Aza. And thou! if earth be thus forbidden

In the decree

To us until this moment hidden,

Dost thou not err as we

In being here?

Raph. I came to call ye back to your fit sphere, In the great name and at the word of God. Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear That which I came to do: till now we trod Together the eternal space; together

Let us still walk the stars. True, earth must die!
Her race, return'd into her womb, must wither,
And much which she inherits: but oh! why
Cannot this earth be made, or be destroy'd,
Without involving ever some vast void
In the immortal ranks? immortal still
In their immeasurable forfeiture.
Our brother Satan fell; his burning will
Rather than longer worship dared endure!
But ye who still are pure!

Seraphs less mighty than that mightiest one,
Think how he was undone !

And think if tempting man can compensate
For heaven desired too late?

Long have I warr'd,

Long must I war

With him who deem'd it hard

To be created, and to acknowledge him
Who midst the cherubim

Made him as suns to a dependent star,
Leaving the archangels at his right hand dim.
I loved him-beautiful he was: oh, heaven!
Save his who made, what beauty and what power
Was ever like to Satan's! Would the hour

In which he fell could ever be forgiven !
The wish is impious: but, oh ye!
Yet undestroy'd, be warn'd! Eternity

With him, or with his God, is in your choice:
He hath not tempted you; he cannot tempt
The angels, from his further snares exempt:
But man hath listen'd to his voice,
And ye to woman's-beautiful she is,
The serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss.
The snake but vanquish'd dust; but she will draw
A second host from heaven, to break heaven's law.
Yet, yet, oh fly!

Ye cannot die;

But they

Shall pass away,

While ye shall fill with shrieks the upper sky

For perishable clay,

Whose memory in your immortality

Shall long outlast the sun which gave them day. Think how your essence differeth from theirs In all but suffering! why partake The agony to which they must be heirs Born to be plough'd with years, and sown with cares, And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil? Even had their days been left to toil their path Through time to dust, unshorten'd by God's wrath, Still they are Evil's prey and Sorrow's spoil. Aho. Let them fly!

I hear the voice which says that all must die, Sooner than our white-bearded patriarchs died;

And that on high

An ocean is prepared,

While from below

The deep shall rise to meet heaven's overflow.
Few shall be spared,

It seems; and, of that few, the race of Cain
Must lift their eyes to Adam's God in vain.
Sister! since it is so,

And the eternal Lord

In vain would be implored

For the remission of one hour of woe,
Let us resign even what we have adored,
And meet the wave, as we would meet the sword
If not unmoved, yet undismay'd,

And wailing less for us than those who shall
Survive in mortal or immortal thrall,

And, when the fatal waters are allay'd,
Weep for the myriads who can weep no more.
Fly, seraphs! to your own eternal shore,
Where winds nor howl nor waters roar.
Our portion is to die,

And yours to live for ever:

But which is best, a dead eternity,

Or living, is but known to the great Giver.
Obey him, as we shall obey;

I would not keep this life of mine in clay
An hour beyond his will;

Nor see ye lose a portion of his grace,
For all the mercy which Seth's race
Find still.
Fly!

And as your pinions bear ye back to heaven, Think that my love still mounts with thee on high, Samiasa!

And if I look up with a tearless eye,

"T is that an angel's bride disdains to weep,Farewell! Now rise, inexorable deep!

Oh, my heart! my heart!

Thy prophecies were true!

And yet thou wert so happy too!

The blow, though not unlook'd for, falls as new:
But yet depart!
Ah! why?

Yet let me not retain thee-fly!

My pangs can be but brief; but thine would be
Eternal, if repulsed from heaven for me.
Too much already hast thou deign'd
To one of Adam's race!

Our doom is sorrow: not to us alone,
But to the spirits who have not disdain'd
To love us, cometh anguish with disgrace.
The first who taught us knowledge hath been hurl'd
From his once archangelic throne

Into some unknown world:

And thou, Azaziel! No-
Thou shalt not suffer woe

For me. Away! nor weep!

Thou canst not weep; but yet

May'st suffer more, not weeping: then forget Her, whom the surges of the all-strangling deep Can bring no pang like this. Fly! fly!

Being gone, 't will be less difficult to die.

Japh. Oh, say not so!

Father! and thou, archangel, thou!
Surely celestial mercy lurks below

That pure severe serenity of brow:
Let them not meet this sea without a shore,
Save in our ark, or let me be no more!
Noah. Peace, child of passion, peace!

If not within thy heart, yet with thy tongue
Do God no wrong!

Live as he wills it-die, when he ordains,
A righteous death, unlike the seed of Cain's.
Cease, or be sorrowful in silence; cease
To weary Heaven's ear with thy selfish plaint.
Wouldst thou have God commit a sin för thee?
Such would it be

To alter his intent

For a mere mortal sorrow. Be a man!

And bear what Adam's race must bear, and can.
Japh. Ay, father! but when they are gone,
And we are all alone,

Floating upon the azure desert, and
The depth beneath us hides our own dear land,
And dearer, silent friends and brethren, all
Buried in its immeasurable breast,

Who, who, our tears, our shrieks, shall then com-
Can we in desolation's peace have rest? [mand?
Oh God! be thou a God, and spare

Yet while 't is time;

Renew not Adam's fall:

Mankind were then but twain,

But they are numerous now as are the waves
And the tremendous rain,

[graves,
Whose drops shall be less thick than would their
Were graves permitted to the seed of Cain.
Noah. Silence, vain boy! each word of thine 's a
Angel! forgive this stripling's fond despair. [crime,
Raph. Seraphs! these mortals speak in passion:
Who are, or should be, passionless and pure, [Ye!
May now return with me.

Sam.

It may not be :

We have chosen, and will endure.

Raph. Say'st thou ?

Aza.

Raph.

Raph. Patriarch, be still a father! smooth thy
Thy son, despite his folly, shall not sink : [brow:
He knows not what he says, yet shall not drink
With sobs the salt foam of the swelling waters:
But be, when passion passeth, good as thou,
Nor perish like heaven's children with man's
daughters.

Aho. The tempest cometh; heaven and earth
For the annihilation of all life.
(unite
Unequal is the strife

Between our strength and the Eternal Might!
Sam. But ours is with thee; we will bear ye far
To some untroubled star,

Who shall dry up my tears?

Aza.

Then from this hour,

Shorn as ye are of all celestial power,
And aliens from your God,
Farewell!

Japh.
Alas! where shall they dwell?
Hark, hark! Deep sounds, and deeper still,
Are howling from the mountain's bosom :
There's not a breath of wind upon the hill,
Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blossom:
Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load.
Noah. Hark, hark! the sea-birds cry!
In clouds they overspread the lurid sky,
And hover round the mountain, where before
Never a white wing, wetted by the wave,
Yet dared to soar,

Even when the waters wax'd too fierce to brave. Soon it shall be their only shore,

Thy spirit-lord. Fear not; though we are shut from heaven, Yet much is ours, whence we cannot be driven. Raph. Rebel! thy words are wicked, as thy deeds Shall henceforth be but weak: the flaming sword, Which chased the first-born out of Paradise, Still flashes in the angelic hands.

Aza. It cannot slay us: threaten dust with death, And talk of weapons unto that which bleeds. What are thy swords in our immortal eyes? Raph. The moment cometh to approve thy And learn at length [strength; How vain to war with what thy God commands: Thy former force was in thy faith.

Enter Mortals, flying for refuge.

Chorus of Mortals.

The heavens and earth are mingling-God! oh God! What have we done? Yet spare!

THE following drama is taken entirely from the "German's Tale, Kruitzner," published many years ago in" Lee's Canterbury Tales," written (I believe) by two sisters, of whom one furnished only this story and another, both of which are considered superior to the remainder of the collection. I have adopted the characters, plan, and even the language of many parts of this story. Some of the characters are modified or altered, a few of the names changed, and one character (Ida of Stralenheim) added by myself: but in the rest the original is chiefly followed. When I was young (about fourteen, I think), I first read this tale, which made a deep impression upon me; and may, indeed, be said to contain the germ of much that I have since written. I am not sure that it ever was very popular; or, at any rate, its popularity has since been eclipsed by that of other great writers in the same department. But I have generally found that those who had read it, agreed with me in their estimate of the singular power of mind and conception which it developes. I should also add conception, rather than execution; for the story might, per

DRAMATIS PERSONE.

MEN. WERNER.

ULRIC.

STRALENHEIM.

IDENSTEIN.

GABOR.

FRITZ.

HENRICK.

ERIC.

ARNHEIM.

haps, have been developed with greater advantage. Amongst those whose opinions agreed with mine upon this story, I could mention some very high names: but it is not necessary, nor indeed of any use; for every one must judge according to his own feelings. I merely refer the reader to the original story, that he may see to what extent I have borrowed from it; and am not unwilling that be should find much greater pleasure in perusing it than the drama which is founded upon its contents.

I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 1815 (the first I ever attempted, except one at thirteen years old, called "Ulric and Ilvina," which I had sense enough to burn), and had nearly completed an act, when I was interrupted by circumstances. This is somewhere amongst my papers in England; but as it has not been found, I have re-written the first, and added the subsequent acts.

The whole is neither intended, nor in any shape adapted, for the stage.

PISA, February, 1822.

MEISTER. RODOLPH.

LUDWIG.

WOMEN.-JOSEPHINE.

IDA SIRALENHEIM.

SCENE. Partly on the frontier of Silesia, and partly in Siegendorf Castle, near Prague.

TIME-The Close of the Thirty Years' War.

Yes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried,
And no one walks a chamber like to ours
With steps like thine when his heart is at rest.
Were it a garden, I should deem thee happy,
And stepping with the bee from flower to flower;
But here !
Wer.

"T is chill; the tapestry lets through The wind to which it waves: my blood is frozen. Jos. Ah, no!

Wer, (smiling). Why! wouldst thou have it so? Jos.

I would

Jos. Then canst thou wish for that which must break mine?

Wer. (approaching her slowly). But for thee I had been-no matter what,

But much of good and evil; what I am,

Thou knowest; what I might or should have been, Thou knowest not: but still I love thee, nor Shall aught divide us. [WERNER walks on abruptly, and then approaches JOSEPHINE.

The storm of the night Perhaps affects me; I'm a thing of feelings, And have of late been sickly, as, alas! Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my In watching me. [love! Jos.

To see thee happy Wer.

To see thee well is much

Where hast thou seen such? Let me be wretched with the rest!

How many in this hour of tempest shiver
Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain,
Whose every drop bows them down nearer earth,
Which hath no chamber for them save beneath
Her surface.

Wer.
And that's not the worst: who cares
For chambers? rest is all. The wretches whom
Thou namest-ay, the wind howls round them, and
The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones
The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier,
A hunter, and a traveller, and am
A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st
Jos. And art thou not now shelter'd from them
Wer. Yes. And from these alone.
[all?
Jos.
And that is something.

Wer. True-to a peasant.

Jos.

[of.

Should the nobly born

He thankless for that refuge which their habits Of early delicacy render more

Wer. Something beyond our outward sufferings (though

These were enough to gnaw into our souls)
Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, now.
When, but for this untoward sickness, which
Scized me upon this desolate frontier, and
Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means,
And leaves us-no! this is beyond me!-but
For this I had been happy-thou been happy-
The splendour of my rank sustain'd-my name-
My father's name-been still upheld; and, more
Than those-

Jos. (abruptly). My son-our son-our Ulric,
Been clasp'd again in these long-empty arms,
And all a mother's hunger satisfied.

Twelve years! he was but eight then-beautiful
He was, and beautiful he must be now,
My Ulric! my adored!

Wer.
I have been full oft
The chase of Fortune; now she hath o'ertaken
My spirit where it cannot turn at bay,-
Sick, poor, and lonely.
Jos.

Lonely my dear husband?
Wer. Or worse-involving all I love, in this
Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died,
And all been over in a nameless grave.

Jos. And I had not outlived thee; but pray take Comfort! We have struggled long; and they who With Fortune win or weary her at last, [strive So that they find the goal or cease to feel Further. Take comfort,--we shall find our boy. Wer. We were in sight of him, of everything Which could bring compensation for past sorrow-And to be baffled thus! Jos. We are not baffled. Wer. Are we not penniless? Jos. We ne'er were wealthy. Wer. But I was born to wealth, and rank, and

power;

Enjoy'd them, loved them, and, alas! abused them,
And forfeited them by my father's wrath,
In my o'er-fervent youth: but for the abuse
Long sufferings have atoned. My father's death
Left the path open, yet not without snares.
This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long
Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon
The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me,
Become the master of my rights, and lord
Of that which lifts him up to princes in
Dominion and domain.