sinless voice in prayer with yours, to the throne of mercy, for pardon and peace to your guilty spirit.-Oh! let him indeed know that you 'rend your heart, and turn unto the Lord your God: for He is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and of great kindness, and repenteth him of evil.' And my prayers shall meet yours, there to plead for you to that God, who is abundant in mercy and goodness;' as an oblation of gratitude for having saved my son from crime, by your bitter contrition. But if, like the fiends banished the joys of Paradise, you only seek to make all as lost and depraved as yourself, glorying in making not only my husband, but my child, an apostate to his God: then must I leave you to the devices of your own corrupt nature;' and my child alone to the care of that Being, 'who, for wise purposes, permits the wicked to triumph for a time;' who chasteneth whom He loveth;' but, who still worketh all things together for good, for them that believe in Him;' and 'who will, if it seemeth good unto Him,' preserve my child from the contagion of vicious example, and render him meet to join his mother in that better world, her trials, her sufferings, and her faith in this, may have, perhaps, made her worthy of-who never for one moment forgot, in the midst of her sorest visitations, that man is tried by affliction, and by sufferings he is made perfect.'

SWEDENBORG'S LATIN POEMS.*

THIS, though a little book, is a great literary curiosity: it had become exceedingly scarce, and half even of the learned world had ceased to recollect that Swedenborg had ever conversed with the Muses.

We review these poems with much pleasure, for though in themselves they are nothing very brilliant or startling, yet, as the emanations of so illustrious a man, they are well entitled to notice. Swedenborg's fame, indeed, will always rest secure on his solid prose works; and, forsooth, the notoriety of his prose compositions has hitherto eclipsed his poetic effusions-yet they afford a pleasing contrast to the grave sublimations of his metaphysical philosophy. They resemble the aurora borealis playing fantastically and sportively among the solemnities of a starry midnight.

We have been accused of giving the writings of Swedenborg too prominent a relief in the pages of the Monthly Magazine. But what philosophical periodical could avoid a conspicuous illustration of so singular, so great a man. We by no means pin our faith on Swedenborg-we regard him merely as one of the numerous genii of piety and learning, whom God has raised up in modern ages, to evolve the universal Divinity and theology, which, descending in its prothetic vastness from God, loves not to dwarf itself by the limitations of human authorities. Yet we do not the less admire Swedenborg; and, perhaps, a fair parallel would compel even his antagonists

* Ludus Heliconius, sive Carmina Miscellanea quæ variis in locis cecinit Eman. Swedberg (Swedenborg). Tertia Editio, emendata et locupleta, recencuit Dr. Joh. Fred. Emanuel Tafel, Regia Universitatis Tubigensis Bibliothecarius. London: Newbery. 1841.

to admit that he is, in his way, no less worthy of commendation than Erasmus, Luther, Grotius, and Leibnitz.

We believe that the day is at hand, when a loftier and more resplendent theology, than even that taught by Swedenborg, will obtain among men of genius. In such a theology, the law of union and synthesis between God and his creatures will be establishedand God be proclaimed as the All in All, in a sense more potent and vivid than is yet appreciated by any sect whatsoever.

The truth of this absolute divinity is, even now, gaining fast on the apprehension of men. The ablest writers are pleading thus :-God (say they) is essence and form; there is an essence of God, and there is a form of God. Now man, as a son or image of God, must, according to the doctrine of affiliation, be a portion of the divine essence as well as the divine form. A specific portion of this essence underlies and forms the basis of every specific form, which is but its outward manifestation. No specific essence without specific form, no specific form without specific essence; for form is but the external manifestation of essence. The infinite and finite, then, in essences and forms, are degrees of relation, which blend and coalesce. The finite can only exist by being rooted in infinity, and every individual finite has its own individual radical infinity, as well as a general or universal one. If its infinite root or germ were general only, and not specific, it must die, for generals cannot blend with specifics, but by becoming themselves specific, under a law of harmonic appropriation and interpenetration.

But enough of this-which can only be understood by the initiated. -Let us turn to the more popular and amusing part of our subject, and criticize these poems before us. When Swedenborg wrote them, he was a very young man, and they have much of the vigour and pruriency of youth about them. The style of them appears to us somewhat laboured, recherché, and obscure, but by no means inelegant. There is a good deal of idiosyncracy in many of the turns of phrase and metaphor, enough to perplex the sense of ordinary Latinists. Yet we do not blame Swedenborg for this; no man was ever great, who was not singular-no man was ever great by imitation.

In order to give our readers some idea of the nature of these poems, we shall translate, or rather paraphrase, those that please us most.

By far the finest in the collection is, to our thinking, the first, entitled, "Festivus applausus in Victoriam quam celsissimus Comes Magnus Steinbock de Danis ad Helsingburgum, 1710, Mart. reportavit."

Swedenborg was at this time twenty-two years of age. Charles the Twelfth, the glorious monarch of Sweden, after having reduced the Danes to obedience, had attacked the Russians; and, after the disastrous battle of Pultowa, was enclosed in Bender, the sport of Turkish intrigues. At this crisis of his fate, the King of Denmark determined to avenge his past disgraces on the Swedes. He made a descent on Schonen, and took the town of Helsingburg. The Swedes, however, remained firm, and the disasters of their king rather inflamed their loyalty and patriotism than dispirited them. An army, under Steinbock, partly consisting of undisciplined peasants, gave the Danes a

bloody defeat, and forced the survivors to quit the country with precipitation.

Such was the occasion of Swedenborg's triumphal Ode to Steinbock on the Defeat of the Danes. It begins thus:

"Conticeant strepitus et bella parumper et arma,
Succedant plausus jubila vota lyræ.

Lætitia resonet, feriat qui sidera clamor
Ferveat ut sonitu quilibet inde locus."

The following paraphrase may give the reader some idea of its spirit and sentiment :

r-the crash

"Lulled be the dissonance of war

Of blood-stained arms-and let us listen now
To sweetest songs of jubilee. From harp
And thrilling lyre, let melodies of joy
Ring to the stars, and every sphere of space
Glow with the inspiring soul of harmony.
Phoebus applauds, and all the Muses swell
Our glory on their far-resounding chords.
Well may the youthful poet be abashed,
Who sings such mighty enterprise,-his theme
So great, so insignificant his strain!-
Let Europe boast of Sweden-in the North,

South, East, and West, victorious.-Round the Pole
The seven Triones dance exultingly,

While Jove the Thunderer sanctions his decree,
Never to let the hyperborean bear

Sink in the all-o'erwhelming ocean stream;

For when in the wave he bathes his giant limbs,
"Tis but to rise more proudly. Even now

The fertile Scandia wreaths her brow with flowers,
And Victory's trophies glitter over Sweden.
The God of battles smiles upon our race,
And the fierce Dane sues for our mercy:-Yea,
The troops insidious Cimbria sent against us,
Lie scattered by a warrior young in arms.
Though Swedish Charles, our hero King's afar
In Russian battles-his bright valour fills
The heart of Steinbock-the victorious one ;-
These names of Charles and Steinbock like a spell
Created armaments, and hurled pale fear
Among our foes.-Steinbock! thy red right hand
Hath smitten down the spoiler; and in thee,
Another Charles we honour,-and rejoice
To hail thee, hero of thy grateful country.
Bind the triumphal laurel round thy brow,
Such chaplet well becomes, the invincible;
Ascend thy chariot-we will fling the palms
Before thee, while the peal of martial music
Echoes thy high celebrity around.

Hadst thou in olden times of fable lived,
I had invoked thee as a demigod.
Behold, how glitteringly in northern heaven
Thy star exults: the name of Magnus fits
Both it and thee, inseparably linked:
In thee, the genius of the North expands,
And all the virtue of thy ancestry

N. S.-VOL. VI.

Illustrates thee. Chief of our gallant chiefs-
Too gallant for a song so weak as mine-
Oh! could their names enshrined in monuments
Appear, how would the eyes of Sweden kindle
To read them. Coronets of gold for thee,
Were all too little recompence ;-hereafter,
A crown of stars is all thine own. The foe
Lies broken by thy force and heroism:
Numerous as Denmark's sands, they came-how few
Returned—their princes and their soldiery
Repulsed with scorn, while shuddering horror hung
Upon their flight-Jove's thunderstorms assailed
Their bands of treachery, daylight was eclipsed
In thickest clouds, and the pure cause of God
And patriotism triumphed. Ay, the cause
Of Sweden's royalty, which Denmark strove-
How vainly to despoil. Our king perceived
Their rising hatred; poets were forbid
To sing his praise-his praise beyond compare:
For this, in sooth, the land was steeped in blood;
Even for this, the fire and sword laid waste
Our native soil. Then let each warrior bind
The laurel chaplet, and the bard exult
O'er slaughtered rebels. For the destiny
Of Charles shall yet awake the Muse's hymns.
Ah, soon return,-Oh, monarch of our love!
Oh! Sun of Sweden, waste not all thy light
To illume the crescent of the Ottomans:
Thy absence we bewail, wandering in glooms
Of midnight sorrow-save that these bright stars
That lead us on to victory, still console

Thy people's hearts, and bid them not despair."

So much for Swedenborg's "Song of Triumph."

Alas! his hero,

Charles, was not fated to return. His story is too truly told in the most poetic lines Dr. Johnson ever wrote:

"A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,

No dangers fright him, and no labours tire;
O'er love and fear extends his wide domain,
The unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain.
His death was destined to a foreign strand,
A nameless fortress, and a dubious hand:
He left a name, at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, and adorn a tale.

Swedenborg's Muse, however, was not confined to gravities. The majority of these juvenile poems consists of epigrams and love ditties; some of them containing very amorous double entendres, which might be called indecent, were not Beza, Grotius, and other pious Latinists guilty of much worse.

There is one pretty little epigram, " In Puellam dictam Victoriam," which, in honour of her most gracious Majesty, we will not fail to repeat. Voici :

"Lux tibi natalis dedit Victoria nomen,
Multorum es voto nobilitata ducum
Arma licet capias nusquam Victricia-Victrix
At quod sis, dono Nymphæ. Parentis habes,

Forma tua est victrix, hinc multa trophæa locabis,
Sed scio succumbes quod quoque victa semel."
"You were called Victoria even from your birthday;
You are ennobled by the loyalty of many chiefs;
You are victorious, though you use no weapons but
You are victorious, oh Nymph, by the gifts of your parents;
Thy beauty is victorious, and secures you the triumph,

But you must in turn be conquered by love."

your charms :

There is a merry sonnet, "In Poetæ et Puelle Nuptias," which we will translate merrily. It may amuse Thomas Moore.

"Dear Tom, whom we christened the poet of love,
Has married young Chloe, an absolute dove;
Now Tom, my fine fellow, you're sure to sing well,
For you'll find in your sweetheart, Parnassus' own spell.
When your heart is too hot, or your lips are too dry,
Your best Aganippe is all in her eye.

If the damp weather injures the strings of your lyre,
Just get her to touch them, they 'll kindle like fire:
And when with your pipe, you would play a duetto,
Twill be charming indeed, if your Chloe's in petto.

Here follows one-"In Libellum suum dictum Dædalus Hyperboreus :"

“Dædalus en auras carpit ridetque superne

Quos sibi Rex Minos struxit in orbe dolos;
Auras arte tua sic tu mi Dædale carpe,
Atque dolos ride quos tibi turba struit."

"The ancient Dædalus in triumph soared,

Scorned Minos' labyrinth, and his tower of bricks;
So flies the modern Dædalus abroad-

Laughs at its foes, and all their dirty tricks."

The next we shall quote is one "In Parentis Effigiem Æneam, quæ non liquefacta est in Domus ejus Incendio:"

"Thy statue, father, of inviolate fame,

Emerges brighter from the insulting flame;
So let thy soul in purer splendours glow,

When heaven's last fires consume the world below."

The most witty, and the most saucy-the most natty, and the most naughty-of all Swedenborg's epigrams, is one on a very wrinkled old lady, with whom the poet seems to been have most unpolitely jocose. The Latin run thus:

"Ruga tua, O Mulier! sulcet quam tortilis ora,
Inque quot est pellis ducta reducta plicas
In rugis habitas, quam si replicare per orbem
Posses O esses quam spatiosa gigas.

Corpore credo tuo gemino fores æqua parenti
Et totum posses intus habere virum."

The English may be thus versed, and thus veiled :-
"Old woman, what wrinkles have shrivelled thy skin,
What folds upon folds does thy tanned hide fold in;
You live amid rolls which could each be unrolled,
You would cover all earth, you gigantic old scold:
In thee, all papas and mamas we could bind,
And in thy vast parchment include all mankind."

FRANCIS BARHAM.