While each fringed copse beneath, and bow'r above,
Breathe the sweet notes of innocence and love.
Lo! the scene shifts, and joy is seen to fly;
And Melancholy meek, with tearful eye,
And Contemplation wrapt in thought profound,
Possess the widely-silent glooms around;
Where man awhile, sublimed from low desires,
To commune with his secret soul retires;
Thinks on the present, scans his future state,
Explores what ills, what blessings round him wait;
Or loves a retrospective glance to cast

On many a dear ecstatic rapture past;

To mark those few, those fleeting hours that smiled,
Like flowers that bloom amid a desert wild;
Those scenes of long-lamented joys to mourn,
Nay, sigh for pains that never can return.

It is indeed one of the highest provinces of the art which our poet is celebrating, so to interchange the scenery that no feeling of insipidity or ennui should be experienced. We must, therefore, carefully avoid the gay monotony of ever-smiling bowers, nor fear to introduce, as in consonancy with some of the best and most cherished feelings of the human breast, objects which may soothingly remind us of our

sorrows and deprivations; for, as our translator has well expressed it,

Who has not wept some sad, some cruel blow?

To seek, under such circumstances, for the solitude of groves and streams, is the natural wish of the mourner: and how dear a solace it must be to find nature sympathising, as it were, with our grief, and casting over the urn or tomb the protection of her holiest shade, will be readily understood by all who have ever felt the luxury of a tear which "sacred pity hath engender'd." It is with a sentiment of this kind swelling at his heart, that the poet of the Gardens exclaims,

Déjà pour l'embrasser de leurs ombres paisibles,
Se penchant sur la tombe, objets de vos regrets,
L'if, le sombre sapin; et toi, triste cyprès,
Fidèle ami des morts, protecteur de leur cendre,
Ta tige chère au cœur mélancolique et tendre,
Laisse la joie au myrte et la gloire au laurier;
Tu n'es point l'arbre heureux de l'amant, du guer-

rier

Je le sais; mais ton deuil compatit à nos peines.

Chant 4.

Already, lo! the yew and fir extend

Their mournful arms, the quiet grave to shade,
Where, whom you weep, in lasting night is laid;
And thou, sad cypress, faithful to the dead,
That o'er the dust thy guardian gloom dost spread,
The brow of conquest to the laurel leave,
And still let joy his myrtle chaplet weave:
What tho' victorious warriors scorn thy gloom,
And happy lovers brighter wreaths assume;
Dear to the sorrows of the tender soul,
The mourner's breast thy solemn shades console.

In creating scenery of this kind, however, the utmost simplicity and truth of feeling are required, lest any the smallest appearance of show or affectation should creep in to violate and destroy the sanctity of the associations which should consecrate such a spot. For what can be more disgusting, what more revolting, than to know, or even to suspect, that in a place so set apart, you behold

Urns without grief, and tombs without a tear.

The author, indeed, of the poem before us, very earnestly dissuades against any attempt at such a simulation of sorrow, recommending,.

that if you have no departed friend to whose memory you can with sincerity dedicate the expression of your regard, to call in, if your situation will admit of it, a view of the neighbouring church cemetery, where sleep the peasantry who have worked upon your estate, and been your faithful and your patient servants through life. The scene is certainly one that could not fail to excite in every humane bosom the emotions and the reflections which the bard is solicitous to awaken; and it is but justice to add, that he has enforced the suggestion in a manner which reflects the highest credit on his head and heart.

Beautiful and touching, however, as is the passage in the original, from its judicious imitation of Gray, yet must the version be pronounced superior; for it is on the ground of having occasionally introduced the very words of the Elegy, where M. De Lille has most closely copied the sentiment of the British bard, that the translator has in a note, very justly remarked, that "the passage affords an opportunity for a comparison that must necessarily end in the triumph of English poetry." It is one also

which, I may venture to say, exhibits the taste and poetical tact of the translator to the highest advantage.

"Who would blush," asks the Abbé, "to grace the humble sepulchre of the industrious cottager?" and he then proceeds to describe what had been the tenor of his lowly life.

Depuis l'aube, où le coq matinal Des rustiques travaux leur donne le signal, Jusques à la veillée, où leur jeune famille Environne avec eux le sarment qui pétille,

Dans les mêmes travaux roulent en paix leurs jours; Des guerres, des traités n'en marquent point le

cours;

Naître, souffrir, mourir, c'est toute leur histoire. Mais leur cœur n'est point sourd au bruit de leur mémoire.

Quel homme vers la vie, au moment du départ,
Ne se tourne, et ne jette un triste et long regard,
A l'espoir d'un regret ne sent pas quelque charme,
Et des yeux d'un ami n'attend pas quelque larme ?
Pour consoler leur vie honorez donc leur mort.
Celui qui de son rang faisant rougir le sort,
Servit son Dieu, son Roi, son pays, sa famille,
Qui grava la pudeur sur le front de sa fille,