templation and regret with which we pay our respectful homage to the departed spirit of Körner. With regard to living authors, so far as the question relates to themselves, we know not that praise is of much consequence to them. Where the light of true genius burns, it has its own internal or supernatural resources; applause is heard with indifference; and even coldness and neglect, if, observed at all, only serve to rouse exertions by which attention may be commanded. Sufficient examples might easily be found to prove this position, if it were worth while at present to look for them-but enough of this. There have been individuals in our own country (H. K. White among the latest), who have been admired and eulogized on account of their untimely fate-though their literary productions were little more than imperfect buds of promise. But Körner, who perished in his twentysecond year, has achieved a variety of works which would have done honour to the most mature and practised genius. In fact, we have had no individual in our country, who, in that respect, can be brought into competition with him. Chatterton, had he survived, might have excelled every author; but he is the only one whom we can venture to bring into the lists -Henry Kirke White, and several others, have been praised, and justly praised; but on our shores the merits of Körner are yet wholly unknown; and it is time, surely, that a few words of eulogium should be devoted to his memory.

Perhaps the most singular circumstance attending the brief life of our author was, that he shrunk from no worldly duty, but was exposed to every distracting influence of outward occupations, while, notwithstanding this, he wrote more than in the same course of years the most retired student could have been expected to accomplish. While yet a mere youth, he was appointed to the office of Theater Dichter (literally Theatre Poet) at Vienna, (a station to which we have nothing equivalent in this country), and here he was as much distinguished by worldly prudence and social virtue as by the superiority of his genius. In short, his character as a man and an author were, to an unexampled degree, blended together alternately were the

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strugglings of his noble spirit turned into the mysterious realms of the "in ward life," and, at other times, these impulses as readily accommodated themselves to outward achievements; or, according to the German expression, which is hardly translateable,› "Seine Gedichte wurden Thaten, und seine Thaten Gedichte." In his situ ation as theatre poet at Vienna, after having already produced two volumes of excellent comedies, he brought out "Xrine" and "Rosamunda," both, not only distinguished by their poetical beauty, but (especially the former) admirably adapted to the tumultuous spirit of the times. Then, when the genius of his countrymen, aided by the Cossacks, had begun to manifest itself in military ardour against the usurpations of the French, Körner, like Camoens, resolved to shew that he could wield the sword as well as the pen, and took his place therefore as adjutant in a volunteer regiment of horse, which was immediately called into actual service. In this new station it might have been supposed that the habits of authorship would be broken, and in a country less imbued with the spirit of literature than Germany, this might have been the result; but Körner, instead of writing less, seemed now more industrious than ever, though it is true that his compositions were comparatively short and desultory. He now published a volume, entitled the "Lyre and Sword," of which the contents are, to this day, cherished with enthusiasm by his countrymen. Being, at one time, left dangerously (and as it was supposed mortally) wounded, in the recesses of a forest, he wrote in his pocket-book a sonnet, which we shall insert in some future Number of this series, devoted exclusively to the life of Körner. In like manner, after having recovered from this accident, only one hour be fore the commencement of that battle in which our hero was shot through the body, he wrote the beautiful lines, entitled " Address to a Sword," which we will also, at some time or another, translate, and which he was tranquilly reading to a friend at the moment when they heard the signal for attack. Such events, improbable as they would seem even in a romance, are, in this instance, literally true. Körner fell near Ro senberg, in Mecklenburgh, on the 13 28th August 1813.

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There have been half-witted critics, not few in number, who have imputed to the German School, as they sagaciously term it, (as if there were 1 but one school in Germany where there are hardly two authors that resemble each other), the invariable attributes of mysticism,-improbability,-fatalism, demonology, and a special delight in dwelling on every instance of the most horrible crimes. These enlightened judges, who, like the French poets, having neither spirit nor patience to invent any thing new, desire a basis of historical truth, and almost mathematical tenability, for every work, are here met on their own ground by a youth, who, without ever being in England, has chosen a plot purely English, of which several of our own countrymen had attempted, in vain, to improve the capabilities,and who has, on this, founded a most affecting tragedy, admirably adapted to scenic representation. Here no objections on the score of improbability, demonology, or other extravagance, can be alleged. There are no crimes-no supernatural agencies-in a word, no events that history has not authorised. The supposition of Rosamund's perfect unconsciousness of guilt, and of Richard's visionary and also guiltless passion, are the only additions which are exclusively the work of the poet. There are two other tragedies of Körner -"Xryne," (already mentioned), and the Robber's Bride," which are equally free from those attributes vulgarly ascribed to the "German School," of which those, who have been accustomed to talk in this country, are deplorably ignorant. How then is it to be wondered at that they do not even suspect the existence of those bright luminaries which are now gradually rising into full splendour in Denmark, and even in Sweden! But to returnThe story of Rosamund Clifford is known to every one who has read the history of England. A temptation might offer itself to a bibliographerto transcribe from old Chronicles, various notices of her life.-Nor are there wanting black-letter poets, (Drayton, for example) who have commemorated her unhappy fate. We proceed, however, to give only a brief and hasty abstract of the plot-and the antiquary must excuse us if we do not even take Hume's history from the shelf, but adaereexclusively to the plan of our author.

Henry the Second of England had married Leonora, the divorced wife of Lewis, King of France, on account of her rich possessions, whose revenues were amply sufficient to enable him to support his then tottering throne and power. This queen had become to him the mother of four sons-and might have continued in good terms with her second husband, (though he had never loved her), had he not, in a distant hunting excursion, met with the beautiful Rosamund Clifford, with whom he fell so desperately in love, that he resolved to stop at no measures to effect the gratification of his passion. For this purpose he appeared before Lord Clifford in the assumed character of a simple knight or baron of competent fortune-won easily the affections of Rosamund, and obtained her father's consent for an immediate marriage, which regularly ensued. Not long after, Lord Clifford discovered the true rank of his supposed son-in-law, and consequently the nullity of the marriage; but hav ing then no alternative, he was obliged to acquiesce in circumstances, and to assist in a plan by which his daughter's peace of mind might be secured. The king, of course, retained his assumed character and title; and after the death (which shortly occurred) of Lord Clifford, made choice of Wood stock castle for the residence of Rosamund, on account of its retired situation, and the beauty of its forest scenery. There, in a park or garden, surrounded by a high wall, lived our heroine, shut out from all commerce with the world, and believing that her husband, Count Plantagenet, was for certain, and only temporary reasons, obliged to keep their marriage concealed. The delusion was the more readily kept up, as, by the prudence of Sir Thomas O'Neale, the castellan-no stranger was ever admitted within the walls of the castle.

The first scene of act first opens in the garden at Woodstock. Prince Richard (afterwards the celebrated hero of the Crusades) has been hunting, with his friend Southwell, in the forest; and with a romantic enthusiasm, having heard Rosamund's voice at the window, has rightly conceived the idea that her beauty of person must be as exquisite as the tones of her voice were ravishing.

He is, of course, utterly ignorant of

his father's connexion with the heroine, and far less suspects that she is of matronly estate, and the mother of two children. The prince has, there fore, at the risk of his neck, (and that of his friend,) insisted on getting into the garden, by climbing up into a tree, from the branches of which they drop to the ground, on the other side of the wall, where, notwithstanding all the remonstrances of Southwell, he now watches for a sight of his visionary idol. In the highly poetical speeches of Richard in this dialogue, we gain immediate insight into his romantic character.

Their conversation is interrupted by the sound of approaching steps, on which they retire into the wood, and Sir T. O'Neale appears, instructing, for the first time, his son George in those mysteries respecting Rosamund which we have already recapitulated.

In scene third, George O'Neale is introduced to the heroine; and on being soon afterwards left alone, utters a beautiful soliloquy, (in rhyme,) which we cannot venture, at present, to translate. She is then surprised by the sudden apparition of Richard from the wood, who, when interrogated as to the cause of this intrusion, declares that there is no risk he would not run for such a moment of rapture. He then throws himself at her feet, at once to express his admiration, and to solicit pardon; to all which Rosamund only replies by angry reprimands, cutting sarcasms, and, finally, by disdain and contempt. Richard being left alone with Southwell, then breaks out into violent expressions of surprise and indignation. Her anger he could have borne, but her expressions of contempt irritate him so much, that he declares himself unalterably resolved to brave every obstacle,-to visit this proud beauty again, and to win her for his bride, even if he should perish in the attempt. All this, however, is the youthful extravagance of the moment. His presence is required at court by the queen; and he immediately leaves Woodstock, persuading Southwell to remain there in order to discover, if possible, the true character of the scornful beauty.

In scene seventh we are, for the first time, introduced to Queen Leonora, who, in conversation with her favourite, Armand, becomes fully aware of the king's infidelity, and his fre

quent visits to Woodstock. In scene eighth we have a spirited and effective dialogue between the king and queen, in which the former reproaches the latter with instigating or abetting the rebellious dispositions of his sons, of whom he believes that John, the youngest prince, alone is faithful to him. The queen, on the other side, reproaches him, by harsh and significant inuendos, with his infidelity, which, by his evasive answers, becomes more manifest-and being left alone, she utters a soliloquy full of bitterness and the thirst of revenge.

The first, second, and third scenes of act second contain the various plottings of the queen and Armand to foster the rising spirit of rebellion against her husband, and to fan it into an immediate flame. For this purpose she holds a long consultation with her sons, Henry and Godfrey-Richard is also present, but on receiving a letter from his friend Southwell, at Woodstock, rushes instantly from the assembly without having agreed to any proposition, but, on the contrary, expressed the most decided indignation against all that he has heard. We have now some very beautiful scenes at Woodstock castle, especially an exquisite soliloquy of Rosamund, but we must pass all these over in silence, and go on to the first appearance of Henry in company with the heroine.