the Odyssey, deserves attention not only for its poetical beauties, but likewise for the picture which it affords of the simplicity of ancient manners, of female industry, and domestic economy:

Now came bright charioted Aurora forth

And waken'd fair Nausicaa; she her dreams
Remembered wondering, and her parents sought,
Anxious to tell them. Them she found within:
Beside the hearth her royal mother sat,
Spinning soft purple, with sea purple dy'd,
Among her menial maidens; but she met
Her father, whom the nobles of the land
Had summon'd, issuing forth to join
The illustrious chiefs in council. At his side
She stood, and thus her filial suit preferr'd:

'Sir, wilt thou lend me of the royal wains
A sumpter carriage? for our costly robes,
All sullied now, the cleansing stream require :
And thine especially, when thou appear'st
In council, with the princes of the land,
Had need be pure. Thy sons are also five,
Two wedded, and the rest of age to wed,
Who go not to the dance unless adorn'd
With fresh attire all which is my concern.'

So spake Nausicaa; for she dared not name
Her own glad nuptials to her father's ear,
Who, conscious yet of all her drift, replied:

'I grudge thee neither mules, my child, nor aught
That thou canst ask beside. Go, and my train
Shall furnish thee a sumpter-carriage forth,

High-built, strong-wheeled, and of capacious size.'

The whole of that book, containing the discovery of Ulysses, in his miserable flight after his shipwreck, to Nausicaa and her female attendants, and his proceeding with them to the palace of her father, is peculiarly worthy of perusal. It may be remarked that the translation of Cowper, from its strict idiomatical English, and freedom from all attempts to improve upon Homer, gives a much closer and better representation of the original than that of Pope. No writer, since the time of Addison, is so strictly and purely Anglican, as Cowper.

An instance of the liberties which Pope has taken in modernizing his author, we have in the first book of the Odyssey. Homer represents Jupiter as reproving the wilfulness of mankind in charging their crimes and misfortunes upon the gods, according to the absurd practice of the heathens, in which they are but too closely imitated by ignorant and unthinking persons among ourselves, who bring the same charge against fate or destiny. Jupiter is introduced in the original, saying among the heavenly powers:

How strangely mankind act, while they ascribe to us their misfortunes, which arise more frequently from their preposterous rashness ! As for instance, Orestes brought destruction upon himself, after having first murdered Agamemnon, and seduced his wife.' This is rendered by Pope:

'Perverse mankind, whose wills created free,
Charge all their woes on absolute decree;
All to the dooming gods their guilt translate,
And follies are miscall'd the crimes of fate.'

The more recent translation by Sotheby, is entitled to great praise.

Here, beside the manifest loquacity ascribed to the ancient poet, an allusion is absurdly introduced to the disputes of philosophers and theologians of following ages, respecting free will, and absolute decrees.

The works of Homer abound to excess with tales of the most extravagant and incredible kind. In this he followed the credulous state of the human mind during the pristine ages of society. If he had done otherwise, he might have been more pleasing to philosophical readers; but he would not have presented us with a faithful picture of his countrymen and contemporaries.

It is rather singular that the practice of Homer, who was in this case guided by the strictest regard to propriety, has been followed by the great majority of epic poets who had no justifiable reason for this imitation. In doing so, they did not correctly describe the sentiments of their contemporaries.

In all other departments of poetry, the writer entertains no doubt of creating interest, if he can only succeed in bringing forward apt descriptions of natural scenes, of human passion, and human feeling and character. He limits his invention to probable and possible situations; and never dreams that he can increase the interest of his piece, by travelling beyond the bounds of probability, and introducing his hero into scenes that never could exist.

Above all, considering the great lights of modern times, it seems peculiarly unsuitable to load the productions of the modern epic muse with the whole machinery of ancient gods and goddesses. These are perfectly proper and suitable in the works where they originated; but, to say the least, exceedingly misplaced in a poem describing the sentiments and feelings of modern nations, in which they are not even believed by the vulgar.

Among the ancient writers of this description, Lucan is the only one who has not judged it necessary to make use of the same incredible machinery with Homer. He has entirely discarded the battles, and quarrels, and intrigues of the gods. He has, with the greatest propriety, retained the superstitious observance of dreams and omens, because these were still objects of peculiar reverence to his countrymen and contemporaries, and calculated to produce no slight influence on public affairs. Along with these ornaments of his narrative, he has joined lively talent for geographical description, farther enlivened by frequent allusions to ancient history, and the struggles for the liberties of mankind, that had given lustre to many of the fields through which he traces their extinction among the Romans. When to all these is added the description of the deepest feelings of the human mind, in the most arduous of all struggles, we cannot wonder that he has succeeded in producing an admirable poem without the aid of incredible machinery. He has been blamed, but without sufficient reason, for choosing a theme too recent for the introduction of fable. He knew how to create interest, by strong feelings and ardent passion, in the case even of late events.

Even among the moderns, the generality of those who have aimed at possessing a name among epic writers, have still thought it necessary to adopt the incredible machinery* which, with all its extravagance,

was exceedingly proper in the hands of Homer. Tasso is censurable in this respect; and the fault is more glowing, by being mixed up with a great deal of Christian theology.

The Lusiad of Camoens, otherwise a poem of great merit and uncommon interest, is exposed to this censure in no small degree. The error of this author is the less excusable, as his poem is founded on a modern event, which occurred at a time when the belief in the power of Bacchus, Venus, and Mercury, could not possibly have any influence on the actions of men.

The Epigoniad is professedly written in imitation of Homer, and therefore we are not surprised at finding the same machinery employed. And the use of it is the more reasonable, because the scene is laid in the siege of Thebes, at least a whole generation anterior to the war of Troy, at a time when the marvellous mythology of Greece was at the height of its extravagance, and at the height of its motive power.

In the Leonidas written by Glover, and in the Henriade by Voltaire, the machinery of the marvellous is entirely laid aside; and the lovers of the simplicity of Nature will generally admit that the omission is greatly to the advantage of these beautiful poems. In the Leonidas, the two great superstitions of oracles and omens have their appropriate place, as possessing a conspicuous influence on the actions, and consequently on the destinies of the heroes engaged. Both these poems deserve to be more read.

The most celebrated production of the epic muse, in English, is unquestionably Paradise Lost. It has been generally admitted to excel all works of the same kind, ancient or modern, in sublimity. The structure of the fable is also, for the most part, regular; and many portions of it are eminent for pathos. The verse is for the most part extremely smooth and musical; and, in not a few places, majestic. Those who agree, or nearly agree with the theological sentiments of the author, will admit the structure, scenes, and incidents to be perfectly consistent with probability; unless, perhaps, we except the battles of the angels, which are too material for the contentions of spiritual beings. Yet it would be difficult to say, how else they could have been imagined. Imagination was here stretched to the utmost limits of her power. Milton's poem has the singular advantage of being in the highest degree marvellous, without being in any great degree improbable.

In one point of view, this poem possesses a higher dignity than is aimed at by any other of the same description. It is to be considered not only as a poetical effusion of the highest order, but as an attempt to satisfy the great philosophical inquiry which has occupied the utmost ingenuity of men in all ages that which respects the origin of evil. That this was the intention of the work, we learn from the close of the invocation, of which the majestic cadence has been felt by every discriminating ear, though the intimation which it gives of the author's intention, appears to have been sometimes unobserved.

This intention, according to the generally received systems of theology, has been served, and the account clothed in the highest beauties of poetry.

'And justify the ways of God to man.'

D. W.

THE BURGUNDY ROSE.

BY CHARLES CONSTANTINE PISE, D. D.

I.

THOU art most sweet and beautiful,
Fresh rose of Burgundy:

Angels themselves might love to cull
Such flowrets for the sky.

"Tis only in some Eden bright

That thou shouldst open to ambrosial light.

11.

It was a virgin's tender hand

That plucked this bud for me;
Coy blossom of a far-off land,
Sweet rose of Burgundy :

And I will foster, as a gem,

Each leaf that lingers on thy fragrant stem.

III.

Chaste emblem of the gentle maid

Who fondly cherished thee,

With crystal showers, in sun and shade,
Young rose of Burgundy:

And as her genius watched thy growth,

'Unconscious beauty' smiled alike in both.

LEGENDS OF BLARNEY CASTLE.*

BY THE AUTHOR OF A CHAPTER FROM REAL LIFE.'

"THE groves of Blarney, they are so charming.'.
-R. A. MILIKEN.

WHO has not heard of Blarney? — and how few know whence this appropriate term has originated. How could they indeed, unless they made a pilgrimage to the famous castle, as I did, in my hot youth when George the Fourth was king,' in order, by some manœuvre, to prevail on Tom Cronin to narrate the story of all its wonders?

But Tom Cronin is dead; and, as Crofton Croker seems strangely negligent of the legendary treasures of Blarney, even I, albeit my pen unworthy of such a tale,' must endeavor to rally my recollections of Cronin's strange narratives, and give to the world at least a shadow of his wild and wondrous' stories.

There is no spot in Ireland which has attained more celebrity than the far-famed village of Blarney. There lies that mysterious talisman, weighing two tons at least! which has the extraordinary power of conferring great gifts of persuasion on the lips which, with due reverence and proper faith in its virtues, invoke the hidden genii of the stone to yield them its inspiration: the ceremony is brief; only a kiss upon the

* SUCH of our readers as have been favored to hear POWER, the irresistible, execute that most laughable song, The Groves of Blarney,' will scarcely be startled at these 'Legends.' We consider the latter entitled to full as much credence as the former.

EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.

flinty rock, and the kisser is instantly endowed with the happy faculty of flattering the fair sex, ad libitum, without their suspicion that it is flattery. It enables him, like history,

'To lie like truth, and still most truly lie.'

Immortal poěsy has already celebrated the localities of Blarney. Who has not heard or read of Richard Alfred Miliken's far-famed chanson, The Groves of Blarney? It should be known, that Blarney Castle really is surrounded by these aforenamed groves. It stands about four miles to the northwest of the beautiful city called Cork,' and, of course in the noted district of Muskerry.

All that now can be seen, are the remains of an antique castellated pile, to the east of which (rather incongruously) has been attached, about a hundred years ago, a large mansion of modern architecture.

The old castle was erected in the middle of the fifteenth century. Cormac Macarthy, (surnamed Laider, or the strong,) a descendant of the ancient kings of Cork, and one of the most powerful of the Munster chieftains, is reported to have built this massy pile. Our readers will excuse a page or so of the history of this castle: it is quite enough to be informed, that it passed into many hands, and at the time of the Revolution of 1688, was part of the estates of the Earl of Clancarty, who was an active partisan of James II. When the Prince of Orange became lord of the ascendant, the earl was sent into exile, his titles and estates forfeited to the crown, and Blarney Castle, with its contiguous lands, was put up to auction at Chichester House, Dublin, when they were purchased by Sir James Jeffereys, to whose family it still belongs.

The castle stands on the north side of a precipitate ridge of limestone rock, rising from a deep valley, and its base is washed by a small but beautiful river, called the Awmartin. A large square and massive tower is all that remains of the original fortress. The top of this building is surrounded with a parapet, breast high, and on the very highest part of the castle walls is the famous stone which is said to have the power just mentioned, of conferring on every gentleman who kisses it the peculiar property of telling any thing with an unblushing cheek, and forehead unabashed.' From this came the well known terms blarney, and blarney-stone. It may be added, that the real stone is in such a dangerous situation, on account of its elevation, that it is rarely kissed, save by some very adventurous pilgrims. The stone which officiates as its deputy, is one that was loosened by a shot from the cannon of Oliver Cromwell's troops, in 1646 (under the command of Lord Broghill, afterward the celebrated Earl of Orrery,) who were encamped on the hill behind the castle: this stone is secured in its place by iron staunchions, and it is to this that the visitants to Blarney pay their oscular homage, by mistake.

Between the castle and the hill just mentioned, there is a sweet vale called the Rock Close, a charming spot where, or legends lie, the little elves of fairy-land assembled to hold midnight revelry. There is a lake of unfathomable depth at one end of this vale, and superstition has many a tale of its wonders.

It was in the summer of 1825, that Sir Walter Scott paid a visit to Blarney he was accompanied by Miss Scott, Miss Edgeworth, and Mr. Lockhart, (the present editor of the Quarterly Review.)