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 breatlı, hay quenched the orb of day?
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Violence is the grown childhood of the world. Its manhood is intel. lect and equanimity; and part of the grace of manhood consists in recollecting the better things of infancy. Edward the First, who made vassals of the Welsh, is now an inferior person in our eyes compared! with Howel the legislator. We would rather see Alfred the Great than the widest-ruling of all the Roman Emperors. We should expect more in his face. We should recognize in him a greater existing man,-a finer co-temporary, or rather a more becoming fellowcreature for the Shakspeares and Bacons : for when we speak of modern times, we mean the intellectual times which such great men have produced for us. Even the smallness of the territory, to which the old Britons were confined, serves to concentrate and make strong the gaze of recollection.

Mere greatness, acts through the medium of pride or fear. It always inflicts a sort of uneasy consciousness of the gross nature of its pretensions. Break it, and it resolves its compounds into littleness. You can only contrast it with mere smallness, or pity it because it is not entire. It cannot afford to be otherwise. Its compounds have no principle of growth, -no power of voluntary aggrandizement,-no charm with which to call associations about them. But break a heart into a thousand shivers, and every atom shall be reverenced. Love is great enough for itself. Such phrases as the Great King and the Great Nation, even though warranted in point of physical power, are nothing but vanity, and are felt to be so. Both imply a want of individual importance, and by the same reason a want of general humanity. They make the recollections either too vaguely public, or too minutely private. The Persian in Greece, or the Turk in Candia, was angry at being killed by a petty republican, or regretted only his haram or his houris; but the Greek who “dying, thought of sweet Argos,"

"* and the Florentine who turned at hearing Dante speak in his native language, and felt his heart live again at “the dialect of Arno's vale,” thought of his home and his country as


It is a feeling connected with this love of country, which most parti. cularly 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, cælumque Adspicit, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos.

Virgil, Lib. 10, v. 781.

obtaining the thanks of the modern Howels and Llewellyns, and in being renowned in a country about twice the size of Yorkshire.

On openiog 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
Glories : for never, since created man,
Met such embodied force, as named with these
Could merit more than that small infuntry
Warr’d on by cranes, though all the giant brood
Of Phlegra with the heroic race were joined
That fought at Thebes and llium, on each side
Mix'd with auxiliar Gods; and what resounds
In fable or romance of Uther's son
Begirt with British and Armorick knights;
And all who since, baptiz'd or infidel,
Jousted in Aspramont, or Montalban,
Damasco, or Marocco, or Trebisond,
Or whom Biserta sent from Africk shore,
When Charlemain with all his peerage fell
By Fontarabbia.

Yna ymfulchùa,
Ei galon, a chaledu yn ei nerih
Ymorfoledda: canys nid erised

pan fu dyn, yr ymddygyrchailu
Wrth y rhai byn teilyngach fyddent nog
Oedd y peddytos mân à gyrchent gynt
Greyrod; er pe cawri Phlegra oli
Yn gyfl ag y glewion à gaiêynt
Rhag Thebes a rhag Ilion, cymhlith o
Gyfneirthiaid Dduwiau y ddwy blaid; a plaeth
A soniant chwedlau am fab Uthr ar gyrcha
Marchogion Prydain ac Armorica;
Ac wedi hwynt oll, cred neu anghred lui,
Yn Aspramont neu Montalban, neu yn
Damasco, neu Marocco, neu Trebisond,
Neu o Affric dorf Biserta, yn y drin
Wrth Fontarabbia, pan y syrthiai holl

Urddolion Carlo Mawr ac efe ei hun.'
Here are some fine words to the


Yna ymfalchïa
Ei galon, a chaledu yn ei nerth

And again :

Dlarchogion Prydain ac Armorica :

Yn y drin
Wrth Fontarabbia, pan y syrthiai holl
Urddolion Carlo Mawr ac efe ei hun.

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 cuta 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. Utht 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 cròrud ac y creyprod.” 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 not for what cause, but these Greek letters contained only Welsh words. This was the unkindest cut of all.” But they look like some memorial about a lady, perhaps an affectionate one; and we return to our gravities.

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 pos. sible 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 on. 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 Rooud Table and Arthur, who 6 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.

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Ei, O modo spiritus adsit,
Frangam Saxonicas Britonum sub Marte phalangas!
And Oh, did spirii come on me but fit for those high ware,

I'd crash the Saxon phalanxes beneath the British Mars!
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 origio. 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.


From the Second Volume of Mr. Moore's National Melodics.



While I touch the string,

Wreathe my brows with laurel;
For the tale ( sing

Has, for once, a moral.
Common Seuse, one night,

Though not used to gombols,
Went oui, by inoon-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;
While ihe light that shone,

Soon set Genius straying.
One his eye ne'er raised

From the path before him ;
T'other idly gazed
On each viglie-cloud o'er him.

While I louch the string, &c.

So they came at last

To a shady river ;--
Common Sense soon passed

Safe, as he doth ever:
While the boy, whose look

Wag in heaven that minute,
Never saw the brook,
But tumbled headlong in it.

While I touch the string, &c.
How the wise one smiled,

When safe o'er the torrent,
At that youth so wild,

Dripping from the current.
Sense went home to bed ;

Genius, left to shiver
On the bank, 'tis said,
Died of that cold river!

While I touch the string,
"Wreathe my brows with laurel ;
For the tale I sing

Has, for once, a moral.


While I touch the string,

Wreaibe my brows with laurel;
For the tale I sing

Has a further moral.
Tis said !" Did le so?

Then let me say, that Tis, Ma'am,
ls, 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,
Made him wish himself there.

While I touch the string, &c.
Common Sense next day

Went to business sulky,
Cheating all the way

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 piece Uncommon.

* Tis more familiarly known by the addition of bis usual habit, Tis said, is own cousin to the well known gabbling Frenchman On dit.

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