THERE is, we believe, no nation less acquainted than ourselves with the early literature of other countries. Till within these few years past, the great story of the revival of learning had been very imperfectly told; and, although considerable attention has been recently paid to the rise and progress of learning and refinement in Italy, we still remain very ignorant of those events as they occurred in the other countries of Europe. How scanty is our knowledge with regard to the early literature of Spain-a rich and copious subject! and how superficially are we acquainted even with that of France; while Germany absolutely remains an almost untrodden territory! For any intelligence which we may possess on these subjects, we are for the most part indebted to the French writers, amongst whom M. de Sismondi is certainly the most agreeable guide, so far as relates to the literature of the south of Europe. The nations, whose intellectual treasures we seem thus to have despised, have by no means displayed a similar indifference to the literature of England. The dramatic criticisms of William Schlegel prove how assiduously and successfully our great poets have been studied in Germany; while Dr. Pichot has just shown that the riches of our literature are duly appreciated in France. We would gladly infer, from the appearance of the beautiful volume before us, that a more active spirit of inquiry into subjects of foreign literature is diffusing itself; and we hope that a portion of this zeal may be employed upon the early writers of Germany, who are at present such complete strangers to

us.

To the 'Specimens of the Minnesingers' a very valuable critical introduction is prefixed, in which thewriter has traced the origin and rise of lyric poetry in France, Italy, Spain, and Germany. In comparing the merits of the German minstrels with those

of their rivals, the Troubadours and Trouveurs, he awards the palm to the former; and, indeed, if we may form an impartial opinion from the selections contained in the volume before us, we should be inclined to coincide in that judgment. There is certainly much more nature and simplicity in the verses of the Minnesingers' than are to be found in the lays of the southern poets, which are frequently so overlaid with conceits, and trammelled with nice distinctions of metre, that the reader is wearied and disgusted with such laborious frivolities.

We would gladly have devoted a little more space to this highly agreeable volume, but we must conclude our remarks while we have yet room for the following beautiful and characteristic lines, by Dietmar, of Ast, a Minnesinger of the thirteenth century:

By the heath stood a lady
All lonely and fair :

As she watched for her lover,
A falcon flew near.

Happy falcon," she cried,
"Who can fly where he list,
And can choose in the forest
The tree he loves best!
Thus too had I chosen

One knight for my own :
Him my eye had selected,
Him prized I alone.
But other fair ladies

Have envied my joy;
And why? for I sought not
Their bliss to destroy.
As to thee, lovely summer!

Returns the bird's strainAs on yonder green linden

The leaves spring againSo constant doth grief

At my eyes overflow; And wilt thou not, dearest,

Return to me now? Yet come, my own hero!

All others desert! When first my eye saw thee How graceful thou wert! How fair was thy presence, How graceful, how bright! Then think of me only,

My own chosen knight!" "

6

THAT merit alone is insufficient to obtain literary justice even from the intellectual portion of society, we have ample proof in the fate of the Rev. Charles Wolfe. The grave had closed over the mortal remains of this amiable young man, and no kindred spirit was found to claim for him a single sprig of Daphne's deathless plant.' Indeed, from the silence with which he was consigned to the tomb, we are led to suspect that his college acquaintances,' and circle of private friends,' deemed none of his productions deserving of preservation: for, with the exception of one piece, they are not to be found in any cotemporary publication. There was as little said about The Burial of Sir John Moore' as about the premature death of its author, until it was made known that this exquisite ode was a favourite with Lord Byron. The doubts which subsequently existed respecting its author served to excite additional interest; and it was not until the ode became fashionable that Mr. Wolfe's friends came forward to assert his claim to that poetical production. The work before us appears to have been an after-thought.

Charles Wolfe was born at Blackhall, county of Kildare, in the year 1791. His family were respectable, and claimed kindred with the hero of Quebec and Lord Kilwarden. At an early age he lost his father; and, his mother removing to England, he received the rudiments of his education at Winchester and other schools. In 1809 he entered Trinity College, Dublin, where he gave early indication of a poetic talent; and, for want of better prospects, he was obliged to devote himself to the service of a church-the richest in Europe-but remarkable for its indifference to deserving merit. Mr. Wolfe was ordained in 1817, and soon after obtained a curacy in the north of Ireland, where he continued until 1821, at which time his health began to fail him. He made a journey to Scotland and England, and a voyage to Bor

deaux, but without effect-for he died at the Cove of Cork on the 21st of February, 1823, aged thirty-two years.

These brief particulars are taken from the diffuse memoir before us; and, whatever the public may think of the neglect Mr. Wolfe encountered, we are quite sure there can be but one opinion respecting his misfortune, in having for a biographer a man of superlative dulness. Mr. Russell appears to have neither taste, talents, nor modesty. The absence of the two first are evinced in the volumes before us, and the last is conspicuous in his undertaking such a task-knowing, if intense stupidity did not prevent him from knowing, that he had not a single qualification necessary for the proper discharge of such a duty. We do not mean to criticise the trifles attributed to Mr. Wolfe. He has left behind him one proof, at least, of a poetical genius; and perhaps it had been as well to have left his fame dependent on this alone. His poetical pieces are extremely few; and of these few, some of them bear evident marks of having never been intended for the public eye. A judicious friend would have made a selection, but Mr. Russell knew not how to discriminate. He rummaged papers, and importuned friends; and has been so minute as to give us even the fragments found in his friend's study. A small, a very small volume, would have contained all that was necessary to publish: but this would not answer Mr. Russell's views. He wanted to see himself in print, and accordingly we have one volume filled with sermons, which look very like the Lord Lieutenant's chaplain's own (for they do not seem to be the productions of Mr.Wolfe); and another, compounded of a stupidly written memoir, pieces of poetry, and private letters. These latter might have been withheld: and we question if even the curate of St. Werburgh could tell us the utility of inserting the following

Exeter, February 18th, 1822.

" My dear,

Welcome once more! I feel as if we had a second parting when we last exchanged letters, and now that we once more renew a correspondence, it looks like a meeting after a long separation. But, you may be assured, that neither you nor yours were forgotten by me at those times when I knew you would most wish to be remembered-those seasons at which I trust I am remembered by you all. I will not trouble you with all the tedious reasons of my silence: the silence itself was tedious enough. Suffice it to say, that a man may be very idle, and have no leisure; especially, no leisure of mind, and that a man's time may be in a great measure unoccupied, and yet not his own. I will not tell you of the length of time it takes to wind me up and set me a-going for the day, but I find that the toilette of an invalid is as long and as troublesome as that of a duchess, and perhaps, the whole day often spent with little more profit. It will be sufficient to tell you that I can scarcely make out an hour and a half a day for actual study.

Yours, &c. 'C. W.' We now turn from the editor to the specimens of Mr. Wolfe's poetry. The following songs are pretty :

SPANISH SONG.

And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

'Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and

gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a

stone,

But we left him alone with his glory!'