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By empire, by misfortune sacred made,
Queen, source of nations, mother of the dead!
Not only of those noble sons the pride,

Whom thy green age hath nourished at thy side,
By thy foes cherished, envied, while betrayed,
The home of greatness is thy mighty shade!
The mind that from antiquity would claim
The vanished forms of liberty and fame-
The spirit meek that greets a purer day,
Scorning the world's vain gods of vulgar sway,
That seeks an only altar, loftier still,
For one true God, supreme, invisible--
Both, both, with bitter tenderness and trust
Hail thee their mother-worship thee in dust!

The winds that snatch the relics from thy tomb,
To jealous eyes profane the holy gloom;
From every turf the peasant's plough divides,
Some glorious shade the rude invasion chides;
In thy vast temple, where the God of love
Reigns o'er the fallen shrines of Pagan Jove,
Each mortal, while he breathes its sacred air,
Feels it belongs to all who worship there!

Each tree that withers on thy mountains stern,
Each mouldered rock, each desecrated urn,
Each floweret bruised on monumental stone,
Each fragment smote from ruins moss o'ergrown,
Strikes to the nation's heart a painful sound,
As from the scythe of time a deeper wound!
All that obscures thy sovereign majesty
Degrades our glory in degrading thee!
Thee misery only renders doubly dear;

Each heart bounds at thy name! each eye a tear
Pours for thy fortunes! From a brilliant heaven
Thy sun to thee his glowing light hath given;
The very sail that rides thy swelling seas,
When thy far borders greet the welcoming breeze,
Conscious and fluttering at some high command,
In homage bends to touch thy sacred sand!

Widow of nations! long, ah! long be thine
The deep respect which makes thee thus divine!
The trophies of past grandeur, great though vain,
Which at thy feet in Rome's proud dust remain!
All that is thine, even ruin, consecrate!
Nor envy those who boast a brighter fate:
But, as imperial Cæsar, sped to death,

In royal mantle wrapt, resigned his breath,

Whate'er a future destiny decree,

Be thy proud robe immortal memory!

What reck'st thou who the laurelled crown may wear?
No future e'er can with thy past compare!

“L'Homme" is the title of a poem addressed to Lord Byron, who seems to have been far from being pleased with it, especially with the expression "chantre des enfers," as applied to him; fearing that he should go down to posterity in the version of some stupid translator as a "hellish singer." None can question, however, the sincerity of the homage paid by Lamartine to

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 particularly in the eagle floating on self-poised wing in the abyss of heaven-the wind-harp pouring its melodies to the night breezethe 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 silent chords to harmony. Thus in a verse from L'Esprit de Dieu.

"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

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'œil 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 Quarterly 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 "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;—

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:

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 clóven 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.

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.

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 sometimes 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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