Faust. Haste, Margaret, haste! For, if thou lingerest here, We both shall pay it dear. Marg. What, thou canst kiss no more? Away so short a time as this, And hast so soon forgot to kiss! Why are my joys less ardent than they were? Once in those folding arms I loved to lie, Clung to that breast, and deem'd my heaven was there, Till, scarce alive, I almost longed to die! Those lips are cold, and do not move, Alas! unkind, unkind! Hast thou left all thy love, Thy former love, behind? Faust. Follow me! follow, Margaret! be not slow: With twice its former heat my love shall glow. Margaret, this instant come, 'tis all I pray. Marg. And art thou, art thou, he, for certain, say? Faust. I am, come with me. Marg. Thou shalt burst my chain, And lay me in thy folding arms again. How comes it, tell me, thou canst bear my sight? Know'st thou to whom thou bring'st the means of flight? Faust. Come, come!-I feel the morning breezes breath. Marg. This hand was guilty of a mother's death! I drown'd my child! and thou can't tell, If it was mine, 'twas thine as well. I scarce believe, though so it seem Give me thy hand-I do not dream- What hast thou done? put up thy sword; Faust. Oh, Margaret! let the hour be past; Marg. No; you must live till I shall trace For each their separate burial place. For my poor mother keep the best; Faust. Then be persuaded-come with me. Faust. To be free. Marg. To death! I know it-I prepare. I come, the grave is yawning there! The grave, no further-'tis our journey's end. Faust. You can! But wish it, and the deed is done. It is so sad to roam through stranger lands, Marg. Quick! fly! Save it, or the child will die! Through the wild wood, It lifts its head! Then bubbles rise! It breathes! Oh save it, save it! Faust. Reflect, reflect, One step and thou art free. Marg. Had we but pass'd the hill-side lone- Long she has sat there, cold and dead, Yet winks not, nor signs, other motion is o'er; sense, I venture, and with force I bear thee hence. Marg. Unhand me, leave me, I will not consent; Too much I yielded once, too much repent. Faust. Day! Margaret, day! your hour will soon be past. Marg. True 'tis the day; the last-the last! My bridal-day!-'twill soon appear: Tell it to none thou hast been here. We shall see one another, and soon shall see But not at the dance will our meeting be. In the crowded street: The citizens throng-the press is hot; They force me down upon the chair! The headman's stroke---the weeping steel! Mephistopheles (appears in the door way.) Marg. Who is it rises from the ground! "Tis he!-the evil one of hell! What would he where the holy dwell? "Tis me he seeks! Faust. To bid thee live. Marg. Justice of heaven, to thee my soul I give. Meph. (To Faust.) Come, come, or tarry else with her to die. Marg. Heaven, I am thine! to thy embrace I fly. Hover around, ye angel bands! Save me, defy him where he stands. Henry, I shudder! 'tis for thee. Meph. She is condemn'd! (Voices from above.) Is pardon'd! Meph. (to Faust.) Hence and flee! Marg. (from within.) Henry! Henry! Goethe's Faust, by Lord Francis THE FLOWER OF GNIDE. THE following Ode is translated from the original Spanish of Garcilaso de la Vega, by Mr. J. H. Wiffen. "It is not often," to use a cant phrase of the present day, we meet with such poetry as this. The sentiments do honor to the original writer; the language does equal honor to the translator, and shews what the English language is capable of in the hands of a master. If this Ode were read to a foreigner, totally ignorant of the English language, he would perceive a strength, harmony, and fire, of which he could not trace a vestige in the sing-song lullabies, of which the bulk of modern poetry is composed. The words are happily selected, and still more happily disposed of, the vowel and consonant sounds being so judiciously blended with each other, that the language is nervous without being harsh, and musical without being effeminate. In the first stanza, almost every word is an echo to the sense, an effect which will always take place unconsciously, whenever the poet is truly inspired by his subject, particularly when an analogy exists between his ideas and any modification of sounds whatever. This Ode reminds us of Gray: it possesses all his classic elegance and chastity of manner, and has not a feature, in common, with any of our modern schools.-ED. Had I the sweet resounding lyre, Whose voice could in a moment chain On savage hill the leopard rein, |