purified
from the stains of the world from the lofty mountain, on whose summit at
sunrise he had dedicated himself to God, he is the worthy and invincible
champion of the cross. Not less bold than his youthful rival, not less
enthusiastic in his affections, Tancredi is the victim of a romantic
passion. But it is no enchantress for whom he pines; it is no seducing
frail one who allures him from the path of duty. Clorinda appears in the
Saracen ranks; her arms combat with heroic power for the cause of Mahomet;
the glance which has fascinated the Christian knight came from beneath the
plumed helmet. Lofty enthusiasm has unstrung his arm--devoted tenderness
has subdued his heart--the passion of love in its purest form has
fascinated his soul; yet even this high-toned sentiment can yield to the
influences of religion; and when Tancredi, after the fatal nocturnal
conflict in which his sword pierced the bosom of his beloved, is visited
by her in his dreams, and assured that she awaits him in Paradise, the
soul of the Crusader is aroused within him, and he sets forth with ardent
zeal to seek danger and death in the breach of Jerusalem. It cannot be
said that these characters are so natural as those of Homer, at least they
are not so similar to what is elsewhere seen in the world; and therefore
they will never make the general impression which the heroes of the Iliad
have done. But they are more refined--they are more exalted; and if less
like what men are, they are perhaps not the less like what they ought to
be.

How is it, then, if Virgil is so inferior to Homer and Tasso in the unity
of action, the concentration of interest, and the delineation of
character, that he has acquired his prodigious reputation among men? How
is it that generation after generation has ratified the opinion of Dante,
who called him his "Divine Master"--of Petrarch, who spent his life in the
study of his works? How is it that his verses are so engraven in our
recollection that they have become, as it were, a second nature to every
cultivated mind, and insensibly recur whenever the beauty of poetry is
felt, or the charms of nature experienced? Rest assured the judgment of so
many ages is right: successive generations and different nations never
concur in praising any author, unless his works, in some respects at
least, have approached perfection. If we cannot discern the beauties, the
conclusion to be drawn is that our taste is defective, rather than t