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comes of it.
Ah! to ward it off-the blow
was given too fuddenly. Long, much, I ftrove
to keep aloof; but vainly. Once to fee her-
her, whom I furely did not court the fight of,
to fee her, and to form the resolution,
never to lofe fight of her here again,
was one- -The refolution ?-No, 'tis will,
fixt purpose, made, (for I was paffive in it)
feal'd, doom'd. To fee her, and to feel myself
bound to her, wove into her very being,
was one-remains one. Separate from her,
to live is quite unthinkable-is death.

And wherefoever after death we be,

there too the thought were death. And is this love?
Yet fo in troth the templar loves-so-so-

the Chriftian loves the Jewels. What of that?
Here in this holy land, and therefore holy
and dear to me, I have already doff'd
fome prejudices.-Well-what fays my vow?
As templar I am dead, was dead to that
from the fame hour which made me prifoner
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 fky

fitter than yon.
I feel I'm confcious 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 ftumbling, where
he fell. He fell? I'd rather fall with men,
than ftand with children. His example pledges
his approbation; and whofe approbation
have I elfe need of? Nathan's? Surely, of his
encouragement, applaufe, I've little need

to doubt-O what a Jew is he! yet easy

to pass for the mere Jew. '

P. 159, 160.

The following is part of the first dialogue that passes between the lovers.

• Recha. Where have you been? where you perhaps

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ought not

Up-how d'ye call the mountain?

Oh that's very fortunate.

Temp.

Now I fhall learn for certain, if 'tis true

Temp. What! If the fpot may yet be feen where Mofes ftood before God; when firft

Recha.

No, no; not that.

Where'er he flood, '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 fo troublesome to climb this mountain

as to get down-for on all mountains else,

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

Temp. How truly faid thy father, "Do but know her!
Recha. Who has-of whom-said so to thee?

Temp.

Thy father

"

faid to me, "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.
as if truth too were cafh-a coin difus'd
that goes by weight-indeed 'tis fome fuch thing-
but a new coin, known by the ftamp at once,
to be flung down and told upon the counter,
it is not that. Like gold in bags tied up,
fo truth lies hoarded in the wife man's head
to be brought out-Which now in this tranfaction,
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 fnare
ought not to be fufpected, 'twere too little,
yet what is found too little for the great-
In fact, thro' hedge and pale to talk at once
into one's field befeems not-friends look round,
feek for the path, ask leave to pass the gate-
I must be cautious. Yet to damp him back,
and be the ftubborn Jew, is not the thing;
and wholly to throw off the Jew, still less.
For if no Jew he might with right inquire-

why not a Musulman?

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P. 145-46.

Truth?

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 filver

be lifted from the fire.'

prong

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 fweet odour,

that makes me giddy--that half fuffocates me.'

And her handmaid, obferving the agitation of her lover, observes with much elegance,

Something paffes in him.

It boils-but it must not boil over. Leave him

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We

The fame perfonage conceiving Nathan to be fomewhat severe in his farcasms, replies to him with great fpirit, by firft faying, Hit off, and then exclaiming, you are on the bite.' fufpect, however, that we are indebted to the taste of the tranflator for the dignity of these two repartees. There is one other phrase to which he seems particularly partial, and which has a very fingular effect on his compofition. He can by no chance be pre'vailed upon to use the verb to find,' without coupling it with the particle up; thus, he fays, We'll find thee up a ftaff;' -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 phrafe occurs at least twenty times; and, whether it be borrowed from the idiom of the original, or invented by the translator, must certainly be allowed to poffefs fingular grace and animation.

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We have now exhibited enough, we conceive, of this drama, to fatisfy the greater part of our readers, that, in fpite of fome late alarming symptoms, there is good reafon for holding, that there is ftill a confiderable difference between the national taste of Germany and of this country. The piece before us, has not only been a favourite acting play for thefe laft fix and twenty years, but it is confidered as one of the best productions of their celebrated Leffing, who is vaunted as the pureft and most elegant of their dramatic writers, and has long been the idol of those who cry down Schiller and Kotzebue as caricaturists. The tranflation is from the pen of Mr Taylor of Norwich, whofe admirable verfions of Lenore, and of the Iphigenia in Tauris, have placed him at the head of all our tranflators 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

HIS is a very elegant and pleasing little volume: the work evidently of a man of refined taste and amiable difpofitions. The character of the poetry is delicacy rather than force; ten

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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 up 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 paufe, my bofom warms,

My mufing griefs to blifs refine,

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

-Or him, 'mid fortune's gathering gloom,
Condemned the fmile of blifs to wear,
While baffled hope and rankling care
His generous heart confume.

The exile grey, when start to view

The tears, that speak the exiled foul;

The mother, as fhe bids adieu,

And turns, her anguish to controul;
The hectic form, the beauteous maid,
That juft as life its charm difplay'd,
To death devoted, glides away,
With brilliant eye, that watery gleams,
While ftill the rofy spectre dreams

Of many a morrow gay.

p. 67, 68.

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, shrunk-and cold

Thofe

Thofe lips, whence I fuch kiffes steal,
Robb'd of their dye and honied store,
No more to make one proud appeal,

Or fpeak one tempting challenge more?
Ah! must that hour at length arrive,
When I may prefs that hand fo fair,
Now to my flightest touch alive,

Yet feel no pulfes trembling there?
Nor more thofe eyes of soften'd blue
With liquid fondness sparkling beam,
But feem their long, their laft adieu,
In every faded look to gleam.

• In fome dread feafon of despair,

Muft keen difeafe, muft wafting 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 o'er thy frame Death's tremors creep,
Pale o'er thy finking ruin stand,

And feel the grief that cannot weep.

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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 ftray this cottage nigh,
I feel how just thy paffing figh.

Thou canst not from this fcene below,
Chafe every 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 lefs rank, lefs widely grow.

Look round, my love, this hamlet fee,
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,

See,

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