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 very night. 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 Our last farewells, Only broken into a canter! "But breath and blood set doom at nought- And that Death, in the shape of a Death's Head Moth, "As she look'd at her clock of or-molu, For the hours she had gone so wearily through At the end of a day of trial— How little she saw in her pride of prime "As she went with her taper up the stair, That the Shadow which followed was double! "Little she dreamt, as she laid aside "And when she quench'd the taper's light, How little she thought as the smoke took flight 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. And - ""Twas the Golden Leg!—she knew its gleam! That her eyeballs made at so mortal a crash, And thus she had lived and died for gold. For the "moral" we must refer the reader to the 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. 66 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 and energy 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 see the 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 nineteenth century. 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.) The rock is tipped with light: night's clouds depart, Than to mine eyes the morn's fresh-kindled rays. "Twas erst, "What chase to day shall I pursue?" All days I give to Him, the Only Wise, What is't they mean?—I have almost forgot- Oh! when a thought from Heaven's bright radiance glances, It lessens distance! as the soul advances, How beam the thoughts 'lumed by one ray of light! Bright day less differs from the shades of night, The west is nearer to the eastern skies, Than is the soul that from Thee flies, Since I the busy haunts of men forsook, My days are writ in wrinkles on my brow, How oft the earth hath breathed the breath of Spring How oft since I this rock have made my bed, By silence and long solitude, My senses are grown dull and rude; My ears unskilled in human sounds remain; As senseless to the cold or heat And yet the soul of prayer is vaster grown, More swift my flight as I ascend to thee, Lost in Thy presence; the more void is time, The deeper doth the sacred echo chime. In our next we will give some further specimens of the great French poet's powers. |