re concerned, form
interesting companion-pieces to the poems of the contemporary
Tyrolese poet Alois Weissenbach. In the first three sonnets the
splendour of the Alpine world, which he knew from his journeys in
Switzerland, forms the background of the picture. In the
foreground he sees a band of brave and daring men, in whose hearts
he thought he could find all his own moral pathos. Many of the
features which he has introduced certainly show more ideal fancy
than knowledge of detail; but it was not his purpose to compose a
correct report of the war, but to give an exciting description of
the heroes of this struggle for independence, in order that, even
though they themselves should be overpowered, their spirit might
arise again among his own fellow-countrymen. In the fourth sonnet,
in his enthusiasm for the Tyrolese, he has treated the German
universities with unnecessary severity; but this does not prove
any intentional want of fairness on his part, for at that time our
universities stood under general discredit in England as the
hotbeds of the wildest metaphysics and political dreams. The
events of the year 1813 would probably induce Wordsworth to view
them in a more favourable light. Similarly the sixth sonnet is not
quite just to Austria; in particular Wordsworth has made
decidedly too little allowance for the fact that the Emperor Franz
I. ceded the Tyrol quite against his own will under the pressure
of circumstances. But in this case we must not simply impute all
the blame to the poet; for as we see from the diary of his friend
Southey, his information as to the doings of Austria was of a most
vague and unfavourable character. We, however, cannot have any
wish to impute to Austria the sins of ill-advised diplomacy."

The following are Herr Brandl's German translations of five of
Wordsworth's sonnets:--

1

Andreas Hofer.

Von Sterblichen geboren sei der Held,
Der den Tirolern todeskuehn gebeut?
Ist etwa Tell's Geist aus der Ewigkeit
Gekehrt, zu wecken die verlor'ne Welt?

Er kommt wie Phoebus aus dem Morgenzelt,
Wenn sich die Finsterniss der Nacht zerstreut,
Und doch, wie schlicht! Ein Falkenschweif nur dreut
Von seinem Hut und fuellt sein Wappenfeld.

O Freiheit! Wie der Feind erbebt in Ruecken
Und Front und gerne floeh' in ~einer~ Flut