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between the unhappy pair, and the infuriated wife flies to her desk and tears her will into fifty tatters. The Count wears a smile sinister, and, in his deadly hate resolves to commit the worst of crimes on that
The stanzas we are about to quote we deem to be unequalled. They made our flesh creep as we read them. Their singular worth demands our highest praise, and we cannot testify our approbation in a more effective manner than by transferring them to our pages.
“ 'Tis a stern and startling thing to think
Of its grave without any misgiving :
Is dying, and Death is living!
How their souls would sadden instanter,
Is the same that knells
Our last farewells,
When at night she unloosed her sandal,
Was fluttering round her candle !
At the end of a day of trial-
That hand which moved on the dial !
That the Shadow which followed was double !
The world-and its worldly trouble.
They were solemn bequests to Vanity-
Of the flesh that clothes humanity.
“ And when she quench'd the taper's light,
Or, along with her own,
That a Hand of Bone
Was closing mortality's curtain ! As she lies in her troubled sleep, the hellish Count creeps softly to her chamber to possess himself of the precious leg!
“But hush!—'twas a stir at her pillow she felt,
And some object before her glittered.
she started, and tried to scream,-
The Spark, called Vital, departed!
poem itself, if he feel any liking to the production. The poem is long, and our extracts can only furnish our readers with a weak notion of the spirit in which it is written. Its great value cannot be duly appreciated without an attentive perusal throughout.
The poem, entitled the “ Death Bed” is exquisitely delicate and truthful. “ The Elm Tree, a Dream in the Woods," is likewise a beautiful piece. The “Ode to Rae Wilson, Esq.” contains many lessons that all Sectarians should learn and profit by. It appears, that a gentleman somewhat hypercritic, had characterized poor Thomas's rhymes as “profane and ribald," this our poet could not pass by without remark. He straightway sat him down and wrote a letter, the like of which has not been seen for many a day. The “Plea of the Midsummer Fairies” reminds us of the sweet warblings of Spenser, and there is in the “Hero and Leander” a command of language
almost equal to the “Venus and Adonis” of Shakspere. Of the sonnets we cannot speak so highly.
In dismissing these volumes, we would express our anxiety to learn whether their reception by the public, will, ere long, induce the publication of our lamented friend's more thoughtful pieces among his poems of wit and humor.” We long to
sunny book; for no writer wrote in a more joyous and innocently mirthful style than Thomas Hood, who, by the composition of his serious poems has, undoubtedly qualified himself for a high position among the world-admired of the
THE POETS OF FRANCE:
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.
The works of Lamartine will not admit of being reviewed without affording specimens of his power, his individuality, and we must also add, his extravagance. He stands first and foremost among the French poets of this age: he is the most spiritual, the most classic, and the most decorous of modern French writers, and he is therefore one of those whom we would early introduce to our readers.
We have selected a poem from the second volume of his Harmonies Poetiques et Religieuses” to preface our critique upon this amiable and singular writer. We do not premise that the subject will be generally acceptable; perhaps it will be difficult for some to enter into the meaning and spirit of the poem. It has, at least, a well defined and characteristic fervour about it, and will serve as an example of one phasis of the poet's mind.
In our translation we have endeavoured to render the thoughts of Lamartine as accurately as possible.
THE RECLUSE, Le Solitaire.)
'Twas erst, “ What chase to day shall I pursue ?"
my mad hours my waking powers would strain :
All days I give to Him, the Only Wise,
my heart at waking hour doth rise,
Oh! when a thought from Heaven's bright radiance glances,
Since I the busy haunts of men forsook,
How oft since I this rock have made my bed,
By silence and long solitude,
And yet the soul of prayer is vaster grown,
my flight as I ascend to thee,
The deeper doth the sacred echo chime.