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Faust. Haste, Margaret, haste!
Marg. What, thou canst kiss no more?
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?
Marg. Thou shalt burst my chain,
breath. Marg. This hand was guilty of a mother's death! I drown'd my child! and thou can'st tell, If it was mine, 'twas thine as well. I scarce believe, though so it seemGive me thy hand-I do not dreamThat dear, dear hand. Alas, that spot! Wipe it away, the purple clot!
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
Faust, Then be persuaded-come with me.
Faust. You can ! But wish it, and the deed is done.
Marg. I may not with you ; hope for me is none ! How can I fly? they glare upon me still ! It is so sad to beg the wide world through, And with an evil conscience too ! It is so sad to roam through stranger lands, And they will seize me with their iron hands.
Faust. I will be with you.
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
And movement of the raging main,
On savage hill the leopard rein,
And lead along with golden tones,
The fascinated trees and stones,
Think not, think not, fair flower of Gnide,
It e'er should celebrate the scars, Dust rais’d, blood shed, or laurels' dyed,
Beneath the gonfalon of Mars ;
Or, borne sublime on festal cars, The chief who to submission sank
The rebel German's soul of soul,
And forg'd the chains that now controul
In vaunt of glories all thine own;
Struck forth to make thy harshness known.
The finger'd chords should speak alone Of beauty's triumphs, love’s alarms;
And one who, made by thy disdain
Pale as a lily cleft in twain,
I speak-his doom you might deplore-
To strain for life the heavy oar.
Through thee, no longer as of yore, He tames the unmanageable steed,
With curb of gold his pride restrains,
Or, with press'd spurs, and shaken reins, Torments him into speed. Not now he wields, for thy sweet sake,
The sword in his accomplish'd hand;
The wrestler, on the yellow sand;
Consults not now, it can but kiss
The amorous lute's dissolving strings,
Which murmur forth a thousand things Of banishment from bliss. Through thee, my dearest friend, and best,
Grows harsh, importunate, and grave; Myself have been his port of rest,
From shipwreck on the yawning wave ;
Yet, now so high his passions rave, Above lost reason's conquer'd laws,
That not the traveller, ere he slays,
The asp, its sting, as he my face So dread, or so abhors. In snows, on rocks, sweet Flower of Gnide,
Thou wert not cradled, wert not born, She who has not a fault beside,
Should ne'er be signaliz’d for scorn ;
Else tremble at the fate forlorn Of Anaxarete, who spurn'd
The weeping Iphis from her gate,
Who, scoffing long, relenting late,
Whilst yet she steeld her heart in pride, From her friezed window she beheld
Aghast, the lifeless suicide;
Around his lily neck was tied,
And purchas'd, with a few short sighs,
For her immortal agonies, Imperishable pains.