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1825.]

his passage from the island of Calypso, to that of the Phæacians, furnishes the only example of superhuman abstinence, that we recollect. Hospitality, the virtue of a rude age, is common to both; and we find the Grecian heroes enlivening their banquet by the song of the minstrel, in the same manner as the feudal baron called in the aid of the trouveur to dispel the ennui of a winter's evening. Thus Demodocus is represented as chanting the wars of Troy, at the table of Alcinous; and thus the rhapsodies of Homer were repeated long after his decease by the wandering bards of Ionia. The difficulty of retaining in the memory such long poems as the epics of Homer, was once deemed a sufficient argument against their having been perpetuated by oral tradition. Yet the longer romances of chivalry were recited in the same manner by the bards of that day, and for the purpose of conhave venient pauses, were divided into fyttes, each of which occupied a single recitation.

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Homer has paid a noble tribute to the sex, in his beautiful portraits of Andromache, Nausicaa, and Penelope. The feelings which they appear to have inspired, however, are not akin to the gallantry painted in romance. Chivalry,

'Both Paynim and the peers of Charlemagne," fought for the beautiful Angelica at Albracca; but Greek heroism was displayed, on the plains of Troy, in defence of an injured husThe guilty Helen, readmitted band, not in devotion to a woman. into favour by her unfortunate spouse, may be a noble picture, but it is not at all after the fashion of the romantic.

In the earli

er ages of chivalry, however, the fierce character of the knight appears to have been much more under the influence of religion than of love. Turpin's fanatical chronicle contains no allusion to love.

In religion, the difference between the Greek and Norman fictions, is yet more apparent. The modern knight, slain in battle, was a christian martyr, and anticipated the highest joys of Paradise. Orlando was carried up to heaven in the presence of his army. The oath administered at the ceremony of dubbing a knight, devoted him to the service of "God and the ladies." The ruling impulse of the Greek is conveyed in the rebuke of Hector to Polydamas :

"The best augury is to fight in defence of one's country."* For the gods, stained with human impurities, they could have little respect. The frequent notices of the celestial dissensions in

* Εἷς οἰωνὸς ἄριστος, ἀμύνεσθαι περὶ πάτρης.

Iliad, xii, 243.

Homer's writings afforded a specious pretext to Plato for excluding them from his imaginary republic. The belief in a future state suggested no very animating hopes to the Heathen warrior; and the remark made by the shade of Achilles, when visited by his old companion Ulysses in the Elysian fields, that "he had rather be the slave of the meanest living man, than rule a sovereign among the dead," presents no very cheering view of their expectations in this way. The Elysium of Homer can hardly be said to contain one contented inhabitant.

The mythological machinery of the old English romance certainly exhibits a strong affinity with the ancient Pagan traditions. Hercules, Theseus, Jason were the knights-errant of their day, and the "Gorgons, hydras, and chimeras dire," which they encountered at every step, have again been called up to assail the "chevalier preux" of modern times. The dragon of the Hesperides, the winged Pegasus and Bellerophon, have propagated a numerous posterity like themselves; the invulnerable hide of Achilles has successively cloathed the bulky frames of Ferragus, Orlando, and Morgante; and the enchantments of Circe and Calypso have been perpetuated in all their potency, from the grosser legerdemain of Merlin, to the seductive spells of Spenser's and Ariosto's sorceresses. Notwithstanding this, some scholars would refer the modern mythology to the Arabians, others to the Goths, and others again to both these sources. There is indeed

a remarkable correspondence in the superstitions of the most remote nations, too widely diffused, and of too high antiquity, to allow them to be referred exclusively to Grecian fable. Those who are desirous of seeing these curious analogies assembled in one view, may consult the very learned preface by the editor of the late reprint of Warton's "English Poetry."

We have been led into an inconsiderate length of prosing, on a subject that can possess few attractions for those of our readers, who reasonably take a livelier interest in the " nuga canora of the present, than of past ages.* Such as may incline to dip into

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* We admit that the novelties of the present age, and of our own extraordinary situation in particular, are sufficient to justify a preference for them over every other subject of investigation and moreover that our own citizens have in general showed a liberal spirit in the pursuit of every subject connected with intellectual advance. ment. But we could wish, that when a work like Heeren's "Politics of Ancient Greece," the most profound disquisition that has yet appeared on the condition of that interesting people, has been translated by one of our own scholars, whose attainments have enabled him to do rare justice both to the subject and the language in which it was originally discussed; and which has moreover been recommended to the notice of the public in more than one able review,-we could wish, we say, for the credit of the "literary emporium," that a work of merit, like this, should, after eighteen month's publication, have obtained sufficient patronage to indemnify the enterprising publishers for the bare cost of the paper consumed in a moderate edition of it.

these antiquated tales of chivalry, will find a fair specimen of them in the metrical romance of "Sir Tristrem," published by Scott in the 4th vol. of his poetical works, Edin. 1821, accompanied by a rich collection of explanatory notes. His introduction endeavours to prove, that the English language was applied to poetry in Scotland, before it was so used in the sister kingdom. Whether the author may be thought to have established this startling conclusion, or not, the Essay is worth reading for its ingenious reasoning and antiquarian erudition. Among other accessible works, Ellis and Ritson have given extracts from several metrical romances. Southey has republished in two vols. 4to. Mallory's ancient compilation of the "Morte d' Arthur," which contains the series relating to the Welsh chieftain, done into most antiquated prose. Southey's elegant version of the Spanish or Portuguese Amadis, is however much more common. It has no connexion with the particular cycli of romances of which we have been speaking; but it may furnish some notion of the characteristics of the chivalrous ages; it is moreover well worth reading for its Arabic richness of invention; and the original, it may be remembered, was among the few of their race, which the Curate reprieved from the conflagration of Don Quixote's library.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

MORNING TWILIGHT.

The mountains are blue in the morning air,
And the woods are sparkling with dewy light;
The winds, as they wind through the hollows, bear
The breath of the blossoms that wake by night:
Wide o'er the bending meadows roll

The mists, like a lightly moving sea;

The sun is not risen - and over the whole

There hovers a silent mystery.

The pure blue sky is in calm repose;
The pillowy clouds are sleeping there;
So stilly the brook in its covert flows,

You would think its murmur a breath of air.
The water that floats in the glassy pool,
Half hid by the willows that line its brink,
In its deep recess has a look so cool,

One would worship its nymph, as he bent to drink.

Pure and beautiful thoughts, at this early hour,
Go off to the home of the bright and blessed;
They steal on the heart with an unseen power,
And its passionate throbbings are laid at rest:

O! who would not catch, from the quiet sky
And the mountains that soar in the hazy air,
When his harbinger tells that the sun is nigh,
The visions of bliss that are floating there.

P.

"The memory of joys that are past."

Ossian.

Where are now the flowers that once detained me Like a loiterer on my early way?

Where the fragrant wreaths that softly chained me,
When young life was like an infant's play?

Were they but the fancied dreams, that hover
Round the couch where tender hearts repose?
Only pictured veils that brightly cover
With their skyey tints a world of woes?

They are gone-but Memory loves to cherish
All their sweetness in her deepest core.
Ah! the recollection cannot perish,

Though the eye may never meet them more.
There are hopes, that like enchantment brighten
Gaily in the van of coming years;

They are never met—and yet they lighten,
When we walk in sorrow and in tears.

When the present only tells of anguish,
Then we know their worth, and only then:
O the wasted heart will cease to languish,
When it thinks of joys that might have been.
Age, and suffering, and want, may sever
Every link, that bound to life, in twain:
Hope-even Hope may vanish, but forever
Memory with her visions will remain.

P.

THE SEA DIVER.

My way is on the bright blue sea,
My sleep upon its rocking tide;
And many an eye has followed me
Where billows clasp the worn sea-side.
My plumage bears the crimson blush,
When ocean by the sun is kissed!
When fades the evening's purple flush,
My dark wing cleaves the silver mist.
a fathom down beneath
The bright arch of the splendid deep
My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe
O'er living myriads in their sleep.

Full many

They rested by the coral throne,
And by the pearly diadem;

Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown
The glorious dwellings made for them.
At night upon my storm-drenched wing,
I poised above a helmless bark,
And soon I saw the shattered thing
Had passed away and left no mark.
And when the wind and storm were done,
A ship, that had rode out the gale,
Sunk down-without a signal gun,
And none was left to tell the tale.

I saw the pomp of day depart,

The cloud resign its golden crown,
When to the ocean's beating heart,

The sailor's wasted corse went down.
Peace be to those whose graves are made
Beneath the bright and silver sea!-
Peace-that their relics there were laid
With no vain pride and pageantry.

H. W. L.

THE SUMMER MORNING.

"T is rapture to hail the morning's birth,
When heaven seems bending to greet the earth,
And the fresh breeze, warm with life, sweeps by,
As a token of love from the crimson sky.
The moon has a mantle of silvery light,

When she walks with grace as the queen of night;
She's bright as the hopes of my youthful day-
She's cold as the friends who have passed away.
But thou, sweet daughter of beautiful spring,
O would I could chant the fit welcoming,
Or number the graces that round thee play,
From thy first soft glance of dawning day,
Till thy heaven-wrought robe is floating free,
And the sun has followed to gaze on thee.
The city may boast its gilded halls,

Where Fashion presides at her revels and balls;
And art may compel the air to fing

Such streams of light from its silver wing,
As rival the monarch of day's proud glare,

But the sweetness of morn is wanting there:
And happier far I deem my lot,

feet;

To muse at will in this lonely spot.
This fallen tree is my chosen seat,
Where the violets bloom beneath my
Around me the flowery spray is shed,
And the young leaves flutter above my head,

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