and poetry, and its tops shine to this day in the reverted eyes of its wanderers. Fond impious man, thinkst thou yon sanguine cloud Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Violence is the grown childhood of the world. Its manhood is intel- one. It is a feeling connected with this love of country, which most particularly strikes us in the translation of Milton. Here is an author fond of authorship, an author living among Englishmen, and well aware of the universality of their language, and yet he contents his ambition with producing a long work which none but his countrymen shall understand. It is sufficient for him if he can give them a new source of pleasure. It is enough for the true largeness of his spirit if he can give a thousand times more than he can receive,-happy in * Sternitur infelix alieno volnere, cœlumque 724 obtaining the thanks of the modern Howels and Llewellyns, and in being renowned in a country about twice the size of Yorkshire. On opening the book, we are then struck with the delight it must afford to those who have no other language, and amused with the unreadable face it presents to those who are not acquainted with it. One's familiarity with the original, and utter inability to make out its expounder, make up a very pleasant perplexity. We will quote a passage from both, which in Milton is like the coming of an army with music, and which must present high associations, of another sort, to the Welsh reader. Satan has just numbered his forces : And now his heart Distends with pride, and hardening in his strength Met such embodied force, as named with these Begirt with British and Armorick knights; Yna ymfulcha, Ei galon, a chaledu yn ei nerth Wrth y rhai byn teilyngach fyddent nog Ac wedi hwynt oll, cred neu anghred lu, Here are some fine words to the eye : Charles the Great keeps up his old triumphs. He always gets well off in every tongue and nation,-Charlemain, Carlo Mano, Carolus Magnus. Even his plain monosyllable, Carl, which Camden tells us is the only appellation on his coins, has a self-sufficing and dominant sound. But we know not that he ever cut a more imperial figure than in this lofty and solemn agnomen of Carlo Mawr. It reminds one of the mountain. The names that abound in this passage serve only to shew to greater effect the obscurity of the rest. Uthr and Prydain we can make out: Damasco, and Marocco, and Trebisond, are as familiar to us as the sounds of a trumpet; but what the devil," as Brantome would say, is "oedd y pedditos mân" There happens to be a note to these words; and the idea of explanation is so united with that of a note, that one looks involuntarily for some instruction on the point. The following is the elucidation. "Odd y pedditos mán."-Syniad yw hyn am y ddammeg o ryfel rhwyng y crored ac y creyrod." Even the Preface, we find, has nothing in it for us Saxons; nor the Index either. At last, in the former, we hit upon some Greek letters, and thought that some light was going to break in upon us, when lo! we know net for what cause, but these Greek letters contained only Welsh words. This was unkindest cut of all." But they look like some memorial about a lady, perhaps an affectionate one; and we return to our gravities. "the The only remaining observation we have to make, is the pleasure with which the great poet himself would have witnessed a translation of his work into this language: there has lately been an Icelandic version of Paradise Lost. This would have gratified him, from feelings common to all writers. The Italian ones were a matter of course.— But a translation into old British would have been particularly curious to one, who had meditated an epic poem on the exploits of King Arthur, and had no doubt made himself as well acquainted as possible with Welsh antiquities, for that purpose. The overflowings of this first intention of his, when it was afterwards diverted, are visible in the little streams of romance which occasionally run into its other sphere. Among the subjects also which he has left on record for tragedy, are passages from the same period; and when he began a History of Britain, he delighted to go as far back as possible, and do justice to Briton as well as Saxon. He speaks of the intended epic poem in various parts of his writings, and talks of his subject with a zeal and even a British sort of partiality, which is as striking as the ardour of his verse. See particularly the famous passage in his Latin poem to Tasso's friend, Manso, where after expressing his wish to meet with so understanding a patron, and to write about the Round Table and Arthur, who "at that moment was preparing his wars under ground," he bursts out in a strain like the clang of metal : Those rogues the punsters, who will be levelling every thing, and laying every language double, have already got hold of the translation of Mr. Owen Pughe. One of them, the other day, seeing the words "Mr. Tomkins" at the head of an advertisement, and finding that it concerned that late eminent writing-master, said that he was the greatest man that flourished during the last century, and that he ought to be called Penman-Mawr. Et, O modo spiritus adsit, Frangam Saxonicas Britonum sub Marte phalangas! And Oh, did spirit come on me but fit for those high wars, Perhaps considering what a proud patriot Milton was, notwithstanding all his cosmopolitical qualities, it affords some additional explanation to this British part of his enthusiasm, to find that his mother was of Welsh origin. His connexions were probably a good deal among the countrymen of her family. His first wife was the daughter of a Powell. That he did not do what he intended, has been regretted by every poet who has alluded to it, from Dryden to Walter Scott. We remember a note in the latter's edition of Dryden, where he asks, what would not have been done with such subjects as the Perilous Chapel and the Forbidden Seat? So much, that being compelled to bring this article to a close, we dare not trust ourselves with dwelling upon it, with fancying a thousandth part of the grand and the gorgeous things, the warlike and the peaceful, the bearded and the vermeil-cheeked, the manly, the supernatural, and the gentle, with which his poem would have burnt brightly down to us, like windows painted by enchantment. COMMON SENSE AND GENIUS. From the Second Volume of Mr. Moore's National Melodies. WITH AN ANSWER TO IT. ORIGINAL ACCOUNT. While I touch the string, Wreathe my brows with laurel; For the tale I sing Has, for once, a moral. Common Sense, one night, Though not used to gambols, Went out, by moon-light, With Genius on his rambles. While I touch the string, Wreathe my brows with laurel, For the tale I sing Has, for once, a moral. Common Sense went on, Many wise things saying; Tother idly gazed On each night-cloud o'er him. FURTHER ACCOUNT. While I touch the string, Wreathe my brows with laurel; For the tale I sing Has a further moral. "Tis said!" Did he so? Then let me say, that Tis, Ma'am, Is, as many know, The veriest liar that is, Ma'am. While I touch the string, Wreathe my brows with laurel; For the tale I sing, Has a further moral.* Genius did not die; Twas an envious rumour, He got quickly dry, And turned the dip to humour. Common Sense, tis true, Left him like an elf there; But Common's wife, a shrew, While I touch the string, &c. Common Sense next day To make his pockets bulky. Genius went about, Sowing smiles and flowers; Bright eyes looking out To thank him from their bowers. While I touch the string, &c. Common Sense at last Died of the old woman, And was buried fast By his niece Uncommon. Tis more familiarly known by the addition of his usual habit, Tis said, is own cousin to the well known gabbling Frenchman On dit. |