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Carves out her dainty notes as readily
Into a thousand, sweet, distinguished tones,
And reckons up, in soft divisions,
Quick volumes of wild notes

Now negligently rash,
He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash,
Blends all together; then distinctly trips
From this to that; then quick-returning skips,
And snatches this again, and pauses there.
She measures every measure, everywhere
Meets art with art; sometimes, as if in doubt,
Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out,
Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note,
Through the sleek passage of her open


He, amazed That from so small a channel should be raised The torrent of a voice, whose melody Could melt into such sweet variety, Strains higher yet; as when the trumpets call Hot Mars to the harvest of Death's field, and woo Men's hearts into their hands;—This lesson too She gives him back. Her supple breast thrills out Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt Of dallying sweetness ; hovers o'er her skill, And folds, in waved notes, with a trembling bill, The plyant series of her slippery song; Then starts she suddenly into a throng, Of panting murmurs, stil”d out of her breast, That ever-bubbling spring; the sugar'd nest Of her delicious soul, that there doth lye Bathing in streams of liquid melodie, Her voice now kindling seems a holy quire, Founded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre, Of sweet-lipp'd Angels, ever murmuring That men can sleep, while they their matins sing, (Moșt divine service,) whose early lay Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day. Shame now and anger mix't a double stain In the Musician's face ; yet once again, From this to that, from that to this

he flies,
Feels music's pulse in all her arteries.
Caught in a net, which there Apollo spreads,
His fingers struggle with the vocal threads,
With flash of high-born fancies, and anon
Creep on the soft touch of a tender tone,
Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild airs,
Runs to and fro, complaining his sweet cares,
Because those precious mysteries, that dwell
In music's ravish'd soul he dares not tell,
But whisper to the world.

Sweet soul, she tries
To measure all those wild diversities
Of chattering strings, by the small size of one
Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone.



Alas, in vain! for while her tender throat
Yet summons all its sweet powers for a noté,
She fails,-and failing grieves - and grieving dies.
She dies, and leaves her life the victor's prize,
Falling upon his lute. Oh, fit to have,

(That lived so sweetly,) dead, so sweet á gráve ! “ LADY M. There is certainly a fine old spirit of genuine poetry in these verses:"

Knight's Quarterly Mag. 2, 364. The writer of this article ought to have known, or at least might as well have noticed, that the idea of these lines was taken from Strada; and the same remark may be applied to the verses of Chaucer, which are quoted by Antiquarius in Classical Journal 56, 365.

It may be remarked too, that in citing Crashaw's lines, certain liberties are taken in Knight's Mag. The entire passage is quoted in the Retrospective Review, No. II. p. 246. and introduced with the following remarks :-“ Our quotations from this neglected Poet have been so copious, that we have no space left for observing upon any of the other pieces of translation except one; and that is so eminently beautiful in itself, and is translated with such a wonderful power over the resources of our language, that we hope to find favor in the eyes of our readers by extracting the whole Poem. The original is in the Latin of Strada; the subject, the well-known contest of the musician and night ingale. Crashaw entitles it, Music's Duel."

But before I dismiss Knight's Mag., it will be right to criticise what is said in p. 259.:—“We might have been reading Tom and Jerry, or the Scottish Chiefs, or the Article on Nightingales in the Classical Journal, or a great many other things, all and each worse than reading Sir John Suckling's Plays. But be it known to Edward Haselfoot that those, who admire the notes of Nature's sweetest songster, may be excused for inquiring into its habits, and that a question, which has not been satisfactorily determined by any modern ornithologist, is not unworthy even of a philosopher's attention.

J. W. in Class. Journ. 56, 343. refers to the Electra of Sophocles for a proof that “the Nightingale may be a morningsongstress." I thank him for his reference. But has he ascertained the fact from any modern ornithologist, that it is the female, which sings?

“But best, the dear good angel of the spring,
The Nightingale.

B. Jonson's Sad Shepherd.

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This is a translation from a verse of Sappho found in the Schol, on Soph. El. 147. It is given by Brunck,

"Ηρος άγγελος, ιμερόφωνος αηδών. Bentley, in his Ms. Notes on Hephæstion, preserved in the Library of Trin. Coll. Cam., has altered it to

'Ηρος άγγελ', ιμερόφων αηδού.R. Walpole's Specimens of Scarce Translations of the 17th

Century from the Latin Poets, to which are added Miscellaneous I'ranslations from the Greek, Spanish, Italian, etc.

London, 1805. p. 86. Ovid. Fast. 2.

an veris prænuntia venit hirundo ? " Expressit Sapphonis sententiam, 'Hposógyeros, etc.” H. Ciofanii Obss. p. 28.

In the Royal Poem entitled the King's Quair James represents himself as “rising at day-break, according to custom, to escape from the dreary meditations of a sleepless pillow :

And on the small grene twistis set

The lytel swete Nightingales, and sung
So loud and clear the hymnis consecrate

Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among,
That all the garden and the wallis rung

Right of their song.”
Geoffrey Crayon's Sketch Book 1, 142. Ed. 12o.

E. H. BARKER. Thetford, March 1824.


collecting toys
And trifles for choice matters, worth a sponge ;
As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore.

Paradise Regained, iv. 325.
No. IX. [Continued from No. LVII.]


Parallel Passages. (Continued.)
I never saw a fool lean ; the chub-faced fop
Shines sleek with full-cramm'd fat of happiness,
Whilst studious contemplation sucks the juice

From wizards' cheeks, who making curious search
For Nature's secrets, the First innating Cause
Laughs them to scorn, as man doth busy apes,
When they will zany men.

Marston ap. Retrosp. xi. 131.
Go, wondrous creature ! mount where science guides,
Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides ;
Instruct the planets in what orbs to run,
Correct old Time, and regulate the Sun :-


Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule-
Then drop into thyself, and be a fool!
Superior beings, when of late they saw
A mortal man unfold all Nature's law,
Admired such wisdom in an earthly shape,
And show'd a Newton as we show an ape.

Pope's Essay on Man, Ep. ii. 19. 4. Scared at thy frown terrific, fly

Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,
Wild laughter, noise, and thoughtless joy,
And leave us leisure to be good.

Gray, Ode to Adversity.
The expression in the last line appears to be borrowed from

Let fumbling age be grave and wise,
And Virtue's poor contemn'd idea prize,
Who never knew, or now are past the sweets of vice;

While we whose active pulses beat

With lusty youth and vigorous heat,
Can all their bards and morals too despise.
While my plump veins are filld with lust and blood, ,
Let not one thought of her intrude,

Or dare approach my breast, -
But know I have not yet the leisure to be good.

Satire against Virtue. 5.

quot in æquore verso
Tritones, quot monstra natent, quot littus arenas,
Quot freta pisciculos immensi gurgitis unda
Abscondant, quot sylva regat volucresque ferasque,
Quot fumi vomat Ætna globos, quantasque favillas;
Hæc mihi nota parum, fateor; nec notius illud,
Qui status est cælo, qua sidera lege moventur.

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Invenies aliquos astrorum arcana professos
Metirique ausos coelum, terrasque, fretumque,
Ignaros quo nostra tamen corpuscula limo
Subsistant, seu quis clausis sit spiritus umbris.
Hậu furor, heu funesta lues, heu flebilis horror,
Omnia malle hominem, quain se, discernere ! sicne
Ultima cura sui est, quam par fuit esse priorem?

Petrarch. Epist. Poet. Lib. ii. Ep. iii. p. 1344.col. 2. Similar are the complaints of a kindred thinker in later times:

And thus they spend
The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp
In playing tricks with nature, giving laws
To distant worlds, and trifling in their own.
Ah! what is life thus spent ? and what are they
But frantic, who thus spend it?
True; I am no proficient, I confess
In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift
And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds,
And make them hide themselves in earth beneath;
I cannot analyse the air, nor catch
The parallax of yonder luminous point,

That seems half quench'd in the immense abyss.
Such powers I boast not, neither can I rest
A silent witness of the headlong rage,
Or heedless folly, by which thousands die,
Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine.

Cowper's Task, iï. 6. The river that runs slow and creeps by the banks, and begs leave of every turf to let it pass, is drawn into little hollownesses, and spends itself in smaller portions, and dies with diversion; but when it runs with vigorousness and a full stream, and breaks down every obstacle, making it even as its own brow, it stays not to be tempted by little avocations, and to creep into holes, but runs into the sea through full and useful channels : so is a man's prayer;

if it moves upon

the feet of an abated appetite, it wanders into the society of every trifling accident, and stays at the corners of the fancy, and talks with every object it meets, and cannot arrive at Heaven, &c. Jeremy Taylor, Sermon of Lukewarmness and Zeal,

p. 125. Ed. 1668. An Italian poet, P. Salandri, in a sonnet translated by Mont


! Cf. Thomas à Kempis de Imit, Christi, Lib. i. cap. 2.

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