of the Deity when young, abounds in singular animal spirits, a careless yet exuberant feeling of mixed power and indifference, of the zest of new-born life, and a godlike superiority to its human manifestations of it, such as we might suppose to take place before vice and virtue were thought of, or only thought of to afford pastime for mischievous young gods, who were above the necessity of behaving themselves. I will confine myself, however, to the quotation of a passage or two from the scenes out of Goethe's "Faust." They contain the Prologue in Heaven, which Lord Leveson Gower has omitted in his translation, and the May-day Night, which he has abridged, and thought untranslatable. The Prologue in Heaven is remarkable for the liberties which a privy-counsellor and gentleman with a star at his breast (for such the original poet is) may take with the scriptural idea of the Divinity, and yet find readers to eulogize and translate him. It is a parody on the beginning of the Book of Job. Not that I believe the illustrious German intended any disrespect to loftier conceptions of a Deity. The

magnificent Hymn that precedes it, shows he can do justice to the noblest images of creation, and improve what other poets have repeated to us of the songs of angels. Mr. Shelley's opinion of the Book of Job (on which he thought of founding a tragedy) was not the less exalted, (nor, I dare say, Goethe's either,) because he could allow himself to make this light and significant comment on the exordium. But it is worth while noticing these sort of discrepancies; and to observe also, how readily they shall be supposed without being comprehended for the sake of one man, and how little comprehended or supposed either for the toleration of another.

SCENE THE HARTZ MOUNTAIN, A DESOLATE COUNTRY.

Faust, Mephistophiles.

Meph. Would you not like a broomstick? As for me,
I wish I had a good stout ram to ride;

For we are still far from th' appointed place.
Faust. This knotted staff is help enough for me,
Whilst I feel fresh upon my legs. What good
Is there in making short a pleasant way?
To creep along the labyrinths of the vales,
And climb those rocks, where ever-babbling springs
Precipitate themselves in waterfalls,

Is the true sport that seasons such a path.
Already Spring kindles the birchen spray,
And the hoar pines already feel her breath :
Shall she not work also within our limbs ?
Meph. Nothing of such an influence do I feel.
My body is all wintry, and I wish

The flowers upon our path were frost and snow.
But see; how Melancholy rises now

Dimly uplifting her belated beam,

The blank unwelcome round of the red moon,

And gives so bad a light, that every step

871

One stumbles 'gainst some crag. With your permission,

I'll call an Ignis-Fatuus to our aid;

I see one yonder burning jollily.

Halloo, my friend! may I request that you

Would favour us with your bright company?

Why should you blaze away there to no purpose
Pray, be so good as light us up this way.
Ignis-Fatuus. With reverence be it spoken, I will try
To overcome the lightness of nature:
my

Our course, you know, is generally zig-zag.

Meph. Ha! ha! your worship thinks you have to deal
With men. Go straight on, in the Devil's name,

Or I shall puff your flickering light out.
Ignis-Fatuus.

I see you are the master of the house;

Well,

I will accommodate myself to you.
Only consider, that to-night this mountain

Is all enchanted, and if Jack-a-lanthorn

should miss your own,

Shows his
you
way, though you
You ought not to be too exact with him.

Faust, Mephistophiles, and Ignis-Fatuus, in alternate chorus.

The limits of the sphere of dream,

The bounds of true and false, are past.
Lead us on, thou wandering Gleam,

Lead us onward, far and fast,

To the wide, the desert waste.

But see how swift advance and shift
Trees behind trees, row by row,-
How, clift by clift, rocks bend and lift
Their frowning foreheads as we go.
The giant-snouted crags, ho! ho!
How they snort, and how they blow!

Through the mossy sods and stones,

Stream and streamlet hurry down;
A rushing throng! A sound of song

Beneath the vault of heaven is blown!

A profound living critic (I forget his name) has discovered, that the couplet in italics is absurd—crags having no snouts properly so called, and being things by no means alive or blowing! The plot now thickens. Every thing is vivified like the rocks; every thing takes a devilish aspect and meaning; the winds rise; the stragglers of the Devil's festival begin to appear, and the travellers feel themselves in the "witch element."

Faust.

How

The children of the wind rage in the air!

With what fierce strokes they fall upon my neck

Meph. Dost thou not hear?

Strange accents are ringing

Aloft, afar, anear,

The witches are singing!

The torrent of the raging wizard song
Streams the whole mountain along.

Chorus of Witches:

The stubble is yellow, the corn is green,
Now to the Brocken the witches go;
The mighty multitude here may be seen
Gathering, wizard and witch, below.
Sir Urean is sitting aloft in the air;

Hey over stock, and hey over stone!

"Twixt witches and incubi what shall be done?
Tell it who dare! tell it who dare!

A Voice. Upon a sow-swine, whose farrows were nine,
Old Baubo rideth alone.

Chorus.

Honour her to whom honour is due,
Old Mother Baubo! honour to you!
An able sow, with old Baubo upon her,
Is worthy of glory, and worthy of honour!
The legion of witches is coming behind,

Darkening the night, and outspeeding the wind.

A Voice. Which way comest thou?

A Voice.

Over Ilsenstein

;

The owl was awake in the white moonshine;