ing which have survived the lapse of ages, how the principles of truth, like the “ disjecta membra” of poetry, found amid the analyzed productions of every true son of the muses, are seen scattered amid all these efforts of mind, as the salt whose savor has preserved them from destruction, amid the mass of universal decay. Shakspeare lives, and will never die while our language is spoken, because his writings, more than any others, perhaps, which have ever been composed by uninspired men, strike principles of human nature which are every where developed, and acknowledged to be true. Burns will live long, for the same reason.

As it has been sublimely written of one of them, “the stream of time, which is continually wearing away the dissoluble fabrics of other poets, passes, without injury, by the adamant of these.” Cowper shall also live-long may he live !—for he has cast into the stream of his numbers the salt of moral, as well as natural truth. Milton shall flourish by his side, for the same reason. These men came forth like the Roman warriors after victory, bearing in their hands the “spolia opima” of genius, and suspending them, as imperishable mementos of their prowess, on the column of eternal truth.

The practical bearing of these principles, in their effect upon style in writing or speaking, is, we conceive, of great importance. Modified as style may be, and undoubtedly is, by other peculiar characteristics of mind, still we are confident that a correct moral theory, either expressed or implied, can have no slight influence in forming it. That man can surely never express himself clearly, strongly, and concisely, whose moral principles are not founded upon facts. He will be conscious of a weakness, which is afraid and unable to penetrate the depths of things. He will “ linger, shivering on the brink” of the great ocean of thought, and therefore his style of writing or speaking what few meditations he may have managed to scoop up from the shore, must be comparatively feeble. This is one great reason why an incorrect, imperfect religious theory, in a country, is ever followed, sooner or later, by a deterioration in strong and noble writing. The weakness which is afraid to follow on where truth leads, into regions however mysterious, is a weakness which always whimpers ere long, in a kind of morbid, unmanly sentimentalism, produced by a conviction of its own imbecility and want of moral courage. This is a strong reason for desiring that the literature of a country, es

pecially of our own, should be in the hands of religious truth. We owe a duty to the taste of our countrymen, in this respect, which it becomes us most diligently to perform, so far as we have any ability; and which, if performed sedulously and carefully, will be sure to produce a literature noble and lasting, but above all, purifying in its effects upon the people.



Coplas de Don Jorge Manrique, translated from the Span

ish; with an Introductory Essay on the Moral and Devotional Poetry of Spain. By Henry W. Longfellow, Professor of Mod. Lang. and Lit. in Bowdoin College. Boston: Allen & Ticknor, 1833. pp. 89.

The principal poem in this little volume is the one composed by Don Jorge Manrique, on occasion of the death of his father, Rodrigo Manrique. This poet flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. He followed, like most of the other distinguished Spanish poets, the profession of arms, and served in the Moorish wars, under his father's banners. He was mortally wounded in a skirmish, in the year 1499. Mariana, in his history of Spain, speaks of him as a youth of estimable qualities, who died young, and was thus cut off from exercising and exhibiting to the world his many virtues, and the light of his genius, which was already known to fame. We quote a few stanzas from his ode.

I will not here invoke the throng
Of orators and sons of song,
The deathless few;
Fiction entices and deceives,

And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves,
Lies poisonous dew.
To One alone my thoughts arise,
The Eternal Truth-the Good and Wise,
To Him I cry,
Who shared on earth our common lot,
But the world comprehended not
His deity.

“ This world is but the rugged road
Which leads us to the bright abode
Of peace above;
So let us choose that narrow way,
Which leads no traveller's foot astray
From realms of love.
Our cradle is the starting-place,
In life we run the onward race,
And reach the goal,
When in the mansions of the blest
Death leaves to its eternal rest
The weary soul.

“ Did we but use it as we ought, This world would school each wandering thought To its high state. Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, Up to that better world on high, For which we wait. Yes-the glad messenger of love, To guide us to our home above, The Saviour came; Born amid mortal cares and fears, He suffered in this vale of tears A death of shame."

“ Monarchs, the powerful and the strong,
Famous in history and in song
Of olden time,
Saw, by the stern decrees of fate,
Their kingdoms lost, and desolate
Their race sublime.
Who is the champion ?—who the strong ?
Pontiff, and priest, and sceptered throng ?
On these shall fall
As heavily the hand of death,
As when it stays the shepherd's breath
Beside his stall."


“Where are the high born dames, and where
Their gay attire, and jewelled hair,
And odors sweet?
Where are the gentle knights, that came
To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame
Low at their feet ?
Where is the song of Troubadour ?
Where are the lute and gay tambour
They loved of yore

Where is the mazy dance of old,
The flowing robes inwrought with gold
The dancers wore ?"

"O death, no more, no more delay;
My spirit longs to flee away,
And be at rest ;
The will of heaven my will shall be,
I bow to the divine decree,
To God's behest.
My soul is ready to depart,
No thought rebels, the obedient heart
Breathes forth no sigh ;
The wish on earth to linger still
Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign will
That we shall die.

“O Thou, that for our sins didst take
A human form, and humbly make
Thy home on earth ;
Thou, that to thy divinity
A human nature didst ally
By mortal birth, -
And in that form didst suffer here,
Torment, and agony, and fear,
So patiently ;
By thy redeeming grace alone,
And not for merits of my own,
O pardon me!'

“ As thus the dying warrior prayed,
Without one gathering mist or shade
Upon his mind,
Encircled by his family,
Watched by affection's gentle eye,
So soft and kind,
His soul to Him, who gave it, rose ;-
God lead it to its long repose,
Its glorious rest!

And though the warrior's sun has set,
Its light shall linger round us yet,
Bright, radiant, blest."

The volume concludes with two beautiful sonnets from Lope de Vega, two from Francis de Aldana, and two from Francis de Medrano.

In an introductory essay of twenty-seven pages, Mr. Longfellow describes the qualities of the Spanish devotional and moral poetry, illustrated by examples. He enters into his subject with the fine spirit of a scholar and a poet. The most prevailing characteristics of Spanish devotional poetry are warmth of imagination, and depth and sincerity of feelng. The conception is always striking and original, and when not degraded by dogmas, and the poor, puerile conceits arising from them, beautiful and sublime.' . Amidst all the shameful corruption of the middle ages, many a pure spirit, through heavenly-mindedness, and an ardent, though mistaken zeal, Aled from the temptations of the world, to seek in solitude and self-communion, a closer walk with God.' Of this class were the principal poets.

We doubt whether the cloisters of the middle ages exhibited so many examples of holy living as Mr. Longfellow seems to intimate ; but doubtless there were some, who, like Thomas á Kempis, shone as stars in a gloomy night, or sprung up like lilies in a stagnant pool.

We are grateful to Mr. L. for these beautiful specimens of poetry. We think he will do a great service, if he shall be the means of removing any of those unnatural prejudices, with which we regard almost every thing associated with Spain, and which, we doubt not, prevent us from taking that deep interest in her lamentable political and spiritual condition, which it becomes us, as philanthropists and as Christians, to feel. We are too apt to think that all good poetry is confined to England, and all fine criticism to Germany, and all scientific analysis to France. The labors of a few such men as Bowring, and Bryant, and Longfellow, are undeceiving us. Where are there more stately verses than these of Manrique? Where, in uninspired song, is the Eternal One addressed in more befitting strains, than in the ode of the Russian poet, Derzhaven ? Where, in the compass of poetry, can be found more delicious melodies, than in the poem beginning

" Region of life and light?"

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