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this marble ; I perish by the excess of life which this figure wants. Alas! I expect no prodigy ; already one exists, and ought to cease; order is disturbed, nature is outraged; restore to her laws their empire, re-establish her beneficent course, and equally shed thy divine influence. Yes, two beings are left out of the plenitude of things. Divide between them that devouring ardour which consumes the one without animating the other. It is thou who hast formed by my hand these charms, and these features, which want but life and feeling Give to her the half of mine, Give all, if it be necessary. It shall suffice me to live in her. Oh thou! who deignest to smile upon the homage of mortals, this being who feels nothing, honours thee' not. Extend thy glory with thy works. Goddess of beauty, spare this affront to nature, that a form so perfect should be an image of which there is no living model !
(He gradually re-approaches the statue with an air of confidence and joy.)
I resume my senses. What an unexpected calm! What unhoped courage re-animates me! A mortal fever burned my blood, a balm of confidence and hope flows in my veins, and I feel a new life. Thus the sense of our dependence sometimes becomes our consolation. However unhappy mortals may be, when they have invoked the Gods, they are more tranquil-And yet this unjust confidence deceives those who form senseless wishes. --Alas! in the condition I am in, we call upop every one, and no one hears us; the hope which deceives is more senseless than the desire.
Ashamed of so many follies, I dare no more to contemplate the cause of them. When I wish to raise my eyes towards this fatal object, I feel a new trouble, a sudden palpitation takes my breath, a secret tremor stops me
(With bitter irony.)
Oh, look, poor soul! summon courage enough to dare behold a statue,
(He sees it become animated, and turns away with alarm; his heart oppressed with grief.)
What have I seen? Gods! what have I imagined that I saw ? A colour on the flesh, a fire in the eyes, even movement- -It was not enough to hope for a miracle; to complete my misery, at last I have
(With expressive melancholy.)
Unhappy creature, all is over with theerthy delirium is at it's heightthy reason as well as thy genius abandons thee. Regret it not, Pygmalion, for the loss will conceal thy shame.
(He turns again, and sees the statue move and descend the steps in front of the pedestal. He falls on his knees, and raises his hands and eyes towards heaven.)
Immortal Gods ! Venus, Galatea! Oh, illusion of a furious love! (Galatea touches herself, and says)-Me! (Pygmalion transported)-Me!
(Galaten touching herself again)-It is myself.
(Pygmalion)--Ravishing illusion, which even reaches my ears! Oh, neyer, nerer abandon me.
(Galatea moves towards another figure and touches it)-Not myself.
(Pygmalion in an agitation, in transports which he can with difficulty restrain, follows all her movements, listens to her, observes her with a coretous attention, which scarely allows him to breathe. Galaten advances and look's at him; he rises hastily, extends his arms, and looks at her with delight. She lays her hand on his arm; he trembles, takes the hand, presses it to his heart, and covers it with ardent kisses.)
(Galatea, with a sigh)--Ah! it is I again.
(Pygmalion) - Yes, dear and charming object-thou worthy master. piece of my hands, of my heart, and of the Gods! It is thou, it is thou alone--I have given thee all my being-henceforth I will live but for thee."
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY. Among the pieces printed at the end of Chaucer's works, and attributed to him, is a translation, under this title, of a poem of the celebrated Alain Chartier, Secretary to Charles the Sixth and Seventh. It was the title which suggested to a friend the verses at the end of our present number. We wish Alain could have seen them. Ile would have found a Troubadour air for them, and sung them to La Belle Dame Agnes Sorel, who was however not Sans Mercy. The union of the imaginative and the real is very striking throughout, particularly in the dream. The wild gentleness of the rest of the thoughts and of the music are alike old; and they are also alike
for love and imagination are always young, let them bring with them what times and accompaniments they may. If we take real flesh and blood with us, we may throw ourselves, on the facile wings of our sympathy, into what age we please. It is only by trying to feel, as well as to fancy, through the medium of a costume, that writers become mere fleshless masks and cloaks,-things like the trophies of the ancients, when they hung up the empty armour of an enemy. A hopeless lover would still feel these verses, in spite the introduction of something unearthly. Indeed any lover, truly touched, or any body capable of being so, will feel them; because love itself resembles a
and the kindest looks, which bring with them an inevitable portion of happiness because they seem happy themselves, haunt us with a spell-like power, which makes us shudder to guess at the sufferings of those who can be fascinated by unkind ones..
People liowever need not be much alarmed at the thought of such sufferings now-a-days; not at least in some countries. Since the time when ladies, and cavaliers, and poets, and the lovers of nature, felt that
t humanity was a high and not a mean thing, love in general has become either a grossness or a formality. The modern systems of morals would ostensibly divide women into two classes, those who have no charity, and those who have no restraint; while men,
poorly conversant with the latter, and rendered indifferent to tlie former, acquire bad ideas of both. Instead of the worship of Lore, , we have the worship of Mammon; and all the difference we can see between the sufferings attending on either is, that the sufferings from the worship of Love exalt and humanize us, and those from the worship of Mammon debase and brutalize, Between the delights there is no comparison.-Still our uneasiness keeps our knowledge going on.
A word or two more of Alain Chartier's poem. M. Aleyn," saith the argument, “ secretary to the king of France, framed this dialogue between a gentleman and a gentlewoman, who finding no mercy at her hand, dieth for sorrow.” We know not in what year Chartier was born; but he must have lived to a good age, and written this poem in his youth, if Chaucer translated it; for he died in 1419, and Chaucer, an old man, in 1400. The beginning however, as well as the goodness of the version, looks as if our countryman had done it; for he speaks of the translation's having been enjoined him by way of penance; and the Legend of Good Women was the result of a smilar injunction, in consequence of his having written some stories not so much to the credit of the sex! IIc,- who as he represents, had written infinite things in their praise ! But the Court-ladies, it seems, did not relish the story of Troilus and Cressida. The exordium, which the translator has added, is quite in our poet's manner. He
says, that he rose one day, not well awaked; and thinking how he should best enter upon his task, he took one of his morning walks,
Till I came to a lusty green valley
book, touching this mattère)
Thus I began, if it please you to hear. Master Aleyn's dialogue, which is very long, will not have much interest except for those who are in the situation of his loyer and belle Dame; but his introduction of it, his account of his riding abroad, thinking of his lost mistress, -his hearing music in a garden, and being pressed by some friends
saw him to come in,-is all extremely lively and natural. At his entrance, the ladies, every one by one,” bade him welcome a great deal more than he was worthy.” They are waited upon, at their repast, not by “deadly servants,” but hy gentlemen and lovers; of one of whom he proceeds to give a capital picture.
Emong all other, one I gan espy;
But to return to our other Belle Dame.
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY.
Ah, wliat can ail thee, wretched wight,
Aļone and palely loitering;
And no birds sing.
Su haggard and so woe-begone?
And the harvest's done.
With anguish moist and fever dew;
Fast withereth too.
Full beautiful, a fairy's child;
And her eyes were wild.
And nothing else saw all day long;
A fairy's song.
And bracelets 100, and fragrant zone:
And made sweet moan.
And honey wild, and manna dew;
I love thee true.
And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,
So kiss'd to sleep.
And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,
On the cold hill side.
Hath thee in thrall !".
With horrid warning gaped wide,
On the cold hill side.
why I sojourn here
Orders received by the Newsmen, by the Booksellers, and by the Publisher, Joseph Appleyard,
Printed by Joseph Appleyard, No, 19, Catherine-street, Strand. Price ed.
There he arriving round about dotd flie,
No. XXXII.-WEDNESDAY, MAY 17th, 1820.
RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW_MEN WEDDED TO BOOKS—THE CONTEST
BETWEEN THE NIGHTINGALE AND MUSICIAN.
We have often had occasion to think of the exclamation of that ingenious saint, who upon reading a fine author, cried out “ Pereant male qui ante nos nostra dixerunt!”. 666 Deuce take those who have said our good things before us!"-Now, without mentioning the extendibility (we are writing in high spirits, early on a fine morning, and cannot stop to find a better word)—without mentioning the ex, tendibility of this judicious imprecation to deeds, as, “ Deuce take those who have anticipated our exploits;" or to possessions, as “ Confound those fellows that ride in our coaches and eat our asparagus; we cannot help thinking the phrase particularly applicable to those who have read our authors - Plague take those who anticipate our articles,---who quote our highly-interesting passages out of old books."
Here is a Retrospective Review set up, which with an alarming prea cision of prepositions undertakes to make Criticisms
upon, Analyses of, and Extracts from, curious, useful, and valuable Books in all Languages, that have been published from the Revival of Literature to the Commencement of the Present Century:"-And what is very ina considerate, it performs all this, and more. It's criticisms are of a very uncritical kind; deep and well-tempered. It can afford to let other people have their merits. Proud of the literature of past ages, it is nevertheless not at all contemptuous of the present; and even in reading a lecture to modern critics, as it does admirably in it's Second Number in an article on the once formidable John Dennis, it exposa tulates in so genial and informing a spirit, that he must be a very farm gone critical old woman indeed, who does not feel inclined to leare off the brandy-drinking of abuse,--the pin-sticking of grudging absurdity. It is extremely pleasant to see it travelling in this way over so wide a range of literature, warming as well as penetrating as it goes, with a sunny eye,-now fetching out the remotest fields, and anon driving the shadows before it and falling in kindly lustre upon ourselves. The highest compliment that we can pay it, or indeed any other work, is to say, that the enthusiasm is young, and the knowledge old ;-a rare, a wise, and a delightful combination.
It is lucky for us that we happened to speak of this work in another publication, the very day before the appearance of the second number; for the latter contained a very kind mention of the little work now