[8] See "A Manual of Scandinavian Mythology," by Mr. Grenville Pigott. 1839. "The Northern Mythology" will be found here not only skilfully arranged, but its wondrous myths and fables elucidated by modern antiquaries. It is further illustrated by the translation of the poem of Oehlenschläger, on "The Gods of the North;" whose genius has been transfused in the nervous simplicity of the present version. [9] Such is the critical decision of CONYBEARE, a glorious enthusiast. "Illustrations of Anglo-Saxon Poetry," by John Josiah Conybeare. 1826. The late Mr. Price, the editor of Warton's History, announced an elaborate work on the Anglo-Saxon poetry. The verse of CONYBEARE and the disquisitions of PRICE would have completed this cycle of our ancient poetry. But a fatal coincidence marked the destiny of these eminent votaries of our poetic antiquity--both prematurely ceasing to exist while occupied on their works. CONYBEARE has survived in his brother, whose congenial tastes collected his remains; PRICE, who had long resided abroad, and there had silently stored up the whole wealth of Northern literature, on his return home remained little known till his valued edition of Warton announced to the literary world the acquisitions they were about to receive. He has left a name behind him, but not a work, for Price had no fraternal friend. Since this chapter was written, Mr. Thos. Wright has published "An Essay on the State of Literature and Learning under the Anglo-Saxons." It displays a comprehensive view taken by one to whose zealous labours the lovers of our ancient literature are so deeply indebted. CÆDMON AND MILTON. Cædmon, the Saxonists hail as "the Father of English Song!" The personal history of this bard is given in the taste of the age. Cædmon was a herdsman who had never read a single poem. Sitting in his "beership," whenever the circling harp, that "Wood of Joy!" as the Saxon gleemen have called it, was offered to his hand, all unskilled, the peasant, stung with shame, would hurry homewards. Already past the middle of life, never had the peasant dreamt that he was a sublime poet, or at least a poet composing on sublime themes, incapable as he was even of reading his own Saxon. As once he lay slumbering in a stall, the apparition of a strange man thus familiarly greeted him:--"Cædmon, sing some song to me!" The cowherd modestly urged that he was mute and unmusical:--"Nevertheless thou shalt sing!" retorted the benignant apparition. "What shall I sing?" rejoined the minstrel, who had never sung. "Sing the origin of things!" The peasant, amazed, found his tongue loosened, and listened to his own voice; a voice which was to reach posterity!