that chastity of composition and adherence to rule are not incompatible with the spirit of the tragedy of his country.
A progression, of a nature the most marked and obvious, is to be noted in the regularity and polish of Schiller's dramatic writings. In his first production, the Robbers, unfettered by established laws, unrestrained by the sober dictates of judgment, he gave full scope to the irregular workings of an imagination which glowed to excess with the wild and terrific. In the Conspiracy of Fiesko, a warmth of fancy, equally vivid, animates the scene, but with much of the original wildness and extravagance of genius brought into subjection, the exuberance of untutored powers repressed, and the horrors which breathed throughout the former piece somewhat softened down. The painting of female character, which, in the Robbers, is little definite or attractive, forms in Fiesko a prominent and pleasing feature of the drama, and assumes a shape highly interesting in the subsequent tragedies, Cabal and Love, and Don Carlos. In these, the lawless energy of that imagination, which, at first, bore down all before it, and mocked the bounds which were to confine its wanderings, is still farther submitted to the guidance of cool reason, and has not disdained
the alliance of art and regularity. The plot of Cabal and Love is happily contrived to excite curiosity and fix attention, which is not suspended till the end; and all its distinct parts are contrived with much art, while they connect with each other to contribute to the general catastrophe. In the last pieces of Schiller, the power of swaying the tenderer emotions, which amidst the terrible graces of his first drama was little to be traced, is often happily exerted.
THE SPECULATOR, No. 19, May 29, 1790.
I consider this paper, independent of its critical merit, as highly valuable for the elegance and energy of its compo sition.
L'amante per haver, quel che desia
Senza guardar che Dio tutt' ode, et vede,
Avvilappa promesse, e guiramente
Che tutti spargor poi per l'aria i venți.
The victim of unhallow'd love,
Of faithless promises, and perjur'd vows,
Forgot as soon as made!
HAVING, by every insidious art, overcome her virtue, he persuaded her to leave her father's house; and soon after, sated with possession, deserted her in the midst of poverty and every species of human distress. After a variety of fruitless appeals to the humanity of her seducer, she sunk under the complicated horror of her situation, and dying addressed him in a letter replete with the agitation and changes of passion inspired by such an awful moment."
HOPELESS and lost, by wounding anguish torn,
Dead to each joy, of every tie forlorn,
Here as awhile, in struggling Nature's strife,
I linger trembling on the brink of life,
To thee, whose specious guile, whose cruel art,
First wrung with sorrow's pang a peaceful heart,
First taught these grief-worn eyes with tears to flow,
And dash'd my cup with bitterness and woe,
Whose guilt a fond confiding breast betray'd,
Then triumph'd o'er the wretch itself had made,
Ah! vainly once believ'd my love, my friend,
To thee these last sad faltering lines I send.
Nor start that hand, so valued once, to view;
I come not scorn'd entreaties to renew;
With fruitless agony to sue again,
Again to shrink beneath thy cold disdain;
Ah no! by anguish, shame, and grief o'ercome,
At last I sink; I hasten to the tomb.
In still despair death's dread approach I wait,
Nor vainly struggle to avert my fate.
Alas! when each returning day supplies
But lengthen'd woe, and change of miseries;
When each sad night in horrors arm'd appears,
And steeps my thorny couch in burning tears;
While on my fame the fangs of slander prey,
And malice hunts me from the face of day,
While keen remorse with aggravated smart,
Wounds all within, and gnaws upon my heart;
Can hope's own smile one cheering moment give,
Or rouse the lingering coward wish to live?
The thought is agony: the shadowy gloom
Of death alone can shroud my shame; the tomb,
That last sad harbour, waits me; there my woes
Shall rest in awful night, and drear repose.
That heart condemn'd so long to pine forlorn,
To dread thy frown, and sicken at thy scorn;
The lingering pang of cheated hope to prove,
To agonise with rage, and melt with love;
No more with passion's burning throb shall glow,
No more shall wither in corroding woe;
But cold in dust, from wounding anguish free,
At last in death forget to doat on thee.
And when a victim thus, before my time,
I sink in blushing youth's luxuriant prime.
When lost, unknown, without a friend to save,
These once-lov'd beauties glut the yawning grave;
Perhaps one sigh may burst, though now too late,
In vain regret for my untimely fate;
Thy hate appeas'd, may mourn my early doom,
Nor wound my dust forgotten in the tomb.
Relenting heaven itself my tears may move,
And pangs like mine atone one crime of love,
Yet ere the grasp of death my limbs invade,
And my eyes darken in eternal shade;
Ere from my view life's fading vision flee,
I pour my soul in bitterness to thee.
Source of my woes, and author of my fall,
In this tremendous hour on thee I call;
If pity yet survive, here turn thine eye,
Survey the scene, behold thy victim die.
Here, while oppress'd by fury, love, despair,
My breast a thousand mad'ning passions tear,
While sunk aghast at death's involving gloom,
The trembling spirit deprecates her doom;
Struggling too late with guilt's o'erwhelming force,
By fruitless penitence and vain remorse;
In horror waits that last convulsive sigh,
That one dread pang which rends each earthly tie,
Alas, in this sad hour, the prospect drear
What joy can brighten, or what comfort cheer?
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