As the ample Moon, In the deep stillness of a summer even From the incumbrances of mortal life, From error, disappointment, . . nay from guilt; From palpable oppressions of Despair. WORDSWORTH. P R E F A СЕ. THIS poem was commenced at Keswick, Dec. 2. 1809, and finished there July 14. 1814. A French translation, by M. B. de S., in three volumes 12mo., was published in 1820, and another by M. le Chevalier *** in one volume 8vo., 1821. Both are in prose. When the latest of these versions was nearly ready for publication, the publisher, who was also the printer, insisted upon having a life of the author prefixed. The French public, he said, knew nothing of M. Southey, and in order to make the book sell, it must be managed to interest them for the writer. The Chevalier represented as a conclusive reason for not attempting any thing of the kind, that he was not acquainted with M. Southey's private history. "Would you believe it?" says a friend of the translator's, from whose letter I transscribe what follows; "this was his answer verbatim: N'importe, écrivez toujours; brodez, brodezla un peu ; que ce soit vrai ou non ce ne fait rien ; qui prendra la peine de s'informer ?"" Accordingly a Notice sur M. Southey was composed, not exactly in conformity with the publisher's notions of biography, but from such materials as could be collected from magazines and other equally unauthentic sources. In one of these versions a notable mistake occurs, occasioned by the French pronunciation of an English word. The whole passage indeed, in both versions, may be regarded as curiously exemplifying the difference between French and English poetry. "The lamps and tapers now grew pale, But in the stream of light the speckled motes Floated with mazy movement. Sloping down Over the altar pass'd the pillar'd beam, As if it enter'd there, a light from Heaven. As in a momentary interval, When thought expelling thought, had left his mind Of outward sense, his vacant eye was there, . . And thou, poor soul, who from the dolorous house To shorten and assuage thy penal term, Pardon me that these hours in other thoughts And many a vigil must thy son perform * See pages 77, 78. antè. |