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the English bard. He has admirably described the character of Byron's genius in the following lines;

“ J'aime de tes concerts la sauvage harmonie,

Comme j'aime le bruit de la foudre et des vents
Se mêlant dans l'orage à la voix des torrens!
La nuit est ton séjour, l'horreur est ton domaine;
L'aigle, roi des déserts, dédaigne ainsi la plaine;
Il ne veut, comme toi, que des rocs escarpés
Que l'hiver a blanchis, que la foudre a frappés;
Des rivages couverts des debris du naufrage,
Ou des champs tout noircis des restes du carnage;
Et tandis que l'oiseau qui chante ses douleurs
Bâtit au bord des eaux son nid parmi les fleurs,
Lui des sommets d'Athos franchit l'horrible cime,
Suspend aux flancs des monts son aire sur l'abime,
Et là, seul, entouré de membres palpitans,
De rochers d'un sang noir sans cesse dégouttans,
Trouvant sa volupté dans les cris de sa proie,

Bercé par la tempête, il s'endort dans sa joie.”
There are some figures, which from their innate loftiness or
beauty, are especial favourites with Lamartine. He delights par-
ticularly in the eagle floating on self-poised wing in the abyss of
heaven—the wind-harp pouring its melodies to the night breeze,
the warbling of the nightingale--the wailing music of the stream
--the swan scaling the vaulted sky—and other images of the same
kind. He frequently compares the soul of man to a melodious
instrument, waiting the inspiring breath which is to wake its si-
lent chords to harmony. Thus in a verse from L'Esprit de
Dieu.

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Attendons le souffle suprême
Dans un repos silencieux;
Nous ne sommes rien de nous-même
Qu'un instrument melodieux!
Quand le doigt d'en haut se retire,
Restons muets comme la lyre
Qui recueille ses saints transports,
Jusqu'à ce que la main puissante
Touche la corde frémissante

Où dorment les divins accords!”
The

poem upon Bonaparte we have read with great pleasure, but consider it, though superior to Byron's, inferior in poetic beauty to that of Manzoni upon the same subject. Nor are its merits depreciated by such an opinion; for difficult indeed would it be for any writer to surpass the Italian ode. There is a strong resemblance in the character of sentiment and even the language of many stanzas, between the latter production and that of Lamartine; in the two following verses we perceive an affinity, thought not close, to a simile used by Manzoni;

"Tel qu’un pasteur debout sur la rive profonde
Voit son ombre de loin se prolonger sur l'onde,

Et du fleuve orageux suivre en flottant le cours;
VOL. XVII.NO. 33.

7

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Tel du sommet désert de ta grandeur suprême,
Dans l'ombre du passé te recherchant toi même,

Tu rappelais tes anciens jours ?
Ils passaient devant toi comme des flots sublimes
Dont l'æil voit sur les mers étinceler les cimes;
Ton oreille écoutait leur bruit harmonieux;
Et, d'un reflet de gloire éclairant ton visage,
Chaque flot t'apportait une brillante image

Que tu suivais long-temps des yeux!"
We subjoin a few lines of Manzoni, taken from a version of
his ode, which appeared some time since in the Foreign Quar-
terly Review:

" As o'er the drowning seaman's head

The wave comes thundering from on high,
The wave to which, afar displayed,

The wretch had turned his straining eye,
And gazed along the gloomy main
For some far sail, but gazed in vain ;

So on his soul came back the wave

Of melancholy memory;"'The French bard has been less charitable in the conclusion than the Italian, leaving to Heaven's mercy the disposition of the hero's soul, in expressions, to say the least, admitting a doubt of his final acceptance; while Manzoni carries him to heaven before our eyes; but as his destiny after death can be after all but a matter of conjecture, we can only be surprised that the less scrupulous generosity has been on the part of one whom political circumstances should naturally have made hostile to the fallen emperor.

The 66 Chant d'Amour" differs from most of the other lyrics before us, in being, as its name imports, consecrated to the tender passion. It is addressed to, as we suppose, an imaginary fair one, sleeping in a lovely spot, herself lovelier than aught that ever had being, save in the dreams of a poet's fancy. It begins thus:

If, O my lyre! dwelt magic in thy strings,
Like the soft quivering of the zephyr's wings,

The deep green foliage swaying-
Or waves that murmur as the shore

they kiss
Or turtles' notes, plaintive though fraught with bliss,

By these clear waters playing;-
If, like the reed by music's breath inspired,
Thy slumbering chords the soul divine had fired

To language of the skies-
Such as in worlds where only spirits dwell,
Angels in wordless love their raptures tell,
As
eyes

discourse to eyes
If thy sweet voice, its airs melodious blending,
Could wrap in transport wild a spirit bending

To love's enchanted sway-
Cradling it soft on dreams by fancy given,
As float the clouds, upborne by winds of heaven,

In the rich gold of day;-

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While on the flowers sleeps she my heart holds dear,
My voice should murmur softly in her ear

Its sighs melodious, bland,
Pure as the ecstacy her glance bestows—
Sweet as the harmony in dreams that flows

From some far spirit-land!
He thus describes the spot where the dwelling of love should

be:

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Above a lake of blue a hill-top bends,
Slowly its verdure-mantled slope descends

To greet the crystal waves;
All day the sunbeams on its borders rest,
And ceaseless quiver in the water's breast

The drooping, shadowed leaves.
Two oaks entwining in their close embrace,
The wild vine's tendrils every bough enlace,

Crowning their brows of pride;
Vary the sombre green with verdure bright,
Then o'er the fields chequered with shade and light

In smiling festoons glide.
There in the beetling rock's storm cloven side
Opens a cave, a nest where turtles hide

To moan love's hours away;
The vine, the figtree veil it with their bloom,
And the sun's rays, that slowly pierce the gloom,

Measure the passing day.
The twilight freshness of this calm retreat
Longer preserves to violets pale and sweet

Their fleeting, timid hues;
Deep in the green recess a plaintive rill
Seems drop by drop its music to distil

Ever with mournful dews.
Across this veil of green the roving eye
Sees but the azure wave, the bending sky-

And bosomed on the deep
The fisher's sail, which lightly hovering,
Cleaves the blue heaven, and flutters like the wing

Of birds in rapid sweep.
The ear hears nothing, save the plaintive tide
Greeting with murmuring kiss the fair hill side,

Or zephyr's wailing tone;-
Or nightingale's wild measured melody,
Or echo from the rock, whose distant sigh

Comes mingled with our own.

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In the volumes thus hastily glanced over, we have left numerous passages and whole poems marked for extraction, which our limits compel us to neglect. The attempt would be vain to do full justice to the several excellencies of our author, by presenting detached portions of striking and brilliant poetry. The sparkling fragments are far too numerous for abstraction; they crowd every page; nay, the whole fabric is one tissue of gems. In

reading a solitary production of Lamartine, one would be induced to imagine that with infinite labour and cultivation alone, so choice a treasury of sweets had been collected; it is only in traversing the whole that we perceive the exceeding richness of the soil whence spring, in spontaneous luxuriance, flowers of such surpassing and enduring beauty.--He has enriched incalculably the French language, founding a new school of poetry more agreeable to nature and to a cultivated taste; and we trust it will not be long ere his works are known here as widely as we are confident they will be highly appreciated when known.

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Art. III.-Three Years in the Pacific; including Notices of

Brazil, Chile, Bolivia, and Peru. BY AN OFFICER IN THE UNITED STATES Navy. Philadelphia : Carey, Lea & Blanchard. 1834.

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In this work we have some additional views of South America, which, taken in connexion with the travels of Dr. Terry, noticed in the preceding number of the review, shed new light upon the principal states of the southern continent. The book is artistly put together; and though the author claims the indulgence usually accorded to novices in undertakings of this kind," we guess this is not his first attempt. If it be, his skill has made him free of author-craft. His manner is easy and flowing -betokening a practised hand. A continual effort at ornament, commonly successful, betrays an earnest desire of excellence; but the consummation of art, the concealment of art, not being always attained, we are sometiines more disposed to applaud the design than to commend its execution. Whilst he does not overlook the great objects which should engage the attention of every traveller, such as the great features of nature and the prominent traits of civil polity, he seems most to delight in description of social scenes and the concerns of private life. Had he been devoted to painting, he would probably have committed the error of Titian, and have sought gratification in graphic identity, rather than in representation of general characters, had he been a portrait painter, he would have given striking likenesses, so far as physical resemblance went; not a mole, a freckle, nor hair would have been omitted; not a fold of dress, nor sprig of lace, nor pearl of a locket, would have been overlooked; but he must have changed his course of studies, and disciplined his genius anew, before he would have painted an historical picture. In this extraordinary minuteness and frequent repetition of similar scenes, .consist the chief, almost the only faults of the book. Yet with

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these it is a work of much merit. Judicious use has been made of ancient and cotemporary authors; the style is spirited and well sustained ; and we obtain from it fuller and more satisfactory information relative to the society of Spanish America, than from any work in our recollection.

Our author, who we learn is a surgeon of the navy, left New York in June 1831, on board the U. S. sloop of war Falmouth, bound on a cruise to the Pacific Ocean. He arrived at Rio Janeiro on the first of September. This has been described, not only as one of the best situated ports for commerce in the world, but as one of the most beautiful. We give our author's description of it, observing that like most other descriptions of celebrated scenery, we find it unsatisfactory. We omit some circumstances which break its continuity and distract attention.

“From the Sugar Loaf, which is a conspicuous point, we will glance round this beautiful marine basin, and endeavor to convey some idea of its form. The ‘Paðde-Açucar' is more than twelve hundred feet high, and bears a striking resemblance to a loaf of sugar, inclining a little to one side. Its surface is nearly smooth, of a dark, sombre color, and sprinkled here and there with little tufts of stunted bushes. It stands on the west side of the harbor, and at the entrance of the almost circular bay of Botafogo, which sweeps round towards the city as far as San Bernardo point.

"Close in the rear, the mountains are broken by deep ravines and splintered into peaks, one of which, called the Corcovado, out tops and overhangs the rest. Upon its very summit

, like an eyry perched among the clouds, is an observatory and a watch tower which may be seen at a great distance, when not hidden in the vapors that frequently shroud it.*

" Between San Bernárdo and Glória points extends a long beach, which, from having been the resort, in times past, of the gorgeously plumed flamingo, is now called . Praya do Flamingo.? On Glória point is placed, very conspicuously, a small white church, dedicated to the invocation of Nossa Senhora de Glória.' The edifice is octahedral, and has a tall slender spire at one side. The hill on which it stands is one of the most picturesque spots about Rio.

" From this point sweeps a small cove, lined by a neat row of white one story buildings that look out upon the bay, to point St. Iago, upon which stands a fortress of the same name. The next cove is short, and terminates at Cobras.' Here the city is seen over a forest of the masts of small craft, reposing under the shelter of the mountains. The • Praça de San Josè,' the Palace, and the imperial Chapels are conspicuous. The whiteness of the buildings brings the whole, like a picture, in strong relief against the dark mountain sides in the back ground.

" To the northward, the mountains rise high in slender, splintered peaks, which, from a fancied resemblance to the tubes of an organ, are called the Organ Mountains. In the same direction are seen white châteaus perched on the hills and rocks, so high as to be sometimes robed in clouds. The city itself is overlooked by two or three convents, as solemn in their appearance as the monks of their cloisters.

“On the eastern side, and nearly opposite to Rio, is a neat, quiet village called Praya Grande, which, during the season of amusement, is a place of general resort. It contains several potteries, and is famed for the quantity of fine sweetmeats, made and exported. At the southern extremity of Praya is a huge mass of rocks, which, apparently, have been thrown from the main land by some natural convulsion; upon its very summit (a most romantic situation truly) stands a church or a dwelling, accessible from the main by a short wooden bridge. From this point the beach of the placid bay of Inrufuba sweeps, almost like a circle, to fort Santa Cruz. Along the

“ According to the measurement of Captain Beechey, R. N. made after the formula of Mr. Daniel, the base of the flag staff is by one observation 2308 feet, and by a second 2306 feet above the level of the sea.'

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