her commercial ascendancy; and the French language was, in Turkey, in Syria, and in Greece, the only medium of commercial intercourse. Since Malta has been in our possession, the sovereignty and guardianship of the Mediterranean have been virtually in the hands of Great Britain. Italian vessels are now no longer deterred from keeping the sea through fear of the Barbary corsairs. But the Greeks more especially have, from being mere pirates, become active merchants, and bid fair to share with England the commerce of the Levant. For several years before the present insurrection broke out, between four and five hundred Greek ships were employed in the commerce of the Black Sea; and a great part of the internal maritime trade of Turkey was in their hands. It is remarkable, too, that the formation of colleges and the revival of learning in Greece have kept pace with the increase of their commerce; and the same causes are bringing on, in the nineteenth century, the regeneration of society at the eastern extremity of Europe, which were instrumental in rolling away the Gothic darkness from the western nations.

But we must hasten to give some account of the volumes which have suggested this train of remarks. The extracts which we have given from the preliminary dissertation prefixed to the Lays of the Minnesingers, will have shewn the taste and ability with which the critical department is executed. The volume is a joint production, the translations being by another hand. The first specimen is an ode on the merry month of May by Count Conrad of Kirchberg, who sang in the latter part of the twelfth century. It begins thus: 'May, sweet May, again is come,

May that frees the land with gloom;
Children, children, up and see
All her stores of jollity!

On the laughing hedgerow's side

She hath spread her treasures wide;
She is in the green-wood shade,
Where the nightingale hath made
Every branch and every tree
Ring with her sweet melody.

Hill and dale are May's own treasures.
Youths rejoice! In sportive measures
Sing ye, join the chorus gay!

Hail this merry, merry May,' &c.

This, it must be admitted, is simple and natural enough, but the namby-pamby versification does not strike us as doing justice to the original. The following is a mood of my own

mind,' which, in its style of sentiment, reminds us of Wordsworth.

''Twas summer,-through the opening grass

The joyous flowers upsprang,

The birds in all their different tribes
Loud in the woodlands sang;
Then forth I went, and wander'd far
The wide green meadow o'er;
Where cool and clear the fountain play'd,
There stray'd I in that hour.

Roaming on, the nightingale
Sang sweetly in my ear;

And by the greenwood's shady side,
A dream came to me there;

Fast by the fountain, where bright flowers
Of sparkling hue we see,

Close shelter'd from the summer heat,
That vision came to me.

All care was banish'd, and repose
Came o'er my wearied breast;
And kingdoms seem'd to wait on me,
For I was with the blest.

• Yet, while it seem'd as if away
My spirit soar'd on high,

And in the boundless joys of heaven
Was wrapt in ecstasy,

E'en then, my body revel'd still

In earth's festivity;

And surely never was a dream

So sweet as this to me.

'Thus I dream'd on, and might have dwelt
Still on that rapturous dream,

When hark! a raven's luckless note

(Sooth, 'twas a direful scream,)

Broke up the vision of delight;

Instant my joy was past:

O, had a stone but met my hand,

That hour had been his last.'

A fragment by the same minstrel, Walter Vogelweide, describes in a very natural and pathetic manner, the feelings with which he revisited the scenes of his youth on his return from the holy land.

Ah! where are hours departed fled?
Is life a dream, or true indeed?
Did all my heart hath fashioned
From fancy's visitings proceed?

Yes! I have slept; and now unknown
To me the things best known before:
The land, the people, once mine own,
Where are they?-they are here no more.
My boyhood's friends, all aged, worn,
Despoil'd the woods, the fields, of home,
Only the stream flows on forlorn!

(Alas! that e'er such change should come!)
And he who knew me once so well,

Salutes me now as one estranged:

The very earth to me can tell

Of nought but things perverted, changed:
And when I muse on other days,

That pass'd me as the dashing oars

The surface of the ocean raise,

Ceaseless my heart its fate deplores. &c.'

Among the poems of Troubadours, those of Bernard de Born, who flourished in the latter part of the twelfth century, are distinguished by their spirit and marked character. The one beginning, The beautiful spring delights me well,' breathes a curious mixture of gayety and martial ardour; and the preceding one is singularly elegant for the times. Our readers will, however, be better pleased with the modest merit of the following simple stanzas by a Gascon knight, Gaubert Amiels.

'I covet not a high-born dame;

An equal in degree

Is all I seek; for wealth and fame
Heaven never meant for me.

I wish not for the joys that reign
Mid courtiers great and high;
For were I sure success to gain,
It would not bring me joy.

'I ever loved the single bird

That sings beside my bower,
More than the noisy songsters heard
At distance, hovering o'er;
Nor would I seek the lady's grace

Who seeketh not for mine,

Like that poor swain who left his place

For regal dame to pine.

For lofty aims I do not care,

To courtiers leave them free:

But there is ONE, whose chain I wear,
For she has vanquish'd me:

From Paris e'en to the Garonne,
There is not one so fair,

Nor, noble though they be, not one

Who thus my love can share.

To her, then, will I grateful bow,

And willing thanks repay

For kind and courteous acts, that show
More fair each coming day.
Nor shall it cost a single sigh
That higher dames there be;
Since few indeed can rank so high,-
So fair, so bright as she.

Thus equal, not too high or low,
Happy I love and, loving, know
How blest I am more blest by far

Than if my love more lofty were.'

The false rhyme in the last couplet sadly mars the conclusion; but we have too frequent reason to complain of the negligence or indolence of the Translator in this respect. Fidelity with as close an adherence as possible to the rhythm of the original, appears to have been the chief object with the Poetical Co-editor; and in these respects, the translations have considerable merit. In compositions of this character, however, where the whole beauty lies in the turn of expression and the music of language, literal fidelity is preserved at too high a cost, if it require a departure from correct versification, and a disregard of the peculiar genius of the English language. These translations strike us as more clever than poetical, more ingenious than graceful, displaying more facility and tact than delicacy of taste. We give as our last specimen, some very pleasing lines, in which Conrad of Wurtzburg, who flourished towards the close of the thirteenth century, laments over the declining popularity of his art, in the true spirit of a genuine bard.

Unwilling stays the throng

To hear the minstrel's song;
Yet cease I not to sing,
Though small the praise it bring;
Even if on desert waste
My lonely lot were cast,
Unto my harp, the same,
My numbers would I frame.
Though never ear were found
To hear the lonely sound,
Still should it echo round;
As the lone nightingale
Her tuneful strain sings on
To her sweet self alone,
Whiling away the hour
Deep in her leafy bow'r,

VOL. XXV. N.S.

2 E

Where night by night she loves
Her music to prolong,

And makes the hills and groves
Re-echo to her song.'

The Songs of Greece are offered by the Translator, not as 'mere rhymes, but as documents proving the heroism and illus⚫trating the manners of Greece.' They consist of, 1. Historical Ballads, describing the adventures of Kleftai or events of pathetic interest, and not unfrequently reminding the reader of the Spanish ballads relating to the conflicts between the Christians and the Moors, or the minstrelsy of our own border; 2. Romantic Ballads; 3. Domestic Songs; 4. Distichs current on the coast and islands. To these are added some recent 'odes of Greek literati.' The following simple ballad celebrates the heroism of a Thessalian Armatolé who lived some thirty or forty years ago.

'I see the Turks in every pass,
Th' Arnauts on many a hill;

Yet Sterghios, while his breath remains,
Will brave the tyrant still.

• While snow descends on mountain heights,
Submit not to the Turk:

No! rather let us make our lair

Where wolves are forced to lurk.

• While slaves beneath the splendid weight
Of Plenty's gilded chains,

Enjoy with infidels below

Their cities and their plains;

The brave have here a citadel

In every lonely glen:

Rather than share with Turks the mosque,

We share with beasts the den.'

There are several ballads on the fall of Suli, the history of which most interesting episode in the Greek Revolution we gave in a former volume.* We select one which records by no means a solitary instance of female heroism, recalling the days of Carthage and Numantia.

• DESPO.

'Loud shouts are echoing through the rocks,
While muskets ring and thunder.

Is it to strike some bridal crowd

With joy and childish wonder?

* Ecl. Review, vol. xiv. p. 534, &c.