It is necessary to the understanding of this ode, to state, that it forms the introduc tion to a MS. work of great talent, entitled "Songs of the Ark." ATTILA, KÖNIG DER HUNNEN. ATTILA, KING OF THE Huns. BY F. L. Z. WERNER. WERNER, although decidedly inferior to Müllner and Grillparzer, is nevertheless a very distinguished member of the New German School of Tragedy. His conception of character is vigorous, his delineation spirited; his imagination wild, vivid, creative; and, in compatriot estimation, his poe tic beauties are probably enhanced by the strong tint of mysticism, which, to our commonplace insular habit of at least wishing to understand what we read, materially offuscates their brilliancy. One of his Tragedies, in which the downright horrors of Lillo's FATAL CURIOSITY are relieved by the ideal tone of this mystically supernatural colouring-if we may thus describe the species of fatalism whence Werner derives the crimes of his TWENTY-FOURTH OF FEBRUARYhas been some time ago made known to our readers. In others of his plays, such as DIE SOHNE DES THALS, and DAS KREUZ AN DER OSTSEE, the Sons of the Valley, and the Cross upon the Baltic, this tint becomes so overpower ingly deep a dye as to set our powers of penetration absolutely at defiance; wherefore, without presuming to question their merits, we shall humbly abstain from the attempt to give any account of those works. ATTILA, the subject of the present article, has enough of it to mark the character of the author's genius, without altogether perplexing the simpler-minded reader, at least in the greater part of the Tragedy; and the piece is pecu liarly interesting in other respects. It appears to be a kind of amende hono◄ rable offered by Werner, after his conversion to Catholicism, for the heinous offence committed during his heretical condition, in beginning his dramatic career with an Historical Play in honour of Martin Luther-highly encomiastic, of course, of its hero. In ATTILA, to counterbalance such eulogies, the virtues and piety of the sainted Pope Leo the Great, whose intervention, it will be recollected, preserved Rome from the destructive fury of the savage Huns, are literally raised to all but divine honours; whilst with the power of miracle-working he is liberally endowed. But, to most readers, what may appear chiefly remarkable, is, the very new light in which the Hun conqueror himself is presented. Attila, whom, from our nurseries upwards, through our legendary equally as through our classical studies, we have been used to consider as the most stupidly and ruthlessly ferocious of bloody tyrants, it has lately pleased some German scholars, including Werner, to depict as a man of powerful intellect, and of the most amiable disposition, who exercises his dreadful office of the Scourge of God through motives of universal, pure, and enlightened philanthropy. The Tragedy opens with the storming of Aquileia by Attila and his Huns. The citizens implore mercy; the Hun general, Valamir, rejects their entreaties, and bids his troops Burn, plunder!-Such is Attila's command: The Huns. What Attila commands is ever just! The Huns disperse to execute these agreeable as just commands; whilst the Aquileians, with their Christian clergy, lament their fate, and a Druid Chorus celebrates Attila's triumph-We no more know what the Druids had to do with Attila, than why the Huns should be admitted, after death, to Walhalla. Hildegunde, a Burgundian princess and amazon, now enters with a choral troop of warlike virgins, and the despairing multitude address their supplications to her, as to a future mother. Coldly and hoarsely she replies; A future mother?-I?-Ye err, good people; Mine is a different, weightier destiny! I, to the Scourge of God am closely bound. A Virgin. Oh, lady, have mercy upon their despair, Second Virgin. Whatever their sin, whatever their guilt, Tis atoned by the oceans of blood we have spilt ! Chorus of Virgins. Turn hither thy glances, now stiffen'd in death, And warm them to life in humanity's breath! Hild. From me, what would you? He the flames who kindled Must quench them-Do you deem me Attila? Is't mine to hinder what his rage commands? People. Oh, then, have mercy, thou God of all Grace! Hild. So right-Invoke your God—but dare not hope! Attempt to curse him-You have my permission A curse weighs heavier than lead, but lights not Upon the Scourge of God! Mass Priest. This Attila, In the Mediator's holy name, I curse! A Woman. Away to death! Compassion dwells not here ! (The Aquileians go off wailing.) Hild. Compassion dwells not here-No! nought save vengeance! Oh, hear them, ye avengers of blood-guilt! Dark Pow'rs! hear every curse 'gainst Attila, Chorus of Virgins. Thou art dreadful! A discussion now arises between the Princess and her Virgins, who would She fain persuade her to resume the soft nature and occupations of women. reminds them of her irresistible reasons for abhorring Attila, who had not only conquered and desolated her native land, killing her father, the Burgundian monarch, but had beheaded her betrothed bridegroom, Walter, who was in his power as a hostage for the fidelity of the Burgundians. This part of the dialogue is written in short trochaics. Indeed, no writer with whom we are acquainted varies his metre so incessantly as Werner. We shall, in our translations, so far imitate these changes as to give some idea of their effect. One of the Virgins says soothingly to her mistress, Weep not! Hild. Senseless maidens! are not Strangled in this aching bosom ? Chorus of Virgins. Tearless woman! How terrific! Hildegunde dwells upon the detail of her sorrows, and answers the attempts made by the Chorus to console her, by bursting out wildly and solemnly in anapæsts Then by night to the grove of the Druids I crept, And devoted to vengeance his still bleeding head! Whilst the leaves from the oaks by a whirlwind were swept, And from heaven the stars as in terror had fled; Renouncing compassion, and tears, and life's bloom, To foster an anguish eternal I vow'd, And bargain'd for vengeance to brighten the gloom! My oath in the abyss was recorded-allow'd!" (Hoarsely and slowly.) From the horrid cavern Thus in yells replying, "Attila is thine!" Chorus of Virgins. The very life-blood freezes in my veins ! Responsive midnight-I departed-calm. First Vir. Terrible calmness! Rather let me rush Amidst the horrors of the raging fight! Hild. Since then I can no longer weep, or slumber, Or joy-Murder I can-that's all-and think. |