Which God but for a day hath reared in space,
Which the swift winds can with a breath embrace;
Its seas and hills, its valley and its plain,

Sprung from the dust, to sink to dust again;
Whose mass unto immensity can be
But as this hour to all eternity;

Clay wrought to noble forms, yet ever clay,
Where all is like, yet passes

all away.

"And what is life? a moment's waking breath, The brief announcement of a birth and death; A word the Eternal utters in disdain,

A keyless labyrinth, a question vain;

A fading dream, a spark in instant flight,
A sudden ray that sinks again in night;

A moment time lends and withdraws from man,
Worth not the word that marks its date, -

a span!

"And fame? a vain sound caught from side to side, The very arch-mock of poor human pride;

A name on mortal lips of sovereign sway,

Deceitful, fickle, perishing as they;

Which mighty now, now weak as failing sighs,

From month to month on to oblivion flies;

The poisoned nectar that bewilders pride,

Which twice slays him who fain would ne'er have died!

"And what is love? Ah, ready for the theme,

My lips denying fear they may blaspheme;
Alone above the utterance of a name,
The pure light of the soul's internal flame;
A living spark snatched from the fires on high,
A car that bears us upward to the sky;
The lightning of the sense; the quenchless sun
That melts two human spirits into one;

It is it would be all, if all could be,

Could mortal heart contain this mystery,

Or if, like fires by heaven its emblem made,
Its flame exhaled sank not in hopeless shade.

"But when these goods that mortals crave
Upon a single heart o'erflow,

Death on the borders of the grave

Makes of our happiness a woe!
The wave of time that bears us down
Waits not that human joy may crown

With florid growth its speeding tide;

O fugitive and short-lived race,
Where can your seedlings find a place
This ever-fleeting stream beside?

"Still it sweeps on,

- its wasted shore

Tells me the goodly time is flown;
Still on,
and my green years no more
Appear, they too from sight are gone.
The schemes to which a hope can cling
Are like the floating buoy they fling

Upon the sailor's changing trace;
Which but recedes in mounting swell
The vessel's measured course to tell

That cleaves the sullen water's face. "My days, discolored by my woe, Uncounted glide away;

My heart, alas! beats even now
'Neath vanished pleasure's sway.
Beneath my steps the earth is clad
With many a palm yet green and glad,
But they survive my weak desire;
Objects of cherished love and trust
Still, still are there, upon the dust
Cooled by my sighs, which there expire.

"I see pass on and smile again

The enchantress of each early year; Who held me long in passion's chain, Whose very steps my heart held dear. Her golden locks yet downward stream, The bright tints born of morning's beam

Blush on her cheek, like crimson rays; In her blue eyes whose glance could thrill, Enough of light there lingers still

To fascinate a lover's gaze.

"The crowd who on her way divide,
Pursue her with admiring glance;
Their homage swells her youthful pride,
The murmurs sweet her ears entrance.

For me, I smile while passing on;
All lightly from my heart is gone
That dream of deep felicity.

I ask, with pity in my soul,

'Love! can thy flame that scorns control, Ere beauty that awakes it, die?'

"Ah! what remains to life bereft,

When youthful love is borne away?
What to our dazzled eyes is left,

When dies the lovely summer's day?
That which is left the empty sail
When the last faint expiring gale

Is hushed upon the slumbering main;
That which is left the barren mead,
When tempest wings, with thunderous speed,
Have swept to earth the scattered grain.

"Yet still must live this breathing clay,
Must watch and sleep and wake in turn;
Still lingering on from day to day,

The waxing burden must be borne.
When to the very dregs we drain
The foaming cup of life, what gain
Could we the empty bowl destroy!
To hope,
to wait, and this is life!
What need to count 'mid cares and strife
Days that can bring no more of joy?

"Lo! therefore, wearied is my soul,
The thrall of empty fears again;
Therefore my fancies restless roll,
Like sickness on his bed of pain.
Therefore my wild and wandering thought,
Even as the wounded dove, hath sought,

But nowhere found, its wished repose;
Therefore I've turned me from the view
Of this sad world, vain, wild, untrue,

And cried to GOD, whence comfort flows.

"As the stern north's tempestuous blast

Lifts the poor sparrow from his nest,
And bears him up the storm-clouds past,
Far from his parent spot of rest, -
Unharmed his fainting wings, the gale
Upholds him still, he seems to sail

Safe cradled on its wings of might;
So that sole thought with heavenly sway
Bears my oppressed soul away

Even to the Eternal Source of light!" &c.

The following graceful little morceau is in a different strain;

66 LE PAPILLON.

"Born with the spring, with summer's rose to die,
To float in heaven on zephyr's pinions bright,
Cradled upon the half-closed flower to lie,

Drunken with sweets, with beauty, and with light, -
Then, the dust shaking from his wings elate,

Like the light breeze ascend the blue serene,
Such is the butterfly's, enchanted fate!

How like desire, that ne'er at rest hath been,
But still unsated o'er earth's bright things flies,
Then soars to seek his pleasures in the skies!"

L'Homme is in manner an imitation of Pope; it has many striking passages, though we object to the exuberance of epithets at its commencement. L'Enthousiasme is full of beautiful imagery, though apparently imitated from an ode of Rousseau. The following idea in one of the stanzas is forcible and highly poetical;

"Foyers brûlans de la lumière,
Nos cœurs de la nature entière

Doivent concentrer les rayons."

Le Lac is remarkable for elegance and harmony, and, we have heard, is a particular favorite with the author. La Gloire, to the banished Portuguese poet, Manoël, is also admirable, and breathes the sentiments of a lofty and independent mind. Among M. de Lamartine's fine figures, we were struck by the following, illustrating the destiny and resources of the poet in misfortune;

"Ainsi l'aigle superbe au séjour du tonnerre
S'élance, et, soutenant son vol audacieux,

Semble dire aux mortels; 'Je suis né sur la terre,
Mais je vis dans les cieux.'

La Foi and La Prière are worthy of notice from their solemnity of religious feeling. Le Génie contains a beautiful comparison, which we cannot refrain from quoting;

"Hast seen, in old Olympic race,

Around the steeds and chariots light,

The rising dust-clouds fill the space

And snatch them from the wondering sight?

VOL. XLIV. NO. 95.

48

So on the track of genius long
The clouds of pale-eyed envy throng,
Hang o'er the still-disputed ground;
Till, reached at length the glorious goal,
Forth from the mists that round him roll,
The victor is revealed and crowned."

Le Golf de Baya has much fine poetry. In Bonaparte, some of the verses are imitated from Manzoni. Le Poète Mourant is one of the most magnificent lyrics we ever read. Its grandeur and richness of imagery are unsurpassed. Every line is poetical in conception and style. It would alone have secured to its author a place among the highest. There is a gorgeous brilliancy in every stanza of the poem; but its ornament is never misplaced or meretricious. What, for instance, can be more striking than such verses as the following?

"Je jette un nom de plus à ces flots sans rivage,

Au gré des vents, du ciel, qu'il s'abîme, ou surnage,
En serai-je plus grand? Pourquoi? ce n'est qu'un nom.
Le cygne qui s'envole aux voûtes éternelles,

Amis! s'informe-t-il si l'ombre de ses ailes

Flotte encore sur un vil gazon?

"Mais pourquoi chantais tu? Demande à Philomèle,
Pourquoi, durant les nuits, sa douce voix se mêle
Au doux bruit des ruisseaux sous l'ombrage roulant;
Je chantais, mes amis, comme l'homme respire,
Comme l'oiseau gémit, comme le vent soupire,

Comme l'eau murmure en coulant."

Les Préludes are entitled to especial admiration, on account of the harmony of the language with the various subjects treated. The clamorous onset of the battle, the wailing of sorrow, and the soft, sweet strains of pastoral aspirations, are appropriately expressed. The Chant d'Amour is luxuriant in description. Of the "Harmonies," La Perte de l'Anio, Le Tombeau d'une Mère, Hymne de la Mort, Hymn de l'Ange de la Terre, Cantique, and Novissima Verba, are among the best. Hymne de l'Enfant à son Reveil is not in good taste, as the child thinks of every thing most unlikely to be thought of by a child under such circumstances.

The following lines occur in an apostrophe to Italy. "Mais, semblable à César à son heure suprême, Qui du manteau sanglant s'enveloppa lui-même,