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But when my youth was spent, my hope was vain;
I felt my native strength at last decrease;
Ånd wish'd I had enjoy'd the country's peace;
His wise discourses heard with great attention;
Which in her troubled soul bred such dissension
Within those woods to dwell was her intention,
That troubles some did'st whilom feel and prove,
Let my mishap thy thoughts to pity move,
In shepherd's life, which I admire and love;
If jewels rich thou diddest hold in prize,
As to a greedy mind might well suffice.-
Two crystal streams fell from her watery eyes ;
Towards his cottage gently home to guide;
Yet welcom'd her, and plac'd her by her side.
A kerchief coarse upon her head she tied ;
The heav'nly beauty of her angel's face,
Or aught disparag'd by those labors base
Her little flocks to pasture would she guide,
And milk her goats, and in their folds them place;
Her flocks lay hid from Phebus' scorching rays,
And them engrav'd in bark of beech and bays:
How conquered her, and ends with Tancred's praise ;
This woeful story in your tender rind,
Will come to rest again some lover kind,
Shall feel dear pity pierce his gentle mind.
The earnest suit of a distressed ht)
To these huge deserts that unthankful knight;
And see my grave, my tomb, and ashes light,
At least yet shall my spirit dead be blest;
Enjoy that good this body ne'er possest.-
Flo ds in her eyes, and fires were in her breast;
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,
The trees to earth, with cutting steel to bring ;
When night on all this earth spread forth her wing;
• He in the circle set one foot unshod,
And whispered dreadful charms in ghastly wise
Toward the east he gaped, westward thrice ;
Wherewith dead bones he makes from graves to rise:
• Hear! hear! ye spirits all, that whilome fell
Cast down from heaven with dint of roaring thunder,
And storms and showers pour on these kingdoms under!
And rend with torments damned ghosts asunder,
Numbered I give you them, and truly told
So every plant a sprite shall hide and hold,
When they presume to cut these cedars old-
Quenched their lights and shrunk away for doubt,
And wraps her horns with folding clouds about.
Why come ye not, ye ever damped rout?
Why tarry ye so long? pardie ye stay,
• I have not yet forgot for want of use
What dreadful terms belong this sacred feat,
That so much dreaded name can well repeat,
But hither run from his eternal seat;
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,
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.