Come forward, then, before the British public, O many-sided, ambidextrous Goethe, as thine own Thomas Carlyle might, or could, or would, or should have termed thee, and let us hear how the mellifluous Teutonic verse will sound when adapted to another tongue. And, first of all--for we yearn to know it--tell us how thy inspiration came? A plain answer, of course, we cannot expect--that were impossible from a German; but such explanation as we can draw from metaphor and oracular response, seems to be conveyed in that favourite and elaborate preface to the poems, which accordingly we may term the INTRODUCTION. The morning came. Its footsteps scared away The gentle sleep that hover'd lightly o'er me; I left my quiet cot to greet the day And gaily climb'd the mountain-side before me. The sweet young flowers! how fresh were they and tender, Brimful with dew upon the sparkling lea; The young day open'd in exulting splendour, And all around seem'd glad to gladden me. And, as I mounted, o'er the meadow ground A white and filmy essence 'gan to hover; It sail'd and shifted till it hemm'd me round, Then rose above my head, and floated over. No more I saw the beauteous scene unfolded-- It lay beneath a melancholy shroud; And soon was I, as if in vapour moulded, Alone, within the twilight of the cloud. At once, as though the sun were struggling through, Within the mist a sudden radiance started; Here sunk the vapour, but to rise anew, There on the peak and upland forest parted. O, how I panted for the first clear gleaming, That after darkness must be doubly bright! It came not, but a glory round me beaming, And I stood blinded by the gush of light. A moment, and I felt enforced to look, By some strange impulse of the heart's emotion; But more than one quick glance I scarce could brook, For all was burning like a molten ocean. There, in the glorious clouds that seem'd to bear her, A form angelic hover'd in the air; Ne'er did my eyes behold vision fairer, And still she gazed upon me, floating there. "Do'st thou not know me?" and her voice was soft As truthful love, and holy calm it sounded. "Know'st thou not me, who many a time and oft, Pour'd balsam in thy hurts when sorest wounded? Ah well thou knowest her, to whom for ever Thy heart in union pants to be allied! Have I not seen the tears--the wild endeavour That even in boyhood brought thee to my side?" "Yes! I have felt thy influence oft," I cried, And sank on earth before her, half-adoring; "Thou brought'st me rest when Passion's lava tide Through my young veins like liquid fire was pouring. And thou hast fann'd, as with celestial pinions, In summer's heat my parch'd and fever'd brow; Gav'st me the choicest gifts of earth's dominions, And, save through thee, I seek no fortune now.