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of hymns adapted to love-songs-a He broke my pitcher, he spilt my water, sample of the amorous-religious-ri- He kiss'd my wife, and married my daugh diculous. In this light Moore is often beautifully in the wrong-his elegant and misplaced sentiments suffer in comparison with the vulgar ideas the tunes naturally excite. "Eveleen's bower" in vain struggles against the gallant Captain, "whose legs were what his regiment called bandy, oh!" And it was matchless audacity in the poet to attempt overlaying with his "sparkling hand" such established favourites as "Thady, you gander," and "Peas upon a trencher."

But there is in this also an exception, and I may repeat a glorious exception, in the beautiful song of "Come o'er the sea, maiden, with me," which fairly usurps the place of

"Cushla ma chree,

Did you but see,

How the villain he treated me?

I have heard two celebrated foreign musicians exclaiming "Pish," and turning up their noses for a whole evening at the Irish melodies, until this song was played. They hailed it in ecstasy, but swore, like Dirk Hatteraik, in Dutch, German, and English, that it was borrowed from the Italian.

Not to be interminable-whatever be the defects of Moore's genius, philosophy, or nationality, the Melodies will occupy place upon every piano that has a string in its body, and the silent perusers of the closet have at last obtained in this beautiful little edition a long desideratum.



SIR!-Since I had the first time the pleasure to peruse the Numbers of your Magazine, communicated to me by my friend Dr L*******, who lived some years ago, at Edinburgh, I have always wished to have an occasion to express to you my esteem and my complete concurrence with the religious and political principles highly proclaimed, and defended with energy, in your excellent Journal.

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My friend Mr Boell Von Faber of this town, Hanseatic Consul at Cadiz, and author of the inclosed book, printed in the beginning of this year, under my care and inspection, gives me now the occasion to profess my feelings. Mr Boell, in every time and in every place, a valiant admirer and defender of all that is right and beautiful; and, therefore, likewise a constant reader of your Magazine, whereof he speaks, in his letters to me, in terms of the highest praise, has saved the greatest part of these beautiful poems, alike from the oblivion and torpidity of ancient, as from the haughtiness and revolutionary dulness of modern Spain. Though himself a member of the Royal Spanish Acaderay, the present state of that unhappy land, and the sentiments of the ringleaders and organs of the public voice, admiring only all that comes from France, have frustrated the author of a national interest and participation, as he should have depended upon, had he published elsewhere some of the delightful relics of the early German, Scandinavian, or English poetry. Notwithstanding, it is the design of Mr Boell, who has conducted the whole enterprize with the noblest disinterestedness, to continue in its execution, if the bookseller, Mr Perthes, is only defrayed of the expenses of his edition. Should this expectation be fulfilled, and the bookseller encouraged to pursue this enterprize, Mr Boell is willing to publish, in three other volumes, the most exquisite and beautiful flowers of Spanish poetry. The title of the second

Faber's Floresta de Rimas, Antiquas Cast:l'anas. Hamburgh, Perthes, 1820. Octavo, a very beautiful volume.



volume, quite ready for publication, and containing the best of the great Spanish poets of the 16th and 17th century, will be, Floresta de Rimas Modernas Castellanas. That of third will be, Floresta de Poesias Dramáticas Antiquas Castellanas; and it will contain a number of old and excellent pieces, yet quite unknown, by Lope de Rueda, Torres Naharro, Gil Vicente, the Incunbula of the Spanish theatre. The fourth volume will have the title, Floresta de Poesias Epicas Castellanas; and it will contain the most beautiful selections and extracts from the numberless Spanish Epopees, a kind of poetry denegated to that nation, as the dramatic talent to the Italians, that not all kinds of poetry might be united in every one of them.

The British public being best prepared, by the valuable works of Mr Southey, Lord Holland, and Mr Rodd, to apprise the value and merit of the labour of Mr Boell, you will surely do a favour to all men of feeling, by giving them a little account of it in your Magazine, forwarding at the same time a literary enterprize so highly advantageous to the saving of the most holy and deepest sentiments of an age, that will be very soon forgotten in its own country. I deem it, therefore, very saperfluous to recommend you this matter longer, and am, with the most profound esteem, Sir, yours,

Hamburg, November 25, 1821.


P. S. A highly interesting little publication of Mr Vonder Hagen, the editor of the Nibelungen-Lied, coming just into my hands, I hope it will be agreeable to you to insert a short account of it in your Magazine, which I pray you may be so kind to clear and purge of the faults of language, very natural for a foreigner who has never been in England.

Another very interesting new publication, is the Oestliche Rosen, (Eastern Roses) a collection of poems in the oriental style of Goethe's Divan, published two years ago, by Frederic Rücxert, the German poet, who will, as it seems to me, be in some years the foremost on the German Parnassus, if he will become less anxious, and exert himself to overcome the difficulty of language, and of the most artful and complicated versification. Knowing, by the many beautiful translations from the German, inserted in your Magazine, how happy you are in struggling with these difficulties, I transcribe you the poetical dedication of the poems of Rücxert to Goethe, written in the Metrum of the Proëmium of the Divan of Gothe, and being a very close imitation of it.

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Müsst ihr gehn von hier zum selben Freudig als dem Stern des Abend


Der vom Westen

Auch den besten

Wein von jeher schenkt 'aus voller

Als der West war durchgekostet,
Hat er nun den Ost entinostet ;
Seht, dort schwelgt er auf der Otto-


landes; Nun erhöhten Morgenroethen

Herrlich ihn zum Herrn des Morgen-

Wo die Beiden glühn zusammen,
Muss der Himmel blühn in Flainmen,
Ein Diwan voll lichten Rosenbrandes.

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Dieses Arms, wie lang 'erhat gefoch- Zorn und Gluth und Mild und süsses

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Alles Lieben

Jung geblieben,

Seiner Stirne stehen schön die Rosen.
Wenn nicht etwa ew'gcs Leben
Ihm verliehn ist, sey gegeben
Langes ihm, von uns gewogne Loo-


Du den neuen Tugendbund errichtet,

Sey mit Brünsten

Unter Künsten

Aller Art, in der auch unterrichtet,

Wie Saadi in jenem Orden

Ueber hundert jahr alt worden,

Und Dschami hat nah 'daran gedichtet.

[A friend who accidentally came in has favoured us with the following strictly extemporaneous and free Translation, or rather Imitation of these verses. The reader is aware that their structure is in every respect oriental. C. N.]


Darkly beautiful East,

Wilt thou pamper and feast,

In thy chambers, on banquets of roses and wine,
HIM, thy pale sister West,

From a boy hath caress'd?

Wilt thou stoop thee, her rival, around him to twine?
Yes-I see it is done;

By her own setting sun,

On thy couch, like a God, I behold him recline.


The calm breast of Eve

All in crimson would heave,

When his young eye was bright as her rivalless star:
Now the bosom of Morn

Hath esteem'd it no scorn

To outblush all the crimson e'er kindled her car:
Both are fair, both are bright;

When in love they unite

Sure the fate of their lover's too lovely by far!


Nay, but smile not: behold,

Though his arm may be old,

Did ye e'er see more nerve in an arm that was younger?
Or the strings of a lyre,

Swept with touches of fire,

Into magical cadences melting you longer?

Come, confess there is fire in

The Napththas of Iran !

No, young Goëthe 'neath Italy's sky, was not stronger!


Yet, oh yet, in his veins

All the fervour remains

All the love, and the scorn, and the passionate glow,
All the raptures of life

In his bosom are rife

And his star shines as bright as it rose long ago.
O-I say not for ever-

But long, long, Thou Great Giver,

May the spirit be such, and the victory so!


May he borrow from those,
With whose glory he glows,

The old charm of The East for the conquest of age!
May the hundredth bright year
Close in peace o'er the peer

Of Saadi the Splendid and Dshami the Sage!
May his eye to the last

Keep the fire of the past

And the spirit of Goëthe be clear as his page!


The author of this little Tract, already famous by his edition and by his translation, in modern German, of the Nibelungen-Lied, the Ilias of the Teutonic tribes, has made, four years ago, by order of the King of Prussia, a literary journey through Germany, Switzerland, and Italy, for examining the different libraries of those countries, in search of ancient manuscripts. After having published an abstract of his cursory remarks, in four volumes, under the title of Briefe in die Heymath, (Homeward Letters,) he is now about to elaborate the valuable stock of knowledge collected by him and his fellow-travellers, among whom we distinguish Professor Frederic von Raumer, who is preparing a history of the German Emperors of the House of Hohenstauffen. The first part of Mr Von der Hagen's literary harvest is now presented to the literati of Europe, under the title "Poema Græcum de Rebus Gestis Regis Arturi, Tristani, Lanceloti, Galbani, Palamedis aliorumque Equitum Tabulae Rotundae, e Codice Vaticano, Editio prima."

This fragment of a larger poem, unhappily lost, will interest the more

British readers, as belonging to the cyclus of poetical fictions, taking their origin from the first inhabitants of that island, and shewing how these popular and chivalric tales were spread over all Europe. The first living poet of the country has not disdained to edit and illustrate the exploits of Tristan, or Sir Tristrem, a knight of that famous table-round; and if it is permitted to a foreigner to judge on the merit of such a man, we believe that a great part of his poetical achievements, and of the deep impression his works are making on every feeling heart, may be ascribed to his deep and accurate knowledge of the popular and chivalric songs and romances of his forefathers.

The fragment whereof we shall give an account, contained in the Codex Vaticanus, No. 1822, page 200—205, is written on paper of cotton, in the thirteenth or fourteenth century, in political verses, (orina wohiti,) but quite as prose in one continual series of rows. With a slight transposition of the leaves of the Codex, the whole gives a little, but quite coherent episode, beginning, v. 1—13,—

1. Monumenta medii Aevi plerumque inedita, Graeca, Latina, Itala, Franco-Gallica, Palaeo-Germanica et Islandica. Specimen Primum, quo locum Professoris ordinarii in Ordine Philosophorum rite initurus, ad Orationem de Aeginetis habendam die xxx Julii Hora x invitat Fridericus Henricus von der Hagen, Professor Ordinarius designatus. Vratislaviae, 1821, 8. 35 pages.

2. Tristan von Meister Gotfrit von Straosburg met der Fortsetsung des Meisters Ulrich von Turheim in Swey Abtheilungen herauzgegeben von E. von Groote nebst cinem Steindrucke. Berlin, Reimer, 1821, 4.

Νέοι, παιδίσκαι, σὺν αὐτοῖς μετέρες εὐτεννοῦσαι,
Καὶ ῥήγες ὑποκείμενοι, ῥηγι τῷ Βρητανίας,
Εώρων ἐκπληττόμενοι τὸ θάρσος τοῦ πρεσβύτου,
Τὸ κάλλος δ ̓ ἐπεθαύμαζον, τῆς ἐπελθούσης κόρης.
Ο Παλαμήδης συν βοή, βαρβαρική και σθένει
Ωθεῖ τὸν ἵππον κατ' αὐτον βάλλει τῷ δορατίῳ.
Ατρέμας δ' ὁ πρεσβύτατος, ἵστατο ρωμαλέος,
Ὥσπερ τις λίθος ἀκλινής, σκοπὸς τοῖς βαλλομένοις.
Ἐν τῇ χειρὶ συνέτριψε, τὸ δόρυ Παλαμήδης,
Καξ εφεστρίδος κατὰ γῆς, ἐκπετασθείς ερρίφθη,
Ὥσπερ τις λίθος αφεθείς, ἐκ πετροβόλου σκενους,
Πρὸς πέτραν δὲ παραβαλών, αὖθις παλινδρομεῖται,
Τὸ πλῆττον ἀσθένεστερον, φανὲν τοῦ πληττομένου.

After this ignominious defeat, Palamedes is going shameful to his lodgings, putting himself on his bed. After him Gaoulbanus (Gawyn,) nephew of King Arthur, is asking his permission to fight with the old man, which is granted to him. The old man tries to dissuade the knight, alleging the gratitude he is bearing for the mother of the knight, Morgaine, and for his ancestor, Uterpendragon, foretelling him that he will be put down like his friend Palamedes. But Galwyn, anxious to fight, begins the trial, and is vanquished as it was predicted to him. On the same manner, Galawtos, and many knights of the table, (οἱ δαιτυμόνες,) excepting only Tristenos and Lanselotos, are fighting

with the old man, who is putting them down one after the other, stili refusing to declare his name. Lanselot of the Lake ('Λαντελῶτος ἐκ Λιμένης,) asks Tristan to let himself fight with the old man. Tristan gives him leave to fight; but Lanselot, though highly prized by the old man splittering his lance on Lanselot's breast, is put down like the other knights. After him comes Tristan, but he shares the lot of the other champions. Now Arthur becomes angry, and though Tzenebra (Genièvre) prays him on her knees not to fight, puts on his armour, and runs down to the field of battle, whereof the poet makes this beautiful description, v. 149, 150.

Αλλ ̓ ἦν ῥηγὶ προς παίγνοιν, τῶν θεραπόντων θρῆνος,
Καὶ κατελθὼν του δώματος, παρίσταται σταδίῳ,
Οὐκ αὐτῷ χαῖρε προσειπών, οὐ δεξιὰν ἐκτείνας,
̓Αλλ' ἔστη βλοσυρόμματος, ὥσπερ σκύμνος.
Τοῦτον δὲ ἰδὼν ἱστάμενον, ἱππότης ὁ πρεσβύτης
Εγνω τὸν ῥῆγα ἀλεθῶς, τυγκάνειν τὸν ἐλθόντα·

The old man now begs him not to
fight, acknowledging to be ready to
become likewise knight of the table,
whereupon the king embraces him,
and asks that he may go with him to
dine at the hall. But the old man re-
fuses to follow his invitation, and to
disclose his name.

In this moment, a damsel, unjustly spoiled of her castles and lands, arrives to implore the aid of King Arthur, or one of his knights of the table-round. The king relates to her how all the knights have been vanquished by the old man, and that she may solicit his help, who, though he refuses in the beginning to lend her his arm, already weakened by the many duels fought with the knights, at last codes to her solicitations, and goes with the virgin to her castle, where they arrive

the same evening. But deposing there his armour, the ladies of the castle see how old and grey-headed he is, and are blaming the virgin on the choice she has made of so weak a defender, having wanted a young and valiant knight of the table-round. They go to rest, and the next morning, when they are apprised that the enemy is approaching, the old man asks to eat and to drink. Having finished his breakfast, he puts on his armour, and looks quietly on the issue of the battle between the people of the castle and the enemy. Then, after the first are put to flight, he inquires about the cause of the war, and being informed of it, he asks, that the enemies may restore the flocks they have driven away, and the prisoners they have made. But these scorning his propo

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