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in othecount, was d the said mie banks,

* The messenger pursued the stream,

The banks, the fields, the flood;
He drank of Duna's water there,

And swore that it was good.'-pp, 4, 5. General Arpad, who' the greatest riches had,' was, it seems, not only an extraordinary fellow in himself, but also the cause of the most miraculous virtues in others. He dispatches a messenger, who, according to the above account, was charged to attack the banks of the Danube, in single combat; and the said messsenger being arrived at his destination, puts to fight not only the banks, but all the fields in their neighbourhood; the stream also, nay, the mighty flood itself Ay before his valour in the fray, for we are told that he pursued them to a very considerable distance, and

-_- drank of Duna's water there,

And swore that it was good.' After the battle was over, what became of the quondam lord of the country?

Alone he ran, poor flying man !
What could he do but leap,
To save himself in Duna's stream,

And hide him in the deep? One of the advantages a poet possesses who translates from a musical language, such as the Magyar, is, that when he wants a rhyme in his own tongue, he may borrow it from his original. Of this license Doctor Bowring often makes free use, but in no instance, that we remember, more happily than towards the conclusion of the same ballad :

• Of those who gain'd the Magyar land,

A chief as bold as any,
Was Buda, who when Arpad died,

Was Magyar's Kapitany.'-—p. 9. Francis Kazinczi has written a song of triumph for the frogs of Hungary, who, at least in that poet's time, held their own musical powers in no small estimation. They had a sovereign contempt for the nightingale, who, they said had a hearing of “ melody's school,” thus anticipating the sort of disdain with which some of our frog-poets speak of the “ classical school,” and its sad monotony. Upon this song Doctor Bowring seems to have laboured hard with his verse-pounder, a new instrument, for which he has lately taken out a patent.

Brekeke,
Brekeke, brekeke!

Koax, too-00 !
Brekeke, koax-brekeke, too-00!

Brekeke, brekeke, brekeke,
Brekeke, brekeke, brekeke, brekeke;

Koax, koax--too-oo, too-00;

of our thus agale, whenation. Poct's time triump,

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here is something of the costume.of. Pored
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swings over his door, in

eas of the pond : to sell. If a country

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contin multed wave how we thrive and have thriven !

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orrow the Doctor's words, here are some of the the inward man-here is something of the costume

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the bAll honour and praise to his wisdom be given.

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Koax, koax!-00-00, too-oo! But for the honour of Magyar land, we must say, that the book Jains better things than these. The love sonnets of our former quaintance, Alexander Kisfaludy, breathe a tenderness which sometimes penetrates even through the dulness of the translation. We shall cite two or three examples.

· Thee I envied, joyous bird !

Singing love songs in the dell
To thy mate : each note I heard

Seem'd with joy and truth to swell.
I have also songs, which sweetly

Tell the tale of love-yet fall
Unobserved, however meetly

Answering beauty's fancied call.
Happy bird ! that singst love's joy-
I, its sorrows, its annoy-

Would I had th' alternative,

For thy song my soul to give !'-p. 80. The feelings that arise from absence are beautifully poured out in the following sonnet :

• Oft in fancy's rapturous noonlight

Thy resplendent face I see :
Oft, when wandering 'neath the moonlight,

On the waves, I welcome thee.
In my dreams I hold communion

With thy bright love-laughing eyes;
Thoughts of sympathy and union

From my broken heart arise.
O the blest, the heavenly greeting !

Vision fair-as fair as fleeting :
Soon the illusions all decay,
As thine image glides away.'--p. 82,

The reader, who is not acquainted with the original, may, nevertheless, easily understand how much the thought is injured by the translation, in the following lines :

• Now another century blended

With past centuries rolls away;
When another century's ended,

All that lives will be but clay.
Thou and I-a pair so joyous,

Spite of dance and song must die ;
Time, rude tempest, will destroy us,

On his death-piles shall we lie.
Dost thou mourn? O mourn no longer !
Death is strong, but love is stronger;

And where'er we go, shall go,

Sheltering us from lonely woe.'—p. 91. Charles Kisfaludy, the brother of Alexander, has had some success as a dramatist. His first production, “ The Tartars,” drew forth such enthusiastic applause, that, as we learn from Schedel, “ the poet could hardly save himself from the rush of young people, who, with loud shouts of joy, insisted on producing him on the stage.” His lyrics have considerable merit. The poem called 'Ages of Life,' is not remarkable for novelty of refection, but it will afford some idea of the direction and power of his genius. .

• Mid smiling friends and sports, far, far from sorrow,

Hanging around a mother's lap, we play
In the bright sunshine of our childhood's morrow,

Nor dream of any darker future day:
We smile on smiling hours that pass, and borrow

No gloom from all the mists that dim our way;
But rise and fall on every floating wave,
And with each image sweet communion have,
* Each blessed sunbeam in that glorious time

Wakes us to never-palling jests and joys;
And transport in those days, unstained by crime,

Flings all around her, roses-nor annoys
Our innocent paths with pains. Though not sublime,

Yet sweet as honey-dew, the hours when boys
Dance on the emerald grave-heaps of the dead,
And upward, heavenward, all their footsteps tread.
* And now the bud of lovely Hope is bursting,

And a new life its streams of passion pours;
And, like sweet, shadowed dreams, which fancy nurs'd in

Our parents' bosoms, all the household shores,
Which seemed so bright and beautiful at first, in

Dimness are shaded. Yet the spirit soars
To something far above its narrow cell,
And seeks with brighter thoughts than earth's to dwell.

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Brekeke, too-90!

Brekeke, brekeke!
'Tis the dawn of delight to the sons of the pond :
From its green bed they look to the bright moon beyond.

Brekeke, brekeke,

Koax, too-00;

Koax, koax-too-00, too-00 !
The thunderer made us the favorites of Heaven;
'Neath the green-vaulted wave how we thrive and have thriven!
All honor and praise to his wisdom be given.

Brekeke, brekeke, brekeke;

Koax, koax-too-oo, too-00!'- p. 52. • Here,' to borrow the Doctor's words, here are some of the adornings of the inward man-here is something of the costume of the mind'! • All honour and praise to his wisdom be given.

Brekeke, brekeke,

Koax, koax !-too-00, too-oo! But for the honour of Magyar land, we must say, that the book contains better things than these. The love sonnets of our former acquaintance, Alexander Kisfaludy, breathe a tenderness which sometimes penetrates even through the dulness of the translation. We shall cite two or three examples.

“Thee I envied, joyous bird !

Singing love songs in the dell
To thy mate: each note I heard

Seem'd with joy and truth to swell. .
I have also songs, which sweetly

Tell the tale of love—yet fall
Unobserved, however meetly

Answering beauty's fancied call.
Happy bird ! that singst love's joy-
I, its sorrows, its annoy-

Would I had th' alternative,

For thy song my soul to give !——p. 80. The feelings that arise from absence are beautifully poured out in the following sonnet :

• Oft in fancy's rapturous noonlight

Thy resplendent face I see :
Oft, when wandering 'neath the moonlight,

On the waves, I welcome thee.
In my dreams I hold communion

With thy bright love-laughing eyes;
Thoughts of sympathy and union

From my broken heart arise.
O the blest, the heavenly greeting !

Vision fair-as fair as fleeting :
Soon the illusions all decay,
As thine image glides away.'-p. 82.

The reader, who is not acquainted with the original, may, nevertheless, easily understand how much the thought is injured by the translation, in the following lines :

• Now another century blended

With past centuries rolls away ;
When another century's ended,

All that lives will be but clay.
Thou and I-a pair so joyous,

Spite of dance and song must die ;
Time, rude tempest, will destroy us,

On his death-piles shall we lie.
Dost thou mourn? O mourn no longer !
Death is strong, but love is stronger;

And where'er we go, shall go,

Sheltering us from lonely woe.'—p. 91. Charles Kisfaludy, the brother of Alexander, has had some success as a dramatist. His first production, “ The Tartars,” drew forth such enthusiastic applause, that, as we learn from Schedel, “the poet could hardly save himself from the rush of young people, who, with loud shouts of joy, insisted on producing him on the stage.” His lyrics have considerable merit. The poem called 'Ages of Life,' is not remarkable for novelty of reflection, but it will afford some idea of the direction and power of his genius.

• Mid smiling friends and sports, far, far from sorrow,

Hanging around a mother's lap, we play
In the bright sunshine of our childhood's morrow,

Nor dream of any darker future day:
We smile on smiling hours that pass, and borrow

No gloom from all the mists that dim our way;
But rise and fall on every floating wave,
And with each image sweet communion have.
* Each blessed sunbeam in that glorious time

Wakes us to never-palling jests and joys;
And transport~in those days, unstained by crime,

Flings all around her, roses-nor annoys
Our inpocent paths with pains. Though not sublime,

Yet sweet as honey-dew, the hours when hoys
Dance on the emerald grave-heaps of the dead,
And upward, heavenward, all their footsteps tread.
* And now the bud of lovely Hope is bursting,

And a new life its streams of passion pours;
And, like sweet, shadowed dreams, which fancy nurs'd in

Our parents' bosoms, all the household shores,
Which seemed so bright and beautiful at first, in

Dimness are shaded. Yet the spirit soars
To something far above its narrow cell,
And seeks with brighter thoughts than earth's to dwell.

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