The remarks just inscribed remind us of that large and beloved circle, now scattered in many families, who not only call Dr. Sharp friend or pastor, but by a still more endearing name. They best know that, whatever he may be in the public estimation, and in the exercise of high oratorical power, the aspect which to them is most divine, and will be the last to fade, is the one that mantles him in his own delighted domestic circle. Who that has ever seen him at the frugal board or hospitable fire-side, with wife, sons, daughters, children and grandchildren, all sinking, or rather elevating their relationships into the single one of mutual confidence and love, chatting, singing, reading for mutual delight, or bending together in common prayer, can ever forget the impression thereby received of home-born bliss, or could ever hope to embody it in adequate expression? Wordsworth perceived the most fitting symbol of the character we have imperfectly sketched-fidelity in sacred functions and local attachment to secluded joys-when, in his address to that choral glory of old England, the sky-lark, he exclaimed: TYPE of the wise, who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home!' Qualified beyond most men, by nature and protracted cultivation, to disturb the repose of the pulpit, and shake one world by the thunders of another,' Dr. Sharp's influence will continue to bless mankind long after his departure to the faithful servant's reward; even as the light of a star would shine with undiminished purity and power centuries after its extinction. Pittsburgh, (Pa.,) 1849. ACROSS the tranquil waters of the night, I see the bark at ease upon the breast I hear the pleasing echoes that infest And every thing around me, and above, Is calm and dear and sweet; These precious airs are but the breath of love O, moon! bright waters! and ye dulcet strains! While hope among our yearning kind remains, RENDERINGS INTO OUR VERNACULAR. FROM THE SPANISH AND ITALIAN. MR. EDITOR: a little leisure-time, a slight acquaintance with those beautiful tongues, the idioms of Italy and Spain, the possession of a small but choice library of the same, and an invincible cacoethes . scribendi,' induce me to inquire whether some random translations, however poorly executed, will, in your better judgment, contribute aught to the pleasure or instruction of your many and intelligent readers? If the first specimen I shall offer from my collection be meet earnest of what is to come, and win your and my readers' approbation, I may from time to time knock at your door yet again and again for admittance. For the present, I look into the second volume of Apuntes ;' and, pleased with the style and thought of Medrazo, cull a sweet flower from his fragrant bouquet. But before rendering into our vernacular the delicate production of our author, it will not be amiss to tell your readers who Medrazo is. He was born at Rome in the year 1816, and is son of Don Jose de Medrazo and Doña Isabel Küntz. Having received a finished education at the Seminary of Nobles in Madrid, he devoted himself chiefly to the study of jurisprudence in the university of Toledo, declined the chair of mathematics, finally connected himself at Madrid with the periodical press, and distinguished himself by his contributions to the Artista and Español.' As a sense of its appreciation of his merits, the ancient Academia de los Arcades' at Rome admitted Medrazo into its bosom in 1837, under the name of Mneseo Bètico.' Don Pedro Medrazo is, therefore, one of Spain's most illustrious authors, and the following fragment may give your readers some idea of his claims to that title. Washington, May 28, 1849. LAURA AND PETRARCH, B. WE of the present day cannot comprehend those ancient loves; that timid and respectful love which endured so many years, which fed alone on the memory of the lightest benefit conferred, of the most insignificant token of preference, upon the hope of even the smallest favor; that love which was profaned by merely being breathed into mortal ear, and which the enamored confided only to their brothers, the angels, and those loves nestled at the bottom of the heart, as in an impenetrable sanctuary, closed to every profane look, and were full of consolation for every kind of sorrow; they were the motive-power of existence, the breath of life, the sacred fire of inspiration, to artist and poet. Believe not that art alone has created those celestial Madonnas, replete with candor and beauty, which so many immortal brushes have left us as a legacy; those female faces which poetry has decked with all its spells, with all its spirituality. Believe not in this vague, mysterious, uncertain inspiration; the whole glory of the work belongs to a recollection. That Madonna before which we bend the knee, that woman veiled by the wonders of poesy, is some unknown object of a poet's love; one of those loves which he has kept concealed in the depths of his heart, without inscribing on the portrait the name of his model; deeming himself most happy if, upon his canvass or amid his verses, shall beam forth something of that light and radiance which alike caused him felicity and torment. And when the people in crowds stood in ecstasy before some picture where smiled some enchanting woman, when admiration centred upon the most delicate creation that ever poetry might conceive, How lovely!' exclaim the delighted visitors; and he, the painter or poet, in silence sighed, 'How like!' Ah! we shall never know those loves again! In these our days all true passion, all profound sentiment, is deemed ridiculous. Happy lovers they who lived in the age of chivalry! then was such love felt and understood! Then, and when manners and customs retained something of the reflection of tradition, when the beautiful sun of faith shone even in its setting for in the days of romance and ballad respect, veneration and idolatry were the property of love -and those bewitching dames feared not to entrust them to the sole vigilance of their cavaliers in their journeys through savage deserts and deserted forests. - Oh, Petrarch! hence the noble and virtuous lady of thy heart feared not to stand alone beside thee on the bank of yon fountain; hence in the hot summer time there did ye ramble together, abstracted from the world, dreaming of felicity, and breathing love and poetry; those precious hours of delight veiled by yon embowering trees with a transparent atmosphere of freshness and verdure! Like Tasso, oh, poet! naught didst thou then ask of thy love, when thou didst hope so much, and didst promise thyself so little : 'Molto crama, poco spera, e nulla chiede.' Yes! this love fed in such a manner, for so many years, a love which, resisting absence, lived in melodious song, mingling with the murmuring sound of Valchiusa's waters, incorporating its feeble and delicate accents of sadness, pure and aromatic as the voice of an angel who arises from the bosom of a lake, with the mysterious echoes which wander over the airy rainbows of this solitary fountain, which recalls the fount where so many sweet moments were once enjoyed, which reposes, agitated and murmuring as the rural maid who moves her smiling lips, and sleeping, smiles in dreams of innocence and simplicity; this love, which feeds on memory in the valleys of the river Colon, so sweetly exclaiming : 'OVUNQUE gli occhi Volgo, Pensando; qui percope il vago lune.' (Where'er, in thought immersed, This love, which the marriage even of the beautiful Laura of Noves, that love which gave no cause of fear or uneasiness to the Signor de Sade, her husband, seems to us of the present day extravagant and even impossible; sometimes it inspires only a doubt or smile of derision. And yet thus lived the poet; singing his dame, his absent mistress, the woman who belonged to another, and who only belonged to him in his verse, poor poet! The memory of a glove, which by chance she let fall, and which he had picked up, and the souvenir of that white and perfumed hand, to which he had restored it, and which, by inadvertence or for support, had once pressed his was the only inspiration of his lyre; while for the heart of the lady of Sade, the memory of her Petrarch, of her poet, was a thought at once sweet and melancholy. Hence she concealed it not from her lord; hence this thought caused her no pain, when she caressed the blond locks of the children who surrounded her. The two passed their lives in the luxury of such chaste and peculiar affection, that when Laura died, her poet, mingling his tears with those of the Lord de Sade, mourned for her the balance of his existence. Ah! when shall we experience love so pure and poetic! arm, VOL. XXXIV. WITHOUT, mid-June is blazing in its might, To the long vine that hangs down its green trimming; Of nature! GOD has made His world o'erflowing 8 A. B. 8. |