sad, with
Wallenstein. But as, in his dramas, this intense perception of
self--this earnest, haunting consciousness--this feeling of genius as a
burden, and of life as a religion--interferes with true dramatic
versatility; so, on the contrary, these qualities give variety in his
poems to the expositions of a mind always varying, always
growing--always eager to think, and sensitive to feel. And his art loved
to luxuriate in all that copious fertility of materials which the
industry of a scholar submitted to the mastery of a poet; to turn to
divine song whatever had charmed the study or aroused the thought:
philosophy, history, the dogma, or the legend, all repose in the memory
to bloom in the verse. The surface of knowledge apparent in his poems is
immense; and this alone suffices to secure variety in thought. But the
aspiring and ardent nature of his intellect made him love to attempt
also constant experiments in the theme and in the style. The romantic
ballad, the classical tale, the lyric, the didactic, the
epigrammatic--the wealth of his music comprehended every note, the
boldness of his temper adventured every hazard. Yet still, (as in our
Byron, in our Goldsmith, and as, perhaps, in every mind tenacious of its
impressions,) some favourite ideas take possession of him so forcibly,
as to be frequently repeated as important truths. The sacred and
majestic office of the poet--the beauty of ideal life, (in which the
author of the "_Robbers_" and "_William Tell_" deemed, at last, that the
only liberty was to be found)--the worship of Virtue and the Beautiful,
for their own sake, and without hope of reward;--these, and many ideas
minor to, and proceeding from them, revisit us in a thousand tones of
eloquent and haunting music.

Reluctantly we tear ourselves from a task which has indeed been a labour
of love. Many poets may inspire as high an admiration as Schiller; few
so tender a personal affection. Even in his doubts and his errors, we
have that interest in his struggles which arises from the conviction of
his sound heart and his manly nature. Wrestling at one time with bitter
poverty, at one with unhappy passion--lonely in his habits, prematurely
broken in his health, his later wisdom dispelling his early dreams of
Utopian liberty--still, throughout all, his bravery never fails him, his
gentleness is never soured; his philanthropy changes its form, but it is
never chilled. Even when he wanders into error, it is from h