"A Song for all Polish Festivals. A nation approached her great sovereign to say How anxious she felt to love, honour, obey; When he, with a grunt that might grace a hog's sty, Growled, Don't make a speech, for you're come here to lie.' Derry-down. My brother, a kind-hearted cake, tried his wit At inventing the manacles likely to fit. And what were his thanks? why you grumbled away, Ever watchful to wound, to destroy, and betray.' Derry-down. 'Now, I'll tell you what, my fine fellows, I'll do, If ever I find that fresh mischief you'd brew; To the winds, or elsewhere, I'll instantly scatter ye, Here stands the Prince Marshal, and yonder the battery.' Derry-down. 'Once laid in the dust, ne'er shall Warsaw again Be rebuilt, I assure you, at least in my reign; Forget that there's any such kingdom as Poland, And look on yourselves as the natives of KICKI, of whom Count Roman Soltyk tells us that, after a sharp engagement, he exclaimed, "Quel bonheur que je n'aie pas peri aujourd'hui !” a very natural sentiment. However, he was less fortunate on a subsequent occasion; and Quaffy punchovicz, hearing of his fall, paid the following tribute to his memory: "A Lament for the Brave. Low lies Brigadier-General Kicki! With him, alas, 'tis now all dickey! When he no longer the Russ could lick, he Was licked himself, brave General Kicki!" How delicately, and with what charming brevity, is the whole history of the general's struggles, and his fall, told in these four lines! Of his love-songs, we prefer the singular poem called "Well and Better." It richly deserves the honour of selection. Great, we imagine, is the number of those who will sympathise with this unprecedented expression of their own sentiments. But this is the triumph of the true poet. Thoughts and feelings, which would otherwise wander homeless through eternity, thus obtain a "local habitation and a name." And whatever our state of mind and heart, we have only to turn to the pages of a Shakespeare, a Dryden, or a Quaffy punchovicz, to find the adequate expression in the passionate language of poetic truth. "Well and Better. Oh never can my soul forget The form that fired my youthful years; Even now, in age, a fond regret Subdues my haughty eyes to tears! Immitigable sorrows swell My bosom, when I would forget her; And yet 'tis true she loved me well,But then- she loved another better! How oft the quiet lanes along, At morn, at noon, at gentle eve, I led her steps, and told in song The bliss that mutual hearts might weave! With downcast eyes she trod the dell, Complained that doubts and fears beset her, Then told me that she loved me well,— But, ah! she loved another better! Her friends combined to urge my suit, While I with passionate outpouring Struck all expostulation mute, And soon to heavenly bliss was soaring. wowa har hand—and need I tell She manifestly loved me well,- And finding mate and nest both gone, Is not more dreary desolate Than I, one evening, left alone. My faithless spouse had tolled the knell Of all my joys,-for in a letter She left me word she loved me well,But that she loved another better !" We do not envy that man his feelings who could have qualified such a husband for celestial honours. And, then, the senseless creature herself! "O Frailty, thy name is Woman!" And a very pretty name, too. Our author has some very graceful snatches of English scenery scattered through the work, from which it is clear that he has a keen perception of rural beauty. We prefer, however, the stanzas about the Temple, of which we here avail ourselves. "Gurden-Court Temple, Morgan Rattler. inscribed to An English river, with rich-laden breast, in air-freshening These still be ours, with what can ne'er grow old, A vigorous heart by gentle thoughts controlled !" We must here reluctantly conclude. That the poetry we have been just reviewing must exercise very considerable influence, is clear from the recent rise in Spanish stock, the death of M. Muñoz, and the memoirs of Godoy. Señor Mendizabal knows what we mean. Should any adverse influence arise to perplex the poetic efforts of this patriotic Pole, we beg him to be of good cheer; our own impervious shield shall ever stand between his sacred, person and the shafts of critical malevolence. Hoping, however, that there will be no provocation in this respect, we take leave for the present of the poet, and also of his translator-of QUAFFYPUNCHOVICZ, and of TYDUSPoon-Poon THE GREEK PASTORAL POETS.* "A GOOD translation," says Lord Woodhouselee," is that in which the merit of the original work is so completely transfused into another language, as to be distinctly apprehended and as strongly felt by a native of the country to which that language belongs, as it is by those who speak the language of the original work." From this description the writer proceeds to deduce the following propositions:-1, that the translator should give a complete transcript of the original work; 2, that the style and manner of writing should be of the same character with that of the original; 3, that the translation should have all the ease of original composition. This is, of course, to be regarded only as a fancy portrait, and the translation described, as that faultless monster which the world ne'er knew, nor is ever likely to know. The principles of translation seem to have been a long time struggling into clearness. Perhaps the earliest avowal of the true faith in this kind of criticism was delivered by Sir John Denham. "I conceive it," he says, in the Preface to the second book of the Æneid, a vulgar error, in translating poets, to affect being fidus interpres. Let that care be with them who deal in matters of fact or matters of faith; but whosoever aims at it in poetry, as he attempts what is not required, so shall he never perform what he attempts,- for it is not his business alone to translate language into language, but poesie into poesie; and poesie is of so subtle a spirit, that, in pouring out of one language into another, it will all evaporate; and if a new spirit is not added in the transfusion, there will remain nothing but a caput mortuum." This translating language into language is very curiously exemplified in the labours of the poetical scholars of the sixteenth and a large portion of the seventeenth century, to whom Denham's observation particularly applies. Ben Jonson's Art of Poetry and Holiday's Juvenal are sufficient for the purpose: these are poetical skeletons, in which the bones are conspicuous, but destitute of the flesh and the vitality of the originals. Instead of breathing life into them, they have exhausted gling with such difficulties as an attempt at verbal fidelity necessarily involves him in, is compared by Dryden to a man dancing on ropes with fettered legs, who may, indeed, shun a fall by using caution, but from whom gracefulness of motion is not to be expected. "And when we have said the best of it," he adds, "it is but a foolish task, -for no sober man would put himself into a danger for the applause of escaping without breaking his neck." But while adducing Jonson as an instance of the fatal effects of the verbum verbo system carried to excess, we ought not to omit one specimen which he has left us from Martial, combining in itperfect translation. It is severely liteself all the qualities required to form a ral, graceful, and harmonious: it is a transcription of the original. "Liber amicorum dulcissima curatuorum, Et caleat blando mollis amore thorus. fuit." "Liber, of all thy friends thou sweetest care! Thou, worthy in eternal flower to fare! If thou be'st wise, with Syrian oil let shine Thy locks, and rosy garlands crown thy head; Dark thy clear glass with old Falernian wine, And heat with softest love thy softer bed. He that, but living half his days, dies But while a ruggedness of metre and a freer style in his versions from Pindar and Anacreon; and Sandys, in the Metamorphoses of Ovid, displayed a melody of versification, a true tenderness of sentiment, and a general comprehension of the character of poetry which influenced in no small degree the temper of our literature, and which Pope was always ready to acknowledge. Dryden, who is more admirable for setting and explaining canons of criticism than for submitting to them in his own person, seems to have entered into the truth and philosophy of Denham's observations, which he improves by limiting them. "The reason," he says, "alleged by Sir John Denham has no further force than to expression, —for thought, if it be translated truly, cannot be lost in another language; but the words that convey it to our apprehension (which are the image and ornament of that thought) may be so ill chosen as to make it appear in an unhandsome dress, and rob it of its native lustre. There is, therefore, a liberty to be allowed for the expression; neither is it necessary that words and lines should be confined to the measure of their original. The sense of an author, generally speaking, is to be sacred and inviolable. If the fancy of Ovid be luxuriant, it is his character to be so; and if I retrench it, he is no longer Ovid. It will be replied, that he receives advantage from this lopping of his superfluous branches; but I rejoin, that a translator has no such right. When a painter copies from the life, I suppose he has no privilege to alter features and lineaments, under pretence that his picture will look better." But, that our remarks may not expand into an essay upon translation in general, we hasten to apply them to the labours of Mr. Chapman,-regretting exceedingly that we had not the benefit of his talents before us while composing the Papers upon the Greek Pastoral Poets which have appeared in several numbers of REGINA, because the minute criticism in which we indulged upon those occasions necessarily precludes our dwelling at the length we could have wished upon their peculiar characters and beauties. The impression left upon our mind, after a diligent perusal of the Translation, is highly favourable to the author; while in particular passages, and in general melody, realled by Poli..! as a whole, and with reference to the niceties of the originals, Mr. Chapman is certainly superior to his competitors. He has preserved, with the accuracy and taste of a scholar, the imagery and turn of thought for which Theocritus is remarkable; and we shall presently shew that he has not done this like a foot-poet, contented with running by the side of his Master, but boldly mounts behind, his equal and companion. Still we question how far Mr. Chapman's version, in all its parts, is likely to impress his readers with a very high admiration of the Doric Reed; when the author rises, he rises with him but in the pedestrian passages, and they are not a few, it strikes us that he would have been truer to the fame of the poet if he had infused into these weaker efforts of his muse somewhat of spirit and life. The music of the Greek, like the sweet voice of a handsome woman, imparts a charm even to a trifle; but in our rougher and homelier English the deficiency of interest is felt. The Greek poets, it is well known, laboured their versification with great perseverance; and Virgil, among the Latins, seems to have tasked his ear to the utmost in constructing verses expressive of the sense. Columella has observed, that in the line "Unus homo vobis cunctando restituit rem," by the number of spondees, and the embarrassed and halting movement of the verse, he intended to describe the delay of Fabius. The following, in which you hear the heavy rolling of the wagons, reminds us of the minstrel of Beattie : "Tardaque Eleusina matris volventia plaustra." Here, too, you have the noiseless gliding of a boat down a deep river"Levis innatat alnus Missa Pado;" and the murmur of water— Breathed from the pipe: the second prize thy due To Pan the horned ram, to thee the ewe; A savoury mess the tender yearling makes. Sweeter thy song than yonder-gliding Of water from the rock's o'erhanging crown: Hard by, a rugged rock and fisher old, hold Preparing for the cast: he stands to sight So much the sinews of his neck outswell. With purple grapes a vineyard shines to view. A little boy sits by the thorn-hedge trim, ing him: One through the ranges of the vines proceeds, And on the hanging vintage slyly feeds; The other plots and vows his scrip to search, And for his breakfast leave him in the lurch. Meanwhile he twines, and to a rush fits well A locust-trap, with stalks of asphodel; And twines away with such absorbing glee, Of scrip or vines he never thinks — not he!" This is very lively and agreeable — like a sketch of good old Stothard. Another merit of Mr. Chapman's translation consists in the care with which he interprets his poets: they are not paraphrased, but done into English. You never forget, from the nature of the sentiments put into their mouths, that they are Greeks. This propriety was unthought of by the earlier translators of the classics-even Dryden and Pope are not free from censure; and in writers of inferior reputation, the absolute disregard of climates and chronology is most amusing. In Eachard's translations of Terence and Plautus, for instance, you meet with the lord chief-justice of Athens - a man is sent to Bridewell, with his skin stripped over his ears- an angry Roman does not swear by the gods of his own Pantheon, but delights in all the euphonious slang of Wycherley; calls upon the Lord Harry; and, in order to confirm an assertion, declares it to ng me the Gospel! From these |