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But when my youth was spent, my hope was vain;

I felt my native strength at last decrease;
I'gan my loss of lusty years complain,

Ånd wish'd I had enjoy'd the country's peace;
I bade the court farewell, and with content
My later age here have I quiet spent.
While thus he spake, Erminia, hush'd and still,

His wise discourses heard with great attention;
His speeches grave those idle fancies kill,

Which in her troubled soul bred such dissension
After much thought reformed was her will,

Within those woods to dwell was her intention,
Till fortune should occasion new afford,
To turn her home to her desired lord.
*She said therefore shepherd fortunate!

That troubles some did'st whilom feel and prove,
Yet livest now in this contented state,

Let my mishap thy thoughts to pity move,
To entertain me as a willing mate

In shepherd's life, which I admire and love;
Within these pleasant groves perchance my heart
Of her discomforts may unload some part :
If gold or wealth, of most esteemed dear,

If jewels rich thou diddest hold in prize,
Such store thereof, such plenty have I here,

As to a greedy mind might well suffice.-
With that down trickled many a silver tear,

Two crystal streams fell from her watery eyes ;
Part of her sad misfortunes then she told,
And wept, and with her wept that shepherd old.
With speeches kind he 'gan the virgin dear

Towards his cottage gently home to guide;
His aged wife there made her homely cheer,

Yet welcom'd her, and plac'd her by her side.
The princess donned a poor pastora's gear,

A kerchief coarse upon her head she tied ;
But yet her gestures and her looks I guess,
Were such as ill beseem'd a shepherdess :
Not those rude garments could obscure and hide

The heav'nly beauty of her angel's face,
Nor was her princely offspring damnified

Or aught disparag'd by those labors base
New Series, No. 9.

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Her little flocks to pasture would she guide,

And milk her goats, and in their folds them place;
Both cheese and butter could she make, and frame
Herself to please the shepherd and his dame.
• But oft, when underneath the greenwood shade

Her flocks lay hid from Phebus' scorching rays,
Unto her knight she songs and sonnets made,

And them engrav'd in bark of beech and bays:
She told how Cupid did her first invade,

How conquered her, and ends with Tancred's praise ;
And when her passion's writ she over read,
Again she mourned, again salt tears she shed.-
* You happy trees for ever keep (quoth she)

This woeful story in your tender rind,
Another day under your shade, may be,

Will come to rest again some lover kind,
Who if these trophies of my grief he see,

Shall feel dear pity pierce his gentle mind.
W th that she sighed and said, too late 1 prove
There is no trust in fortune, trust in love.
Yet may it be (if gracious heavens attend

The earnest suit of a distressed ht)
At my entreat they will vouchsafe to send

To these huge deserts that unthankful knight;
That when to earth the man his eyes shall bend,

And see my grave, my tomb, and ashes light,
My woeful death his stubborn heart may move,
With tears and sorrows to reward

my

love :
• So though my life hath most unhappy been,

At least yet shall my spirit dead be blest;
My ashes cold shall, buried on the green,

Enjoy that good this body ne'er possest.-
Th s she complained to the senseless treen,

Flo ds in her eyes, and fires were in her breast;
But he for whom these streams of tears she shed,

Wander'd far off, alas ! as chance him led.' We shall close our extracts with the following description of the incantations of Ismeno, in the beginning of Book 13. Splendid as Fairfax here is, he has done no more than justice to the original. We think that, for terrific sublimity, this passage is not excelled by any thing in Homer, Virgil, or Milton,

and that it is of itself enough to establish Tasso's right to walk within that magic circle, which Dryden has pronounced to be the exclusive domain of Shakspeare.

• No twist, no twig, no bough, nor branch therefore,

The Saracines cut from sacred spring,
But yet the Christians spared ne'er the more

The trees to earth, with cutting steel to bring ;
Thither went Ismen old, with tresses hoar,

When night on all this earth spread forth her wing;
And there, in silence deaf and mirksome shade,
His characters and circles vain he made.

• He in the circle set one foot unshod,

And whispered dreadful charms in ghastly wise
Three times, for witchcraft loveth numbers odil,

Toward the east he gaped, westward thrice ;
He struck the earth thrice with his charmed rod,

Wherewith dead bones he makes from graves to rise:
And thrice the ground with naked foot he smote,
And thus he cried aloud with thundering note:

• Hear! hear! ye spirits all, that whilome fell

Cast down from heaven with dint of roaring thunder,
Hear! ye amid the empty air that dwell

And storms and showers pour on these kingdoms under!
Hear! all ye devils that lie in deepest hell

And rend with torments damned ghosts asunder,
And of those lands of death, of pain and fear
Thou monarch great, great Dis, great Pluto, hear.
• Keep ye this forest well, keep every tree,

Numbered I give you them, and truly told
As souls of men in bodies clothed be,

So every plant a sprite shall hide and hold,
With trembling fear make all the Christians flee

When they presume to cut these cedars old-
This said, his charms he 'gan again repeat,
Which none can say but those who use like feat.
• At those strange speeches still night's splendent fires

Quenched their lights and shrunk away for doubt,
The feeble moon her silver beams retires,

And wraps her horns with folding clouds about.
Ismen his sprites to come with speed requires-

Why come ye not, ye ever damped rout?

Why tarry ye so long? pardie ye stay,
Till stronger charms and greater words I say.

• I have not yet forgot for want of use

What dreadful terms belong this sacred feat,
My tongue, if still your stubborn hearts refuse,

That so much dreaded name can well repeat,
Which heard, great Dis cannot himself excuse,

But hither run from his eternal seat;
Oh

great and fearful-more he would have said,

But that he saw the sturdy sprits obeyed.' Of Fairfax's elegance of diction, a quality so essential in a poetical translator, we have forborne to speak till now, lest we should be suspected of extravagance. The samples which we have given of this work, inadequate as they necessarily are, will shew, that we do not exaggerate in asserting, that his phraseology is scarcely surpassed in splendor by that of Milton. One quality of his style is so striking, that we cannot avoid pointing it out more particularly. He has fewer words and phrases which are now obsolete, we do not say than any of the English authors of that period, but than many of their imitators of the present day. For this class of readers, he possesses few recommendations. They will often be obliged to wade through whole pages of our plain vernacular tongue, without finding one of those quaint expressions, those gems, or rather those talismans of eloquence, by the frequent use of which they hope so confidently to outdo all, who are willing to write in the modern dialect of Pope and Addison, of Goldsmith and Franklin, of Alison and Campbell

. For ourselves, it has afforded us no little pleasure to observe so exact a resemblance between the diction of Fairfax and that of most of his illustrious literary successors, at the distance of two centuries. This circumstance is a striking confirmation of the opinion, which we have always entertained, that our language has continued during that period materially the same, and that with a few exceptions, those forms of speech only have fallen into disuse, which either were of trifling value in themselves, or have been superseded by something better.

Such as our vocabulary is, there is little reason to complain of its scantiness, and little need of enlarging it, by coining new, or reviving antiquated expressions. There is as much affectation, though of an opposite nature, in the latter as in the

former of these practices, and we need fear nothing for our mother tongue, while a general regard is paid to the precept expressed in the following couplet.

• Be not the first by whom the new are tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.'

ART. VIII.-Oeuvres inedites de Madame la Baronne de Stael,

publiées par son fils. 3 vols. 8vo. Paris, Strasbourg et Londres. 1821. The celebrated Rembrandt, one of the principal ornaments of the Flemish school of painting, did not enjoy, in his lifetime, all the reputation which has since been attached to his naine. Fame and fortune are capricious; and Rembrandt, in the pride of genius, neglected the courtly arts, that are sometimes necessary to obtain the favor of these charming divinities. He found himself, accordingly, with all his merit, in very imminent danger of starving : and in order to enhance the value of his pictures, and anticipate some of the advantages of a high posthumous reputation, he retired from public view, and circulated a report of his own death. No sooner was this sad event made known, than the hundred tongues of fame were immediately vocal in loud commendation of the departed painter : and what was more to his purpose, his pictures rose instantaneously in value, and were bought up with a sort of fury. After reaping this golden harvest, and disposing of all the pictures he had on hand, the artist returned to life, and resumed his labors with new alacrity, and increased contempt for the good sense and taste of the public. This anecdo has been wrought up by a French writer into a little comedy; and in order to give it the additional interest of a seasoning of gallantry, the painter's wife is represented as a second Penelope, besieged, like the queen of Ithaca, in consequence of the supposed death of her husband, by innumerable suitors. She is described, however, as not possessing quite the constancy of that 'illustrious personage,' and as not being wholly disinclined to anticipate also, in her own way, some of the advantages, that might be expected to result from her husband's actual decease, so that the poor painter has more reasons than one for making haste to return to life.

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