tures who venture on it? Take our most eminent amorist, Lady Holland's little man, Tom Moore,-and see how cold, glittering, tinsel-like, nine-tenths of his poetry on the subject are, and how completely, how immeasurably under his model, Sappho, he sinks, even in his most elevated and successful efforts. Sappho! did we say y? Why, he is inferior to many passages in the little volume before us, in real and true warmth and tenderness of delicate feeling. The principal poem of Miss Landon's book, is entitled by a name most jaw-breakingly perplexing to the population of Cockaigne; particularly that portion of them who have an affection for lovely Italy,-the Improvisatrice. The idea is pretty; a young lady of great poetical powers falls in love, unhappily, as usual, and her adventures afford a thread on which to hang little poems of her composition. The opening is a very melodious piece of versification. "I am a daughter of that land, Are most divine,-where earth and sky By being too lovely for mortal birth; gens 191 left nothing for the more slow moving critiques of Monthly reviewers. The de plume in London have pawed the book kindly, we doubt not, but clumsily, and we fear that there may be a reaction. The clever lads who write for Knight's Quarterly Magazine, have called Miss L. E. L. the "girl puffed in the newspapers," and though they hasten to do away the apparent unkindness by a civil and flattering notice, yet the very use of the phrase (not a very gallant one for you, young gentlemen) marks the nature of the impression likely to be made by panegyrics proceeding from such contraband, and indeed, we may safely add, incompetent dealers in criticism. Miss L. has good command of language, and a fair store of poetical ideas, with a great deal of taste in arrangement, and an ear tuned to the varied melodies of the language. She would do much better if she did not write after so many different models, and in so many distinct keys. But the lady is young, in her teens we are told, and, of course, will not listen to the voice of advisers like us powdered with the snow of years. We shall not therefore now trouble her with such unpalatable food, but, quoting a couple of specimens from her smaller poems, put an end to our article.-From "The Legend of the Rhine." the "Lord Herbert sat him in his hall; hearth Was blazing as it mocked the storm with Her song had raised the spirit of her race Upon her eloquent brow. She had just told Of the young Roland's deeds,-how he had stood Against a host and conquer'd; when there came A pilgrim to the hall-and never yet Again they gather'd round the hearth, again The maiden raised her song; and at its close, 'I would give worlds,' she said, to see this chief, This gallant Roland! I could deem him all A man must honour and a woman love!' 'Lady, I pray thee not recall those words, For I am Roland!' From his face he threw The hood and pilgrim's cloak,-and a young_knight Knelt before Isabelle !' They loved; they were beloved. Oh, happiness! 1 have said all that can be said of bliss, In saying that they loved. The young heart has Knew the dark curling hair and stately form, And threw her on his breast. He shrank away As she were death, or sickness, or despair. gan; Unwitting of his colours, he had slain They met once more:-and Isabelle was changed As much as if a lapse of years had past : She had cut off her sunny hair, and wore isle, The heavy sweat upon his brow was all His sign of life. At length he snatch'd the scarf That Isabelle had tied around his neck, And gave it her, and pray'd that she would wave Its white folds from the lattice of her cell At each pale rising of the evening-star, That he might know she lived. They parted.-Never Those lovers met again! But Roland built A tower beside the Rhine, and there he dwelt, And every evening saw the white scarf waved, And heard the vesper-hymn of Isabelle Float in deep sweetness o'er the silent river. One evening, and he did not see the scarf, He watch'd and watch'd in vain ; at length his hope Grew desperate, and he pray'd his Isabelle Might have forgotten him :-but midnight came, And with it came the convent's heavy bell, Tolling for a departed soul; and then He knew that ISABELLE was dead! Next day They laid her in her grave;-and the moon rose Upon a mourner weeping there :-that tomb Was Roland's death-bed !" We also insert the BALLAD OF CRESENTIUS. "I look'd upon his brow,-no sign He stood as proud by that death-shrine He had a power; in his eye A spirit that could dare The deadliest form that Death could take, And dare it for the daring's sake. He stood, the fetters on his hand, With freer pride than it waved now. The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, And, worst of all, his own red steel. I saw him once before; he rode Of many a soldier's deed; The sun shone on his sparkling mail, And danced his snow-plume on the gale. But now he stood chained and alone, Came from that lip of pride; He bent beneath the headsman's stroke A wild shout from the numbers broke So far for Miss Landon. We trust that she will continue sedulously to cultivate her powers, and that in due course of time we may be favoured by another effusion of her muse, when her mind is more matured by experience, and expanded by additional stores of knowledge. It is but a poor compliment that we pay her, when we tell her that she is the cleverest girl in print. It will be in her own power to arrive at more positive distinction. We hope that all the bon-bons which have been distributed to her with unwonted liberality by the stern censors of books, will not spoil her; and that we shall have to greet her as cordially at her next appearance as we do now; and, of course, Miss L., under a different name. Is not that a good wish to end with? VOL. XVI. 2 B HORE GERMANICE. No. XVII. SCHILLER'S FIESKO. AMONG Schiller's plays, perhaps there is not any one that has more "capabilities" of being rendered effective and interesting in another language, than the "Conspiracy of Fiesko." From beginning to end it exhibits a bustle and variety of incident and situation, with a passionate liveliness of dialogue, and strength in the delineation of character, which are truly admirable. But it has been less noticed than the others, because, with much energy, it combines many faults, and because the catastrophe (especially the accidental death of the heroine, by the hand of her husband) seems exactly calculated to provoke the censures of minor critics. Nothing, however, could be more easy than to change the concluding scenes if requisite; nor would there be any difficulty in modifying the dialogues regarding the intended fate of Bertha, (part of the underplot,) in such manner that they would not prove offensive to the over-fastidious delicacy of an English reader or auditor, who cannot forgive in Schiller, that boldness which he approves, even in his own minor authors, provided time has given them a sanction. As to the "Fiesko" being written, like the "Robbers," in prose, this objection has been obviated already by Dr Reinbeck, whose edition of the play (in very good blank verse) we shall have recourse to at this time. Indeed, there can be no good reason why the "Robbers" should not be treated in like manner. The fashion of writing tragedies in prose has long since gone by in Germany as well as here; and there can be little doubt, that a refacimento of the "Robbers," (for, in a country where Shakespeare is remodelled, so must Schiller be,) would obtain great applause, if properly condensed, and wrought down to that level, which is suited to the powers of English actors, and the so called refined taste of English audiences. With Fiesko, the difficulties would be greater, particularly because it could not be carried through by means of three or four good performers. Not only are the dramatis personæ numerous, but there are many characters, which must be played with energy and skill, other wise the effect would be lost; and where an author finds it difficult enough to obtain adequate representatives even for one hero, and one heroine-this obstacle is indeed almost insurmountable. For the same reason (that is, because the characters are so numerous,) we shall not insist on analysing the complicated underplots, but set down only such notices as will render a few extracts intelligible. The less need be said, because bad translations (in prose) of the "Fiesko" have been already published, and the story (if nothing more) can be judged of by them. Fiesko, Count of Levagna, who, at an early age, has obtained the highest distinction as a soldier, and has married a lady of very noble birth, entertains a mortal hatred towards the house of Doria, the then reigning Dukes of Genua, not, indeed, against the old Duke Andreas, but against his nephew, the Crown-Prince Giannettino, whose enormous wickedness renders the supreme power vested in his family highly dangerous and oppressive. Fiesko has already, at the commencement of the play, laid plans for a revolution, and in order to conceal those plans more effectually, he leads a life of seeming careless festivity, and even abandoned libertinism. Above all, he pretends to have fallen vehemently in love with the Princess Julia, the sister of Giannettino, a woman of great beauty, but of unbounded vanity, and almost fiendish wickedness.-[In this respect, her character, as Schiller, in one of his letters, confesses, rather oversteps the immodesty of nature."-Consequently, he neglects the society of his amiable wife, to whom he has not imparted his plans, their success depending wholly on his being able to keep up this assumed part, to which the distress suffered by his Countess obviously contributes. If he can but wait unsuspected, and delude the minds of persons in power, until his plans are fully ripened, that is, until the arrival of certain troops in the harbour of Genua, he can then throw aside the mask, 'and carry his great designs openly into execution. The under-plot is made up by the proceedings of the Genuese nobility, who not being at first in the secret, imagine that Fiesko is really become indifferent to his duties, and to the public weal, also, by the crimes of Prince Giannettino, and a certain negro, whom he has hired to assassinate Fiesko, but whom the latter discovers, pardons, (pro tempore,) and afterwards renders subservient to his own purposes. But by far the most interesting personages are Fiesko himself, and his countess. At the commencement of the play, the latter fully believing in the guilt of her husband as to his intrigue with the Princess Julia, enters pale and disordered, attended by two female friends. She has broken away, in her masquerade dress, from a grand entertainment given by Fiesko, in order to keep up his assumed character. At a distance are heard the loud sounds of music, and all the tumult of a large assembly. Leonora, (tearing off her mask.) Rosabella. Nay, dearest lady! Leon. Before mine eyes, how shame. less! In the sight Even of all Genua's nobility. (Much moved.) Before my weeping eyes, oh Rosabella! Rosab. Yet, reckon this for what it was, Even in the Genuesan countenance, The looks of all I read a mystery. (Covering her face.) Enough-the habitants of Genua Soph. How jealousy contrives Leon. (With melancholy enthusiasm.) While he was yet Fiesko-was HIMSELF, i' the laurel grove, |