dress. The truth is, to judge aright requires almost as much genius as to write well; and good critics are as rare as great poets. Though two hundred thoufand Romans ftood up, when Virgil came into the Theatre, Varius only could correct the Æneid. He that obtains fame muft receive it through mere fashion; and grati fy his vanity with the applause of men, of whofe judgment he cannot approve.

The following Poems, it must be confeffed, are more calculated to please perfons of exquifite feelings of heart, than those who receive all their impreffions by the ear. The novelty of cadence, in what is called a profe verfion, tho' not destitute of harmony, will not to common readers fupply the abfence of the frequent returns of rhime. This was the opinion of the Writer himself, tho' he yielded to the judgment of others, in a mode, which prefented freedom and dignity of expreffion, instead of fetters, which cramp the thought, whilft the harmony of language is preferved. His intention was to publifh in verfe. The making of poetry, like any other handicraft, may be learned by industry; and he had served his apprenticefhip, though in fecret, to the mufes.

It

It is, however, doubtful, whether the harmony which these Poems might derive from rhime, even in much better hands than thofe of the Translator, could atone for the fimplicity and energy, which they would lofe. The determination of this point fhall be left to the readers of this preface. The following is the beginning of a Poem, tranflated from the Norfe to the Gaelic language; and, from the latter, transferred into English. The verse took little more time to the writer than the profe; and even he himself is doubt ful (if he has fucceeded in either) which of them is the most literal version..

FRAGMENT OF A NORTHERN TALE.

*

Where Harold, with golden hair, spread o'er Lochlin his high commands; where with justice, he ruled the tribes, who funk, fubdued, beneath his fword; abrupt rises Gormalt in fnow! The tempefts roll dark on his fides, but calm, above, his vaft forehead appears. White-iffuing from the fkirt of his ftorms, the troubled torrents pour down his fides. Joining as they roar along, they bear the Torno, in foam, to the main.

* The Gaelic name of Scandinavia, or Scandinia.

The mountains of Sevo.

Grey

Grey on the bank and far from men, half-covered, by ancient pines, from the wind, a lonely pile exalts its head, longfhaken by the ftorms of the north. To this fled Sigurd, fierce in fight, from Harold the leader of armies, when fate had brightened his fpear with renown: When he conquered in that rude field, where Lulan's warriors fell in blood, or rofe in terror on the waves of the main. Darkly fat the grey haired chief; yet forrow dwelt not in his foul. But when the warrior thought on the paft, his proud heart heaved against his fide: Forth flew his fword from its place, he wounded Harold in all the winds.

One daughter, and only one, but bright in form and mild of foul, the last beam of the fetting line, remained to Sigurd of all his race. His fon, in Lulan's battle flain, beheld not his father's flight from his foes. Nor finished seemed the ancient line! The fplendid beauty of bright-eyed Fithon, covered ftill the fallen king with renown. Her arm was white like Gormal's fnow; her bofom whiter than the foam of the main, when roll the waves beneath the wrath of the winds. Like two ftars were her radiant eyes, like two stars that rife on the deep, when dark tumult embroils

the

the night. Pleafant are their beams aloft, as ftately they afcend the skies.

Nor Odin forgot, in aught, the maid. Her form fcarce equalled her lofty mind. Awe moved around her ftately steps. Heroes loved-but shrunk away in their fears. Yet midft the pride of all her charms, her heart was foft, and her foul was kind.. She faw the mournful with tearful eyes. Tranfient darkness arofe in her breast. Her joy was in the chace. Each morning, when doubtful light wandered dimly on Lulan's waves, fhe rouzed the refounding woods, to Gormal's head of fnow. Nor moved the maid alone, &c.

The fame verfified.

Wherefair-hair'd Harold, o'er Scandiniareign'd, And held, with justice, what his valour gain'd, Sevo, in fnow, his rugged forehead rears, And, o'er the warfare of his ftorms, appears Abrupt and vaft.-White-wandering down his fide A thousand torrents, gleaming as they glide, Unite below; and pouring through the plain Hurry the troubled Torno to the main.

Grey, on the bank, remote from human kind, By aged pines, half sheltered from the wind, A homely manfion rofe, of antique form, For ages batter'd by the polar ftorm.

Το

To this fierce Sigurd fled, from Norway's lord,
When fortune fettled, on the warrior's fword,
In that rude field, where Suecia's chiefs were flain,
Or forced to wander o'er the Bothnic main.
Dark was his life, yet undisturb'd with woes,
But when the memory of defeat arose

His proud heart ftruck his fide; he grafpt the fpear,
And wounded Harold in the vacant air.

One daughter only, but of form divine, The last fair beam of the departing line, Remain'd of Sigurd's race. His warlike fon Fell in the fhock, which overturn'd the throne. Nor defolate the house! Fionia's charms Suftain'd the glory, which they loft in arms. White was her arm, as Sevo's lofty fnow, Her bofom fairer, than the waves below, When heaving to the winds. Her radiant eyes Like two bright ftars, exulting as they rife, O'er the dark tumult of a stormy night, And gladd'ning heav'n, with their majestic light.

In nought is Odin to the maid unkind, Her form scarce equals her exalted mind, Awe leads her facred steps where'er they move, And mankind worship, where they dare not love. But, mix'd with softness, was the virgin's pride, Her heart had feelings, which her eyes deny'd. Her bright tears started at another's woes, While tranfient darkness on her foul arofe.

The chace she lov'd; when morn, with doubtful beam,

Came dimly wandering o'er the Bothnic stream, On Sevo's founding fides, fhe bent the bow, And rouz'd his forests to his head of fnow. Nor mov'd the maid alone; &c.