Champion executed an excellent translation of Ferdausi, as far as the days of Manuchehr; but the copies have become so exceedingly scarce, that this translation can scarcely be said to be extant. Another translation was commenced in France, which was never finished or published, in consequence of the early death of the translator*. It is a matter of regret that such a work, and one so singularly sharing the fortunes of its author, when we consider the purity of its style and dialect, the smoothness of its versification, and the great body of mythology which it has preserved from works long since lost, should still continue among the arcana of the curious as a book, indeed, of which all have heard, but which is scarcely better known to the generality of scholars than the Ciphers of Persepolis, or the Arrow-headed Remains of Ancient Babylon †. D. G. W.
O Eye of all islands, where'er they may be,
Or set in the lake, or enshrined in the sea,
All hail to thee, Sirmio! Exquisite hour,
When again I revisit my own native bower;
Scarce believing I've left bleak Bithynia's shore,
And in
peace and in safety behold thee once more.
Oh! than freedom from toil what can be more blest,
When, the heart and the limbs travel-stricken, we rest,
In view of the hearth-stone oft thought on alone,
On some soft unforgotten dear bed of our own?
This, this for all cares is my only reward;—
So, beautiful Sirmio, be glad of thy lord !
Lake Larius, rejoice with thy wild waves of blue,
And, ye Smiles of my household, smile merrily too!
It is reported that a person is at this time engaged in Persia to continue his immortal poem down to the reign of the present monarch; but how far the two parts will harmonize in dialect and execution, may be a reasonable matter of doubt.
These remarks are intended as an introduction to specimens of untranslated parts of the Sháhnámeh, intended for a future Number.
Oh! the night hour is so sweet!
Hyperion's curls have heated the red day ;
The eve is cool and fresh.
Soon to the power of sleep-above their lids
Wave but a feather from old Somnus' couch,
And straight they droop, and dose-the night is dreary, Dismal, and dangerous, to the slumbering child.
The Lamias wander round, the fierce Empusa
Glides unseen to their couches.
CHILONIS.
Have the girls
Of Thessaly been telling thee these tales?
Tales!-ask Areta, she who lately scorn'd
The warning, in her confidence, now weeps
Bereav'd of her sweet child.-
With these strange words-speak, art thou serious?
LYSIPPE.
With serious brow speak I of serious things.
I will relate nought but the truth-thou know'st
How strong the ancient friendship was between
My husband and Aretas-they had dwelt
Neighbours of years, and daily met to pass
Some hours in social converse, while the children
Play'd mirthfully their own light-hearted games
Around their thoughtful sires.-Areta's self
At twilight came oft to my cheerful home
To talk of earlier days, when we were young,
In the full bloom of grief-less maidenhood;
And of our husband's tempers, soured by time,
Much had we to relate, as women have
When they may speak unfearing;-by us sat
Our female children, who, when weary grown,
Droop'd into sleep, though oftener listening sat
The elder ones in silence. Once Areta
Spoke, and I thought unwisely, to her child—
My sweet Iambe seek thy home," she said, "For sleep hath risen from his cave of night "To kiss thy dewy eyelids. Go, my child, "I well may trust thee to thy guidance, for "Thy wisdom is beyond thy tender years; "For six times only hath my pleased eye seen
"The wreath'd-crown'd day that gave thee to my arms, "And yet thy wisdom wins my praise."-She spoke, And kissed her daughter's lip. In vain my fears
I told, and pray'd her not alone to send
Iambe-but she smil'd-boasted her sense,
And sent her home. Late when (herself return'd)
She sought her infant's couch, most horribly
Her levity was punished; by its side
Stood the Empusa, bending eagerly
Over the slumbering child !-most deadly pale,
Lean, faded, famine-worn, the horrid face—
While o'er the blue lips gush'd a stream of blood,
Staining the marble breast and livid frame.
Fast on the infant's neck and its red lip
The midnight spectre press'd, andtouch'd its cheek
With murderous kisses, drawing with its blood
Life's blossoms from its heart;-shrieking aloud
Towards her child the hapless mother rush'd;
But the pale spectre glided from her sight
Upon her motionless feet !-The mother rain'd
Soft living kisses on the faded lip
Of her wan child, repeated oft its name,
Warm'd its cold cheek within her burning breast.
But vainly!-all was vain!—it was a corse,
And life returned no more!
The story thou hast told. "The cool night air
Shall tempt my steps no further-I will fly
To save my babe from Lamia's bloody kiss.
Ah, hapless lot of mothers!-scarce begins
The infant life to dawn, when adverse Powers
Threaten its safety,-does the birth-hour's guard,
Majestic Hera, grant them to our vows,
That Hecate may send up Hades' spawn,
Lamia, to torture and destroy?
Methinks I see the pallid spectre stand
Close to my infant's couch !—
But now so bold, and now so struck by fear!
Still in extremes-look, scarcely glitters yet
One star above us. Seat thee by the spring;
I'll fill the shining vases, and then go
Home to protect thy child.
Empusa, spare my babe !—a kid shall pour
Its life-blood to thy honour.
Or idle folly. Lamia never hears
Nor grants a pious prayer,-wild outcries, curses,
And terrible wrath alone can banish her.
Knowest thou her story?—I will tell it thee.
She is the child of a forbidden love ;
For the bright Lybia bore her to her son
Belus, rich Egypt's ruler.-Beautiful
As is that star o' the waters, Lotus, born
Of her own native Nile, was Lamia's youth;
Fair as the immortals, she believ'd herself
Of an immortal nature, therefore scorn'd
All love of mortal man-the eternal Gods
Bright in eternal beauty, changeless youth,
She e'en disdained-coldly her eye pass'd o'er,
Chilling and dimming the resplendent light
Of their celestial brows. But then with love
The crowned one beheld her; his soft voice,
His mild yet terrible eye, his glowing locks,
His grand majestic brow, on which were thron'd
Wisdom, and power, and empire; these she saw,
And seeing worshipp'd. His dread thunderbolts
Fell at her feet,-himself into her arms!
But Hera, the Olympian queen, beheld
How Lamia dar'd to bless the lightning's lord,
And fear'd another Hero might arise
From this new mortal beauty, to achieve
A throne in her Olympus. As she was
The ruler of the birth-hour, she came down
And blew a dead curse o'er the anguish'd form
Of hapless Lamia. The young blossom felt,
Even in the bosom of its parent stem,
The withering of that curse; and shrunk, and died,
Shunning to see the light. Keen agonies
Seiz'd on the tortur'd mother, and amidst
Her throes of mortal anguish, a cold corse
Was all that fill'd her arms;-then frenzy came-
Loud wept the desolate one, and wildly beat
Her tender breasts to wounds, and madly tore
Her fruitful body, now the living grave
Of her engender'd hopes. Grief's blighting hand
Pass'd o'er the blossoms of her loveliness,
And straight they perish'd! Fury revelled on
Her rosied lips, and mounted to her brain,
And filled her heart and spirit. Wild Despair
Made her his own, and in his madness she
Rush'd forth a frenzied monster. The young babes
She tore from weeping mothers-clasping them
In a fierce death embrace, and on their lips
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