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comes of it. Ab! to ward it off the blow
was given too suddenly. Long, much, I ftrove
to keep aloof; but vainly. Once to see her-
her, whom I surely did not court the fight of,
to see her, and to form the resolution,
never to lose fight of her here again,
was one- The resolution-No, 'tis will,
fixt purpose, made, (for I was passive in it)
seald, doom'd. To see her, and to feel myself
bound to her, wove into her very being,

-remains one. Separate from her,
to live is quite unthinkable--is death.
And wherefoever after death we bé,
there too the thought were death. And is this love?
Yet so in troth the templar loves--so-fo-
the Christian loves the Jewess. What of that?
Here in this holy land, and therefore holy
and dear to me, I have already doff'd
some prejudices. Well-what says my vow?
As templar I am dead, was dead to that
from the fame hour which made me prisoner
to Saladin. But is the head he gave me
my old one? No. It knows no word of what
was prated into yon, of what had bound it.
It is a better; for its patrial sky
fitter than yon. I feel I'm conscious of it.
With this I now begin to think, as here
my father must have thought ; if tales of him
have not been told untruly. Tales--why tales ?
They are credible more credible than ever-
now that I'm on the brink of stumbling, where
he fell. He feil? I'd rather fall with men,
than stand with children. His example pledges
his approbation; and whose approbation
have I else need of? Nathan's ? Surely, of his
encouragement, applause, I've little need
to doubt - what a Jew is he! yet easy

to pass for the mere Jew.' The following is part of the first dialogue that passes between the lovers. Recha. Where have you been? where you perhaps

ought not
That is not well.
Тепр. .

Up-how d'ye call the mountain ?

p. 159, 160.

up Sinai.


Oh that's


fortunate. Now I shall learn for certain, if 'tis truemaco



faid to me,

Temp. What! If the spot may yet be seen where Moses
stood before God; when first-

No, no ; not that.
Where'er he stood, 'twas before God. Of this
I know enough already. Is it true,
I wish to learn from you, that—that it is not
by far so troublesome to climb this mountain
as to get down for on all mountains else,

that I have seen, quite the reverse obtains.' p. 128-29. After some farther talk, equally innocent and edifying, the amorous Templar exclaims

Temp. How truly said thy father, “ Do but know her!”
Recha. Who hasof whom-laid so to thee?

Thy father
6 Do but know her,” and of thee.'

p. 130. The following soliloquy of the Wise Nathan, when the sultan leaves him to ponder on his query about the three religions, is in a loftier style, and is in the best and most sententious manner of the author.

Nath. I came prepared with cash-he asks truth. Truth?
as if truth too were cash-a coin disus'd
that goes by weight-indeed 'tis some such thing-
but a new coin, koown by the stamp at once,
to be flung down and told upon the counter,
it is not that. Like gold in bags tied up,
so truth lies hoarded in the wise man's head
to be brought out-Which now in this transaction,
which of us plays the Jew ? he asks for truth
is truth what he requires, his aim, his end ?
That this is but the glue to lime a snare
ought not to be suspected, 'twere too little,
yet what is found too little for the

In fact, thro' hedge and pale to stalk at once
into one's field beseems not--friends look round,
seek for the path, ask leave to pass the gate-
I must be oautious. Yet to damp him back,
and be the stubborn Jew, is not the thing ;
and wholly to throw off the Jew, ftill less.
For if no Jew he might with right inquire-
why not a Musulman?

p. 145-46. We suspect our readers have enough now; yet there are many choice phrases and images to be culled. Nathan, reproving pride, says,

• The iron pot would with a silver prong

be lifted from the fire.' The fair Recha comparing the truth of Christianity to weeds sown in her mind, says,

- Yet


- Yet I must acknowledge
I feel as if they had a four sweet odour,

that makes me giddy--that half suffocates me.' And her handmaid, observing the agitation of her lover, observes with much elegance,

Something passes in him. It boils—but it must not boil over. Leave him The same personage conceiving Nathan to be somewhat severe in his farcasms, replies to him with great fpirit, by first saying,

Hit of, and then exclaiming, you are on the bite.' We suspect, however, that we are indebted to the taste of the translator for the dignity of these two repartees. There is one other phrase to which he seems particularly partial, and which has a very singular effect on his composition. He can by no chance be prevailed upon to use the verb ' to find,' without coupling it with the particle ' up;' thus, he says, 'We'll find thee up a staff;

go find me up the Jew;' . Will no one find me the Dervis up;'I wish to find him up that may convert her,' &c. &c.* The phrase occurs at least twenty times; and, whether it be bora rowed from the idiom of the original, or invented by the translator, must certainly be allowed to possess singular grace and animation.

We have now exhibited enough, we conceive, of this drama, to satisfy the greater part of our readers, that, in spite of fome late alarming symptoms, there is good reason for holding, that there is still a considerable difference between the national taste of Germany and of this country. The piece before us, has not only been a favourite acting play for these last six and twenty years, but it is considered as one of the best productions of their celebrated Lesling, who is vaunted as the purest and most elegant of their dramatic writers, and has long been the idol of those who cry down Schiller and Kotzebue as caricaturists. The translation is from the pen of Mr Taylor of Norwich, whose admirable versions of Lenore, and of the Iphigenia in Tauris, have placed him at the head of all our translators from that language.

ART. XII. English Lyrics. Third Edition. By William Smyth,

Fellow of St Peter's College, Cambridge. 12mo. pp. 150. London, 1806.

This is a very elegant and pleasing little volume : the work evi.

dently of a man of refined taste and amiable dispositions. The character of the poetry is delicacy rather than force ; ten


derness rather than enthusiasm ; and a sort of contemplative morality, somewhat sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,' instead of the strong emotions and lofty conceptions of the bolder lyric. The author holds dalliance with the Muse, but is not possessed by her ; he rather guides his genius, than is impelled by it, and stands too much in dread of faults, to attain many of the greater beauties. There is nothing of narrative, and very little of character or manners in his volume. It is made


of dissections of the finer feelings, reflections on innocent unhappiness, and allegorical sketches of the passions by which life is governed. The composition is sometimes enlivened by the beautiful workings of fancy, and sometimes debased by the affectation of unnecessary refinement. In short, if the reader can form to himself: the idea of a middle style, between the capricious prettiness of Shenstone, and the bold and abstract, personifications of Collins, he will have attained a very just conception, we think, of the style of Mr Smyth's English Lyrics.

It was a bold attempt to inscribe an Ode to Pity,' after the author we have just mentioned ; yet the following stanzas are elegant.

• O Pity! all my fighs are thine,

My follies pause, my bosom warms,
My musing griefs to bliss refine,

Whene'er I mark thy sorrowing forms ;
The love-lorn maid that long believed,
Now sinking lone, now undeceived,

-Or him, 'mid fortune's gathering gloom,
Condemned the smile of bliss to wear,
While baffled hope and rankling care

His generous heart consume.
• The exile grey, when start to view

The tears, that speak the exiled soul ;
The mother, as she bids adieu,

And turns, her anguish to controul ;
The hectic form, the

beauteous maid,
That just as life its charm display'd,

To death devoted, glides away,
With brilliant eye, that watery gleams,
While still the rosy spectre dreams

Of many a morrow gay. The following lines express a common thought; but express it, we think, with great tenderness and beauty.

Ah, Julia! must that morrow come,

When I in anguish shall behold
That cheek with animated bloom
No longer warm-pale, Ihrunk

and cold


p. 67, 68.

Those lips, whence I such kiffes steal,

Robb’d of their dye and honied ftore,
No more to make one proud appeal,

Or speak one tempting challenge more?
"Ah! must that hour at length arrive,

When I may press that hand so fair,
Now to my flightest touch alive,

Yet feel no pulses trembling there?
Nor more those


of soften'd blue With liquid fondness sparkling beam, But seem their long, their laft adieu,

In every faded look to gleam.
«In some dread season of despair,

Must keen disease, muft wasting pain,
Seize e'en thy form ? and I be near,

To count the fighs that moan in vain ;
Wipe thy damp brow, with trembling hand,

See oʻer thy frame Death's tremors creep,
Pale o'er thy sinking ruin stand,

And feel the grief that cannot weep.' p. 26, 27. The next is in a more cheerful and familiar tone.

True, Laura, true! I own with pain,

That goodness oft must toil in vain,
Thy beauteous charge, the orphan maid,
But ill thy generous care repaid ;
How could the hapless truant flee
From peace, and innocence, and thee?
Oft as we stray this cottage nigh,

I feel how just thy passing figh.
• Thou canst not from this scene below,
vice and

every woe ;
Thou canst not wave a fairy wand,
Nor nature change, nor fate command ;
Oh! fafter will the weed appear,
Than art of thine the flower can rear,
Yet flowers by thee may learn to blow,
And weeds less rank, less widely grow.
Look round, my love, this hamlet see,
Its virtues all are reared by thee ;
From thee its follies would retreat,
Its vices fear thy glance to meet ;
To thee the young for learning bend,
The poor

have marked thee for their friend ;
And every grief to thee appeals,
Which pity foothes or bounty heals.


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