Quel que soit le destin que couve l'avenir, Terre enveloppe-toi de ton grand souvenir!" The elaborate comparison of the human soul to a torrent and the wind, is very fine, but evidently suggested by the lines of Metastasio on the same subject. The annexed verse is from the "Hymn of Death"; "Thou diest, ay, thy mortal frame Earth's common law doth now obey; The limb that wore the fetters borne away!" The philosophy of "A Mother's Tomb" would hardly be convincing to a determined skeptic; yet it is full of tenderness, and shows a right heart. Lamartine's reply to Sir Walter Scott's "Farewell" is a noble production, and displays an intense appreciation of the genius of the person he addressed. The opening is very beautiful; and we were also particularly struck by the following lines, illustrative of the mutable spirit of the present age. "C'en est fait; la parole a soufflé sur les mers, Et pour le genre humain que le sceptre abandonne, A l'immense roulis d'un océan nouveau, Aux oscillations du ciel et du vaisseau, Aux gigantesques flots qui croulent sur nos têtes, On sent que l'homme aussi double un cap des tempêtes, Le tropique orageux d'une autre humanité ! " We have heard it said by a relative of the poet, that M. de Lamartine composes with surprising facility. We should have supposed as much, for it is only from a soil of overflowing richness, that such flowers can spring; and their growth must always be spontaneous. In his own example he has asserted the truth of the adage, "Poeta nascitur." "Jamais aucune main sur la corde sonore Ne guida dans ses jeux ma main novice encore. L'homme n'enseigne pas ce qu'inspire le ciel; In an essay recently published upon the "Destinies of Poetry," Lamartine has expressed his conviction that a change, corresponding with the spirit of the age, is to take place in poetry. It has no longer sustained vigor or spontaneous freshness, sufficient for productions like those conceived at its earliest period, at the "first waking of human thought." Hence it can no more be lyric, in the old and strict sense of the term. Nor is the epic any longer suited to the condition of men. They have lived, as he says, too long, and reflected too much, to find amusement in protracted narrative or description; while the realities of existence have destroyed their taste for the marvellous. Nor do the vicissitudes of real life leave much room for the dramatic; and society requires more of stirring and startling interest than formerly, for its amusement. The stage cannot afford the stimulus which may be found in everyday incidents. Poetry in future, proceeds M. de Lamartine, will partake of the coloring of the times through which it is to pass. It will be more sincere, more intimate, more real than before. It will imbody the inmost thoughts of men. Such is the kind of poetry Lamartine himself has given us. The deep feelings, the enthusiasm, the pious affections of his nature are laid open to us. It is philosophical and religious, like the mind of the author. He has beautifully painted the ministrations of the spirit of poesy in the different periods of life, in a poem called the "Guardian Genius," published in his essay on the "Destinies of Poetry." This ever-sympathizing power is represented as accompanying man in every age, the inspirer of elevated thought, the partaker of every joy, the alleviater of every sorrow. We take leave with regret of M. de Lamartine, of whom we have so little reason to complain, and turn to Béranger, whom we have often heard styled his rival, though in truth they are by no means rivals, being eminent in different departments. Gayety and wit belong as appropriately to the one, as elevation to the other. Béranger has more originality, but his themes are newer, and he has studied to please the multitude. The persecution to which he has been subjected has contributed also in no slight degree to the popularity of his works, if his light and graceful effusions can be called by such a name. They have been eagerly sought after and read, both at home and abroad. Perhaps he is better known in this country, than any living French poet; and the numerous translations of his songs, printed in various periodicals, render it almost a superfluous task to comment upon them. But most of the English versions we have seen, have failed to give an adequate idea of the manner of the gay chansonnier. It is almost impossible to imitate successfully the ease, vivacity, and playful satire, which constitute the charm of his poems. Sometimes he is serious, pathetic, and even solemn; and then the task is easier. Le Dieu de bonnes Gens, La Déesse, Les Hirondelles, Les Étoiles qui filent, and many others, are of this class. Le Chant du Cosaque and La Sainte Alliance des Peuples are spirited and noble odes, particularly the last. Le Juif créant has a touching moral, as also La Pauvre Femme, which we must make room for. We have a reminiscence of having somewhere read a translation of this poem, and though we cannot recall it to memory, we are not clear that some few of the lines are not in the version we have made. This we suspect, from the facility with which some of the words have been suggested to our mind. "It snows, "LA PAUVRE FEMME. it snows, and on the pavement there An aged woman kneeling prays; Keen blows the wind, her tattered limbs are bare, She waits for bread with anxious gaze. She's blind, alas! this poor old crone; "And know you who she was in other days, The idol of a wondering people's gaze, She charmed all Paris with her song. To her all owed the dreams of earlier years, Ah! give the wretch your charity! "How often, turning from the brilliant scene, Pursued by plaudits long and loud! "When all the arts had wove her brilliant crown, In all her banquets faithful minstrels sung The cup of her prosperity, Now in those domes the swallows rear their young, — "Terrible fate! one day of sickness dread Destroyed her voice, sealed up her eyes; And, poor and lonely, she has begged her bread No hand more ready e'er abroad to send Her gold to gladden misery, Than that which now she scarcely can extend, - "The wind blows keener, Jesu shelter thee! Crushed by such woes, if her sad bosom more For faith in Heaven, whose mercy she implores, One of the most deeply pathetic of these songs is Le vieux Caporal. We doubt if many can read it without disobeying the injunction of the veteran, - "Ne pleurez pas." We confess we prefer Béranger's pathos to his humor, and would rest on his more serious productions his claims to immortality. We think our readers will thank us for directing their notice to the following stanzas. "LES ÉTOILES QUI FILENT. "-Berger, tu dis que notre étoile Berger, sur cette azur tranquille, De lire on te croit le secret; Quelle est cette étoile qui file Mon enfant, un mortel expire; Qui file, file, et disparait. "- Mon enfant, qu'elle est pure et belle! C'est celle d'un objet charmant. Fille heureuse, amante fidèle, Qui file, file, et disparait, |