tivated with these first spring blossoms of French and British genius, called Lais and Fabliaux. All the world is acquainted with the reputation of the Provençal, or southern French lyrical poets, the precursors of Petrarch; but the very existence, in England and north-western France, of a light narrative poetry, of genuine and sometimes exquisite merit, heralding and assisting to inspire the geniuses of Chaucer and Boccaccio, is a fact better known to poetical antiquaries, than familiar, as it deserves to be, to the lovers of verse in general. Its prolixity (the result of a want of information for the many) the reader may soon learn the art of skimming over. The cynical plain-speaking of some of the stories, sometimes on the most revolting subjects, and of an excess almost amounting to a sort of horrible innocence, is still more easily avoided by those who choose to take the alarm. But the gushing tenderness of others, the simple and sensitive words of honest passion and delight, free from the haunting fears of criticism and correctness, the healthy and hearty vigour, sometimes even sublimity, the belief in every thing good and lovely, the fresh and laughing morning lip, carolling in the sunshine and happy in the arms of nature, these are suggesters of first principles in poetry always salutary to recur to, and the more so in proportion as society advances, because custom and convention perpetually tend, not only to make us forget, but be ashamed of them. Above all, it appears to me calculated to do our native poetry good, on a side upon which, great and abundant as it is on all others the very highest, it is not so complete as the rest,-I mean, that of animal spirits. It might assist us in that respect, as our graver feelings were encouraged into purity and depth of utterance by the Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, the best gift ever bestowed by critic upon modern genius." The story is told in few words. A young and chivalrous knight loves Anne, the daughter of a covetous old man, who prefers wedding her to Sir Grey, the uncle of her lover, on account of his wealth. The uncle obtains from his nephew the gift of a Palfrey, and uses it for the conveyance of his bride to his old mansion, but the Greybeards get sleepy and stupid on their way, and the Palfrey strays from them, and, true to its instinct, conveys the bride to her lover's door. The facts are ultimately told to the King and Queen, who are in the neighbourhood, and they interfering, the youthful couple are made happy. The following quotation will afford some of those touches, arising from a delicate observation of the effect of emotion, which rank Mr. Hunt in the first class of original writers. Sir William (the young knight) has been refused by the father of his bride after beseeching his consent. "Sir William he boweth as low as before, And after him closeth the soft room-door, And he moaneth a moan, and half-staggereth he; ་ • May the devil,' thought he, ́ for his best new brand And hence came this face,-this dimpled May morrow.' "And as he thought thus, from a door there stole And soft though it trembled, it close wrung his, "Sir William hath dash'd in the forest awhile, And there, by green light and the cooing of doves, And kisseth, and readeth, again and again; The following account of the old fogies is full of character and warm feeling. "Sir Grey and Sir Guy, like proper old boys, Nathless, Sir Grey excepteth from blame Tho' the wine it grew strong, and the tongue grew weak; With a breath in her bosom, and blush to her ears, And the large thankful eyes of the look of a bride, Sir Grey recollecteth no creature beside: He watcheth her in, he watcheth her out; He measureth her ancle, but not with his gout; He chucketh, like chanticleer over a corn, And thinks it but forty years since he was born. "Why, how now, Sir Grey? methinks you grow young: How soon are your own wedding bells to be rung? You stare on my daughter, like one elf-struck.' “Alas! and I am,—the sadder my luck : Albeit, Sir Guy, your own shoulders count *- And I trust you don't feign to be too old to wed?' "Hoh! hoh!' quoth Sir Guy; that was cunningly said.' (Yet he felt flatter'd too, did the white old head.) "What are years?' continued Sir Grey, looking bold: 'There are men never young, and men never old. Old and young lips may carol in tune; Green laugheth the oak 'gainst the brown mid June.'” The following is episodiacal, but is one of those pleasant in-breaks, with a personal allusion, that the old writers indulged in. "Now a murrain, I say, on those foul old men! I never, myself, shall see fifty again, And can pity a proper young blooded old fellow, In face and in frolic a very good Pan. But marvels like these are full rare, I wis; And when elders in general young ladies would kiss, I exhort the dear souls to fight and to flee, Unless they should chance to run against me." The description of Sir William's throes and passioning is thus very nicely detailed. "But in his hamlet hous'd apart, How far'd meantime Sir William's heart? With whom? For what sweet rider's art? The light, the bright, yet balmy she, And who shall fetch her home but he? Who else be summon'd speedily By the kind uncle full of glee Listening with a lofty fear, Stood open like a palace gate, That waits the bride of some great king, Heard with her trumpets travelling. At length a letter. Whose? Sir Guy's, What news can midnight have to tell? Strange mantler in as strange a cup, It seems to fear to wake a mouse, That sound; then peals, and wakes the house." We should quote too much were we to follow our own inclination, and therefore shall conclude our samples with the following picture of the lovers now once again with each other. Hope was theirs. For one sweet hour Could take a proper breath, much less While rose, meantime, his mother sage To wait upon the lady sweet, And snore discreetly on the seat, In the window of the room, Whence gleam'd her night-cap through the gloom. Then parted they to lie awake For transport, spite of all heart-ache: For heaven's in any roof that covers, Any one same night, two lovers; And every thought clasp'd heart to heart." The illustrations are beautiful and characteristic; and do equal credit to the designer and the engraver. They are conceived and executed in the same spirit as the poem, and are well worthy to accompany it. Messrs. How and Parsons are fast making to themselves a high reputation for the tasteful and artistic style of producing their works. Their productions are more than merely neat or expensive,they have the impress on them of fine taste and just appreciation of art. The illustrations alone are worth the price of the volume. THE CHARMED ROBE. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. My child, I'm called to Battle-field, But spin and weave in maiden bower. |