a fair estimate of their claims,-so absolute has been the sentence of condemnation ;-yet there are many among them whose reputation is as firmly established, though not so widely dif fused, as that of the most renowned among the sons of fame. But Vondel himself, ingenious, emphatic, and sublime as he is, has never found an interpreter, perhaps scarcely ever even a reader, in England."

This celebrated writer" was born at Keulen, in 1587, but was removed in infancy to Amsterdam, by his parents. At the early age of thirteen, he is said to have been flatteringly noticed by Hooft. His education, however, was much neglected, as he did not commence a course of study until he was more than twentysix years of age: but his perseverance and inexhaustible application surmounted every difficulty; and, by associating with such men as Vossius and Barlæus, Hooft and Grotius, he improved himself not only in the manner of expressing his thoughts, but even in the action of thinking. He acquired a very extensive general knowledge, and, as a poet, has never been rivalled in Holland. His Tragedies are, perhaps, the grandest specimens of Dutch literature.

His Satires are indicative of the period in which he lived-full of force, and energy, and spirit, without that delicacy of expression which the refinement of the present day exacts. His Epigrams have a similar character. His 'Lucifer' is the most splendid and inspired poem in the language, and has often been compared with our Milton's Paradise Lost.'

"Vondel's character was deeply imbued with religious enthusiasm. From the Bible he took almost all the subjects of his Tragedies; yet his mind had little fixedness of principle. He wrote eagerly in favour of Arminianism; and afterwards, like many a continental poet, embraced Catholicism, and became the zealous advocate of the Papal usurpation. His sincerity cannot be suspected; nor let it be forgotten that the gorgeous machinery of the Church of Rome has something wherewith to awe, and much wherewith to attract, the imagination of the enthusiast."

As a specimen of his powers, we cannot do better than extract from the "Batavian Anthology," the following beautiful translation of a "Chorus of Angels," from his " Lucifer."

"Who sits above heaven's heights sublime, Yet fills the grave's profoundest place, Beyond eternity, or time,

Or the vast round of viewless space :
Who on Himself alone depends-

Immortal-glorious-but unseen-
And in His mighty Being blends

What rolls around or flows within.
Of all we know not-all we know-
Prime source and origin-a sea,
Whose waters, pour'd on earth below,
Wake blessing's brightest radiancy.
His power-love-wisdom, first exalted
And waken'd from oblivion's birth
Yon starry arch-yon palace, vaulted—
Yon heaven of heavens-to smile on earth.

From His resplendent majesty

We shade us 'neath our sheltering wings, While awe-inspired and tremblingly

We praise the glorious King of kings, With sight and sense confused and dim; O name-describe the Lord of lords, The seraphs' praise shall hallow Him;Or is the theme too vast for words?

RESPONSE.

"Tis GOD! who pours the living glow
Of light, creation's fountain-head:
Forgive the praise-too mean and low-
Or from the living or the dead.

No tongue Thy peerless name hath.spoken,
No space can hold that awful name;
The aspiring spirit's wing is broken ;-
Thou wilt be, wert, and art the same!
Language is dumb-Imagination,
Knowledge, and Science, helpless fall;
They are irreverent profanation,
And thou, O God! art all in all.
How vain on such a thought to dwell!

Who knows Thee-Thee, the All-unknown?

Can angels be thy oracle,

Who art-who art Thyself alone?

None-none can trace Thy course sublime,
For none can catch a ray from Thee,
'The splendour and the source of time-
The Eternal of eternity.

Thy light of light out-pour'd conveys
Salvation in its flight elysian,

Brighter than e'en Thy mercy's rays;—
But vainly would our feeble vision

Aspire to Thee. From day to day

Age steals on us-but meets Thee never :

Thy power is life's support and stay

We praise Thee-sing Thee, Lord! for ever. Holy-holy-holy! Praise

Praise be His in every land;

Safety in His presence stays

Sacred is His high command!"

To contrast, in some measure, with the sub

limity of the previous extract, we select from the same excellent work, which has introduced us to a new field of poetic literature, in a country which has been so unjustly and so unaccountably neglected, a little poem which will serve to prove that elegance and feeling were united, in the bosom of Vondel, with a capacity for the more lofty flights of the Muse.

"Infant fairest-beauty rarest-
Who repairest from above;
Whose sweet smiling, woe-beguiling,
Lights us with a heavenly love.
Mother! mourn not-I return not-

Wherefore learn not to be blest?

Heaven's my home now,

I an angel, and at rest.

where I roam now

Why distress thee? Still I'll bless thee-
Still caress thee, though I'm fled;
Cheer life's dulness-pour heaven's fulness
Of bright glory on thy head.

Leave behind thee thoughts that bind thee-
Dreams that blind thee in their glare:

Look before thee, round thee, o'er thee-
Heaven invites thee-I am there!"

LONGLANDE.

ROBERT LONGLANDE, author of the poem called the "Vision of Pierce Plowman," was a