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Literary Gazette, 7th February, 1835, Pages 91-92
ORIGINAL POETRY.
VERSIONS FROM THE GERMAN.
(Fifth Series.)
Count Egmont, a Tragedy.—Goethe.
We need only preface this scene by observing that the heroine, a girl of inferior rank, is beloved by Count Egmont. Brackenberg has been her friend and lover from childhood; and partly to preserve her secret, but still more from a mistaken kindness, which hopes that affection can be an equivalent for love, Clara encourages his visits. I only attempt (with one exception), to render the scenes in which she appears. Clara's character appears to me full of interest and poetry. You see her first, simple, and ignorant of that world from which she has lived secluded. Her attachment has originated in her imagination. The hero has been her idol before he was her lover. She looks up to him, and her tenderness is almost worship; but sorrow brings its strength. The imprisonment of Egmont rouses all the latent energies of her mind. She, who, "save to church," had never trod the public streets, rushes to the market-place, and strives with kindling words to excite the people to save their leader. Her efforts are vain; and those whom life has parted death re-unites. Count Egmont, one of the Protestant leaders in the Netherlands, was imprisoned and executed by the Duke of Alba. The first victim in as noble a cause, crowned by as glorious a triumph, as history records.
Scene I.—(Clara, Mother, Brackenberg.)
[A little chamber, in a narrow street,
Where neatness lends a charm to poverty.
Some signs there are of better days; and taste,
Simple, yet graceful, making its delight
Of natural enjoyment. Scattered round
Are common flowers; and softened daylight comes
Through the green branches of the plants that crowd
The window sill. There, bending o'er her wheel,
Whose low perpetual murmur fills the room,
The aged woman marks her daughter's face,
And in its loveliness recalls her own.
A youth, too, reads that face, as if his life
Had written all its history there. To him
The world, save where it shines, is as a blank
Which memory, like the melancholy moon,
Fills with a borrowed light. The youth is pale,
As if his childhood taxed a mothers care
With many anxious hours.]
Mother.
Children, ye are too sad! Once this dull room
Was gladdened with your frequent mirth.
Brackenberg. Ah! once!
Mother. Come, sing! and sing together!
Clara. What shall we sing?
Brackenberg. What pleases you.
