yet when he
appeared in his own person and character as a poetical writer, he
adopted, as in the tale of the 'Hermit of Warkworth,' a diction scarcely
in any one of its features distinguishable from the vague, the glossy,
and unfeeling language of his day. I mention this remarkable fact[16]
with regret, esteeming the genius of Dr. Percy in this kind of writing
superior to that of any other man by whom in modern times it has been
cultivated. That even Buerger (to whom Klopstock gave, in my hearing, a
commendation which he denied to Goethe and Schiller, pronouncing him to
be a genuine poet, and one of the few among the Germans whose works
would last) had not the fine sensibility of Percy, might be shown from
many passages, in which he has deserted his original only to go astray.
For example,

Now daye was gone, and night was come,
And all were fast asleepe,
All save the Lady Emeline,
Who sate in her bowre to weepe:

And soone she heard her true Love's voice
Low whispering at the walle,
Awake, awake, my clear Ladye,
'Tis I thy true-love call.

Which is thus tricked out and dilated:

Als nun die Nacht Gebirg' und Thal
Vermummt in Rabenschatten,
Und Hochburgs Lampen ueberall
Schon ausgeflimmert hatten,
Und alles tief entschlafen war;
Doch nur das Fraeulein immerdar,
Voll Fieberangst, noch wachte,
Und seinen Ritter dachte:
Da horch! Ein suesser Liebeston
Kam leis' empor geflogen.
'Ho, Truedchen, ho! Da bin ich schon!
Frisch auf! Dich angezogen!'

[16] Shenstone, in his 'Schoolmistress,' gives a still more remarkable
instance of this timidity. On its first appearance, (See D'Israeli's 2d
Series of the _Curiosities of Literature_) the Poem was accompanied with
an absurd prose commentary, showing, as indeed some incongruous
expressions in the text imply that the whole was intended for burlesque.
In subsequent editions, the commentary was dropped, and the People have
since continued to read in seriousness, doing for the Author what he had
not courage openly to venture upon for himself.

But from humble ballads we must ascend to heroics.

All hail, Macpherson! hail to thee, Sire of Ossian! The Phantom was
begotten by the smug embrace of an impudent Highlander upon a cloud of
tradition--it travelled southward, where it was greeted with
acclamation, and the thin Consistence took its course through Europe,
upon the breath of popular appl