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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;
No more thou feel'st the sickening claim,

The soul-debasing weight of clay!
And that debasing weight was life!
The moment which doth end the strife,

Men call it death! So, freed from pain,

The bondsman fancies, with the chain,

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,
Le chaos bout et couve un second univers,
Et pour le genre humain que le sceptre abandonne,
Le salut est dans tous, et n'est plus dans personne.
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,
Et passe sous la foudre et sous l'obscurité

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 ce encore.

L'homme n'enseigne pas ce qu'inspire le ciel;
Le ruisseau n'apprend pas à couler dans sa pente,
L'aigle à fendre les airs d'une aile indépendante,

L'abeille à composer son miel." 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 i 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

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

sorrow.

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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.

LA PAUVRE FEMME.

" It snows,

- 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.
Groping, alone, upon the church-door stone,

Winter and summer, there is she ;
She's blind, alas! this

poor

old crone;
Ah! give the wretch your charity!
“ And know you who she was in other days,

This withered creature, sad and wan?
The idol of a wondering people's gaze,

She charmed all Paris with her song.
The young in transports sweet of smiles or tears

Before her beauty bowed the knee,
To her all owed the dreams of earlier years,

Ah! give the wretch your charity !

“How often, turning from the brilliant scene,

Still followed by the eager crowd,
The idol of their worship has she been,

Pu sued by plaudits long and loud!
To lead her to the car her gate before,

The servants of her will to be, -
How many waited, emulous, at her door!

Ah! give the wretch your charity!
“When all the arts had wove her brilliant crown,

How stately was her dwelling then!
What crystals, bronzes, columns of renown,

Tributes of love to love again!
In all her banquets faithful minstrels sung

The cup of her prosperity, -
Now in those domes ihe swallows rear their young, -

Ah! give the wretch your charity !
“ Terrible fate! one day of sickness dread

Destroyed her voice, sealed up her eyes;
And, poor and lonely, she has begged her bread

For twenty years, where now she sighs.
No hand more ready e'er abroad to send

Her gold to gladden misery,
Than that which now she scarcely can extend, -

Ah! give the wretch your charity !
“ The wind blows keener, Jesu shelter thee!

Her tattered limbs are stiff and cold;
Scarce can her fingers grasp the rosary

That soothed her every grief of old.
Crushed by such woes, if her sad bosom more

Can nourish tender piety,
For faith in Heaven, whose mercy she implores,

Ah! give the wretch your charity!"

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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 con

. fess we prefer Béranger's pathos to his humor, and would rest on bis 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

Règle nos jours et brille aux cieux;
- Oui, mon enfant; mais dans son voile,
La nuit la dérobe à nos yeux.

Berger, sur cette azur tranquille,
De lire on te croit le secret;
Quelle est cette étoile qui file

Qui file, file, et disparait?
“ — Mon enfant, un mortel expire;

Son étoile tombe à l'instant;
Entre amis que la joie inspire,
Celui-ci buvait en chantant ;
Heureux, il s'endort immobile
Auprès du vin qu'il célébrait;
- Encore une étoile qui file,
Qui file, file, et disparait.

Mon enfant, qu'elle est pure et belle !
C'est celle d'un objet charmant.
Fille heureuse, amante fidèle,
On l'accorde au plus tendre amant;
Des fleurs ceignent son front nubile,
Et de l’Hymen l'autel est prêt;:
— Encore une étoile qui file,

Qui file, file, et disparait,
" - Mon fils, c'est l'étoile rapide

D'un très grand seigneur nouveau-né;
Le berceau qu'il a laissé vide
D'or et de pourpre était orné.
Des poisons qu'un flatteur distille
C'était à qui le nourrirait ;

Encore une étoile qui file,
Qui file, file, et disparait.
— Mon enfant, quel éclair sinistre !

C'était l'astre d'un favori,
Qui se croyait un grand ministre
Quand de nos maux il avait ri.
Ceux qui servaient ce dieu fragile,
Ont déjà caché son portrait ;

Encore un étoile qui file,
Qui file, file, et disparait.

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