enjoy,
For this? That I must guess, what long ere now Doubling the enjoyment by their gratitude.
I should have fully known? Have I in aught Oh! 'tis so sweet and soothing, that which we
To thee been harsh? And art thou not to me
My dear and only child? Thou call'st him noble,
And if he stands the proof,
much good may follow: Father, you were so cheerful-seemed yourself
Though of our house extinct, the spreading lands To enjoy. Now, since it is perused, at once
Fall to imperial power, yet to support You are untun'd.
A moderate lot, enough will still remain. Count. Ah, no! 'tis not the letter
Ber. Oh! how shall die.
The deliverance of Bertha, from the Ber. My looks?
Count. Aye, thine! hand of robbers, by this bold and beau- Lift not thine eye-lids up so fearfully,
There! so it was !-Yet no-more fix'd and stern! tiful youth, is described at great length
Stern !-language has no word for such an aspect. -then the beginnings of their love- Look'st thou upon me now so soothingly, and last of all, the fears of the youth
To efface th’ impression of that painful moment ?
'Tis all in vain. Long as I live, to me and the maid that their love might not That frightful image will before me stand
Even on my death-bed it will haunt me still. be approved by the haughty Count
Look’st thou as mild as moonlight on a soft Borotin, “ Though himself,” says she, And lovely evening landscape, yet I know, Descended from a noble race, he bears
At pleasure thou can'st kill. Their pride without their fortune-poor and needy
Ber. Alas! my father, As he is now, I've heard him say, he fears
What have I done to move thee thus? why scold That the rich Borotin some other meed
My guiltless eyes that anxiously in search Might for his daughter pay, but not herself.
of thine, with tears of sorrow now are filled,
That I left thee asleep, and thoughtlessly The Count relieves her fears, and
Went forth awhile. expresses his anxiety to see the youth. Count. Went forth ? Not so ! because
Thou wert here present. Bertha leaves him, and ascends the
Ber. I? watch-tower to look out over the forest Count. Nay, did'st thou not
Stand in that place, shooting thy dead cold arrows in case she may see her lover. The
Through my defenceless bosom? old count being left alone, falls into a Ber. While you slept ?
Count. Just now; 'tis but a moment since. slumber. The clock strikes eight. Ber. In truth, At the last stroke the lights are ex
I came now from the balcony. When sleep
Had seized you, I went longing out to try, tinguished. A blast of wind rushes
If I could meet with Jaromir.
Count. For shame! into the apartment--the storm is heard
Girl! dost thou mock me? roaring without, and, after an extra- Ber. Mock thee? I, my father? ordinary rustling noise, there appears, close by the chair of the old man, the
The old Steward of the family, who spirit of his Ancestress. Her features has entered the apartment, confirms and form closely resemble those of the statement of Bertha—and after a Bertha, but she wears a long white pause--he ventures to say, that the sufuneral veil, and her eyes have the perstition of the neighbourhood recold fixed stare of death. She bends presents the shade of the Ancestress, over the Count with an expression of as loving to appear in the very form inexpressible sorrow and commisera- described by the Count-adding, that tion. The Count, (disturbed in his whoever looks on her picture, which is sleep) exclaims,
preserved in this very hall, must be Count. Away-away— begone! (He awakes.) convinced the Ancestress resembled Ha! art thou three,
Bertha in feature no less than in name. My Bertha-nay, it was a fearful dream, That rous'd mine inward senses. Take again
Bertha before this has laboured to beThe harp, my daughter !--Music will revive me.
lieve her father had only seen a dream (The spectre has raised itself again, and stares at the Count with eyes wide open.)
but adds she(Count terrified.) Why dost thou stare so horribly upon me
And yet 'twas only yesterday, my father, So that my heart within me thence revolts
I went by twilight thro' the ancestral hall. With horror,-in my bones the marrow freezes? Midway, there hangs a mirror, half obscurd, Away with such a look ! avert thine eyes !.
And full of stains. Yet there I stood a-while, So did I see thee in my dream; and yet,
At the dim glass to arrange my dress. Just then, My brain is burning. Wilt thou kill thy father ? When I had put both hands down to my sash,
( The spectre turns away, and goes a few steps (There, father, you will laugh at me, and I towards the door.) So-now I know myself again, Myself must laugh at mine own childish fear; but whither,
Though at the moment only with chill horror, Child, art thou going!
Could I behold that image so distorted) (The ghost turns again, when at the door, and When, as I said, both hands I had applied in a sepulchral tone, says,) Ances. Home!
To tie my sash, then in the glass my shadow
(Erit.) Most unaccountably appeared with arins Count. (Falls back on his scat, as if thunder- Raised to its head; and, with a chilling horror, struck, and, after a pause, says,) Ha! what is In the dark mirror I beheld my features that!
Frightfully chang'd; the same, and yet how differHave I been dreaming? Did I not behold
ent, My daughter stand before me--hear the words
Holding even such resemblance to myself That were like death, and feel my blood run cold As one in health to her own lifeless corse. At the dread ghostly look? And yet, my daughter, Wide staring were its eyes, at me directed; My gentle Bertha ! 'Where art thou? Ho! Bertha?
And its gaunt bony fingers seem'd to point (Enter Bertha and Gunther, the chamberlain.) Some fearful warning! Ber.. (Rushing forward.) Dear father, what's Gun. Wo! the Ancestress! the matter?
Count. (As if struck by some terrible and sudden Count. Art thou there?
idea, and springing up.) The Ancestress. What has disturb'd thee? Tell me, how is this, Ber. (Surprised.) What said'st thou? That thou unkindly, like a midnight spirit,
Gun. Have you not, Roam'st thro' the desolate hall, with strange de- My noble lady, in that hall beheld meanour,
Her portrait, which to see, bears that resemblance To scare the life-worn sleeper?
It scems as if yourself, in life and health, Ber. I, my father?
Had to the painter sat ? Count. Aye, thou! what? thou art ignorant, Ber. Oft times I've seen it,
Not without wonder; and to me it was Could'st tix thy staring corpse looks, even like dag- The dearer for that likeness. gers
Gun. Then you know not In thine old father's heart!
The legend that has gone from tongue to tongue?
The legend is, that this Bertha of a Fatigued and weary Jaromir retires former age, was the wife of the Lord to his chamber, but he is disturbed of Borotin ; and being detected in there, in a manner for which our adultery, was slain by the dagger of readers may already be prepared. her husband. The husband, however,
An hundred mouths make horrible grimaces did not suspect that his son was the At his bed's fooi-there dawns a steady light, issue of sinful love; and his lands and
As of the moon and there a visage rises,
With closed up dead eyes—but with features lovely, his name descended to a bastard-from Even in decay, well known, for they are Bertha's. whom the present noblerace are sprung. In memory of this domestic tragedy, the dark and deserted hall, we hear
Bursting from his bed-chamber into the dagger by which the lady had fal
him exclaiming thus : len, is still hung by the wall of the apartment in which they are assem- Jar. What, has all hell broke loose, and all on bled: while the troubled spectre itself Alone its malice pour'd? Dire grinning ghosts is compelled to wander about the scenes I see before-upon me-all around;
And terror, as with vampire throat, sucks out of her former guilt, till the last of the The life-blood from my veins; and from my brain, race that has through her deceit be
The marrow of right reason. Oh! that I
Had never enter'd here ! Upon the threshold, come possessed of the honours of the An angel stood and welcom'd me. Within house of Borotin, shall have died.
All hell is lodged. Yet, whither have I stray'd,
By inward anguish driven? Is this not still Whenever any accident of misery or That honourable hall, that when I came, death is about to befall that house, the
Received me? All is silent, for the sake
Of those who sleep. Silent ! what if they knew spectre becomes visible--rejoicing that My strange disorder Ha! what sounds are these ? a step towards her own repose had
Listening at the door of Bertha's apartment.)
Sweet tones! I know them well, and fain would been gained ; yet shuddering and la- drink
Those accents on the lips that gave them birth. menting, with the feelings of a mother, Listen! Ha! words ! she prays, perchance for me ; over the sufferings that come upon her Pure spirit, now I thank thee! children. There is something too
(Listening again.) “Heavenly powers!
Assist us !" Aye, indeed; assist us, Heaven ! awful to be dwelt upon, in this deep
“ And save us !" From my heart I join the prayer,
Savę us! Oh! from myself may Heaven protect and thrilling dream of superstitionbut surely there is poetry enough in
Thou sweet pure being, I can stay no longer;
I must from hence, and fly to her; fall down it, to redeem every fault it may be Prostrate, and in her sacred presence gain charged with
Freedom and peace from Heaven. Aye, she, in
deed, The Count and his daughter O'er such a visitant may offer up retire ;-and after a pause, Jaro
Her orisons as o'er a lifeless frame;
And, from the influence of her breath, shall I mir her lover, rushes panting into Rise consecrated. (He approaches the door. It the hall, a broken sword all bloody in
opens, and the Ancestress appears, with both her
kands making signs to him to retire.) Ha! thou his hand-the Steward follows him, lovely one, and learns that he has just been as
And art thou here?
'Tis I, dear Bertha, frown not, saulted by a band of robbers in the Repel me not by these cold looks, but grant forest, and with difficulty escaped. Leaning on thy pure angel breast to draw
That I may once again enjoy the rapture, Upon this the Count and his daughter From the blue heaven of those unclouded eyes, return, and Borotin is informed by Quiet and consolation,
(The ghost steps forward from the door, which the mode of their address, that he sees closes behind her, and repeats the same gestures.)
Must I go before him the deliverer of Bertha.
Nay, but I cannot, cannot, while I view thee The Count immediately proclaims his So ravishing before my raptur'd sight,
All round thee seems enchanted ground. I feel gratitude and his approbation of their
That on my bosom's gloom new splendour dawns love.
Visions that long have slept, once more awake, Jar. I stand astonished, and ashamed.
In all their glory. Could'st thou see me suffer? Count. How so?
Shall I before thee perish ? Let my voice So should we feel. Our gratitude so mean,
In supplication move thee. Let me follow Thy deed so noble.
Into thy chamber. Can true love deny Jar. Noble ! Oh! could I
What love requests ? But say that it had cost me aught—some wound
(Going towards her.) Ha ! Bertha, my own BerHad I to show, even but a triling scar,
tha! For a remembrance. Oh! it vexes me
(As he approaches her, the ghost extends her Most deeply, such a prize to have retriev'd,
right arm, and points with her finger.) (Jar. falt And paid no price.
ing back with a cry of terror.) Ha! Count. Nay, modesty becomes
Ber: (From within.) Heard I not Jaromir? A youth ; but let him not thus undervalue
(At the first sound of Bertha's voice, the ghost His own deserts.
sighs, and retires slowly: Before she disappears, Ber. Believe him not, my father!
Bertha comes forward, but without observing tho He loves to slight himself: and long ago,
ghost, looking only at Jaromir.) Ber, (With a I knew this of him. Oft he lay before me,
light.) What, art thou here? And kiss'd my feet, and with pain broken voice,
Jar. (Following the ghost with his eye, and Weeping, he cried aloud, “My dear, dear, Bertha,
with outstretched arms.) There-there-thereI am not worthy of thee!"-He unworthy!
there! Of me unworthy!
Ber. Dear Jaromir, what is it? Jar. Bertha !
What moves thee thus? And why towards that And soon after ends the first act.
dark corner Look'st thou so wildly?.