In the translations from Schiller, although we could object to much of the language, and on such grounds as we believe would convince the unprejudiced that we were in the right, we shall not do this; both because we feel sincerely obliged to the translator for this present from the richest mine in Germany; and because our readers are sufficiently in possession of our principles of judgment in poetical criticism, to render it unnecessary for us to point out errors, to which we already have afforded such numerous clues.

Madame de Staël has made what we consider as a very just remark on one branch of German poetry, which forms the well-chosen motto to these translations:

" "Les poésies Allemandes détachées sont, ce me semble, plus remarquables encore que les poëmes, et c'est surtout dans ce genre, que le cachet de l'originalité est empreint."'

These extracts from Schiller alone amply vindicate the correctness of this panegyric:- but the little tales of that writer have indeed the stamp of originality. We scarcely know which to select for our reader's amusement. Knight Toggenburg' has been so condensed, and so refined, by Mr. Campbell, in his "Brave Roland," that it would reflect no credit on the original minstrel to compare the two effusions. We say, Mr. Campbell has refined the little poem; because, in substituting a manly and simple pathos for the overstrained sentimentality of the German, he has conferred on his ballad that which we regard as the truest refinement. The 'Glove is very peculiar and forcible; while Cassandra' has a fine lyric glow about it, and parts of it might have done for a Greek chorus mutatis mutandis.

"All to transport is abandon'd;
Hearts to rapture full display'd,

Aged parents hope indulging,
Bridal sister stands array'd;

I alone in secret lower,

Since no dream hath charms for me;

Ruin wing'd to gain each tower

Hovering near, alone I see!

"There's a torch that yonder lightens,
But 'tis not in Hymen's hand,

To the clouds it lengthening brightens,
Not as altar-fuming brand;
There's a festival preparing,

But, through sad presaging skill,

Gods already in my hearing,

Doom it instrument of ill!

"And

"And they spurn at my repinings,

And they mock my bosom's smart,
'Mid the desert's dusky windings,
Lone, I bear an anguish'd heart;
Shunn'd by those whom fortune pampers,
Rail'd upon by those who smile;
Woefully hast thou endowed me,

Pythian god! thou god of guile !" '

The Diver,' or the strange story of Nicolas Pesce-cola, contains some powerful thoughts: but the opportunity which our unrivalled Shakspeare has seized, in Clarence's dream, is not here equally improved. The Hostage,' or the sweet old tale of Damon and Pythias, (by nobody better told than Soave, excepting Cicero,) calls forth much of the genius of Schiller. The Fight with the Dragon' is very satisfactory

in its conclusion; and The Trip to the Forge' is one of the most impressive and best conducted little tales that we remember. The Chime of a Bell' has a most touching tenderness in some of its ideas; and we cannot help fancying that our own exquisite poet of "Human Life" must have caught a small portion of the character of his exordium, at least, from this poem. The veiled Statue' at Sais is impressed with the finest character of the solemn antient allegory; and some of the remaining tales, which we have not named, have their own kind and degree of merit. The composition, however, which after all remains our favorite, and which we believe we are borne out in admiring by very general agreement, bears the well-known title of the Cranes of Ibycus.' Can any thing be more striking than the description of the Eumenides as they appeared on the Grecian stage? At all events, we must go to their own great dramatic originals to exceed the painting of Schiller. Before, however, we introduce the Furies, we must briefly regard the dying moments of the poet Ibycus; who, on his way to the Isthmian games, is murdered in a wood near Corinth. He had observed a large flight of cranes on his road, both by sea and land; and now, expiring in a wood within sight of the scene of his glory, under the murderous hand of robbers, he looks up with dying eyes at the same travellers of air:

The succeeding description of the crowd flocking to the theatre, to witness the celebration of the games, is very beautiful; and none but a master-hand could have so crowned the picture, as Schiller has done in the following lines, - presenting directly to our view the vast assembly of an antient theatre, open to the sky:

• Bench above bench the torrent gains,

Till scarce the o'ercharged base sustains;
Together flock'd, from far and near,

The Grecian thousands wedge them here,
Hoarse-murmuring, as the sea-waves' flow:-
Swarming with life, the structure swells;
And in a still expanding bow,

To sight, the azure vault it fills.

Who might the name of each retrace,
That came, that spectacle to grace?
From Theseus' city, Aulis' strand,
From Phocis, and from Spartan land;
Nor Asia's shores were too remote,

From the far isles, they came to see;
And now, from off the stage they note
The Chorus' awful melody, -

That with grave pace, and sober front,
(As was of ancient rite the wont,)
Advancing from the scenic ground,
Now stalked the theatre around.

Not that the march of earthly dames,
No mortal parents own such birth;
The giant stature of their frames
Surpasses even the sons of earth.
Round each a sable cloak is wrung;
By each, from fleshless grasp is flung
The brandish'd torch's sooty flake;
Bloodless and lank each livid cheek;
And where the ringlet's glossy play

To human fronts a charm can lend,
Vipers and serpents in affray

Their venom-swollen throats distend.
And gather'd in a dusky ring,
Portentous melody they sing;

That through all hearts infuses pains,
And wraps the breast of guilt in chains.
Thought-confounding, heart-compelling,
Peals the Furies' descant dire;

It peals, the hearer's frame deep-thrilling,
Unaccordant with the lyre:-

Thrice-happy, who from our control
Finds refuge in his spotless soul!

Him may we not approach with dread;
Freely the life-path let him tread;
But woe to him, whose arts conceal
A deed of murder from the light!
We on his track unceasing steal,

We, the relentless brood of Night!
"And hopes he to elude our grasp?
Winged we attend, and hurl a clasp,
That brings, about his footing wound,
The felon-fugitive to ground.-
Restless, our victim we pursue,

Nought can repentance shake our will;
Down to the shades we trace him through,
And there, even there, beset him still."
"Twas thus in moody dance they sung,
When the vast building overhung
A stillness Death might well command,
As though the Immortals were at hand!
Then, (as at ancient rite had place,)
They strode the theatre around,
With aspect grave and solemn pace,
And parted from the scenic ground.

Betwixt illusion and the truth
Wavers each breast, alive to both,
And the dread Providence reveres,
Mysteriously that interferes :-
Inscrutably, and all apart,

That doth the chain of Fate survey, Oft manifest to hidden heart,

But trackless 'mid the glare of day!
And sudden, from the topmost seats,
A voice is heard, that loud repeats;
"Behold!. behold! - Timotheus!
The crane-array of Ibycus!".
-And blackened, as he spake, the sky,
And o'er the theatre's expanse
A flight of cranes passed rushingly,
And swept along in dark advance.

;

Shot through all hearts; "Give earnest thought,
This the Eumenides have wrought!-
-Avenged sleeps the sacred bard,

The assassin hath himself denounced;
Him seize, the notice who preferred,
And him, to whom it was announced!"
Soon as the guilty one had spoke
The fatal words, he would revoke ;-
-In vain! the faltering lips and frame
Too well the homicide proclaim;
-To judgment are they hurried down,
The scene is for tribunal given,
And both, in brief avowal, own,

The RETRIBUTIVE hand of Heaven.'

No room is left to us for additional remark, or we should certainly both quote, and highly praise, the Ideal. Yet this picture of the early glowing hopes of youth, disappointed as they must be by those realities which are enough for sense but not for imagination, is well-known to all our classical readers; and especially to those who have enjoyed, in its full power and softness, that dream of fancy which is here so feelingly pourtrayed.

ART. VI. Sketches of Manners, Scenery, &c. in the French Provinces, Switzerland, and Italy. With an Essay on French Literature. By the late John Scott, Esq., Author of the Visit to Paris. 8vo. 146. Boards. Longman and Co.

THE

HE author of this posthumous production was much respected while in the active progress of his "earthly pilgrimage," and deservedly bewailed at his untimely death; his life having been sacrificed in the midst of its promise to that spurious but tyrannical sentiment of honour, against which religion, law, and reason, have long raised an unavailing voice. The circumstances, therefore, under which the volume makes its appearance, must prevent any rigor of animadversion; and in truth it may be questionable whether it really falls within critical jurisdiction, since it consists of loose travelling memoranda, the basis probably of an intended work, which no writer could have been so regardless of public opinion as to have hazarded in a shape so crude and undigested. From the preface of the editor, it should seem that a small portion of it was actually left for the press: but we doubt the fact; for it bears no internal evidence of such preparation; and Mr. Scott was too much practised in literature to have risked the reputation which he had justly earned, by the

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