his way and he found it; but it soon left him. | his political career theretofore. His mind was The principles of February were thrashed and generally soaring away upon principles, very cannonaded in the streets, in the affairs of excellent ones doubtless, when it should have March, May, and June-were imprisoned and been bent upon particulars and scheming, transported with Barbes, Blanqui, Raspail, thwarting and intriguing, like those thoroughand the rest; Cavaignac came up with a dicta- paced intellects that generally cut a figure in torial sword, and Lamartine, being neither hot the political world. nor cold, was spewed out of the general mouth, and the adventurous poet found himself again in private life. None of your scruples or refinements of soul ever thrive in the dusty and difficult arena of politics and revolution. Mirabeau will always be the man, not Lamartine; Botzaris, not Byron. But, as we were going to say, the poetry of Lamartine is characterized by an ardour and a soaring sentiment combined with great sweetness, which won for him an instant celebrity, when, in 1820, his first publication, the Poetical Meditations, appeared. He was then in his thirty-second year. The glowing and elevated sentiment of piety which pervaded this, as it pervades all Lamartine's, came gratefully upon the public mind, fatigued by the vehemence of revolution and the harassing glories of the Empire, while the vivid earnestness of the young poet affected all minds with a portion of his own enthusiasm. The first book of lyrics was his best. The praise which followed it made him somewhat giddy. His critics and the public made him proud of heart, like Edgar, "to ride on a high-trotting horse over fourinch bridges, and course his own shadow," led him, that is to say, to sing louder and soar loftier; and the consequence was, he went away into the empyrean, mostly where the generality were not so well able to follow him; and so, his interfusions of the human heart with everything transcendental were somewhat indistinct to those on the ground. Still he kept his general popularity; for, a mistiness of meaning is, at times, no detriment; things loom large through it, and the many feel like the canny old Scottish goodwife, who praised a certain celebrated preacher and said, when asked if she understood him, "hout mon, wad I hae the presumption ?" There is a pious mellifluousness in Lamartine's poetry which, like an atmosphere redolent of incense, becomes heavy on the sense, or is dissipated, losing its effect, after a time. A current of the common casing air, "a blast o' the Westlin wind," is a better thing in the long run, though it should only breathe of the beggarly elements about us. The diffusiveness of thought which belongs to Lamartine, and shows itself In many a bout Of linked sweetness long-drawn out, was very visible, also, in those political emergencies which lately beset him, as indeed in But we must confine ourselves to one or two of his poems. They shall be short, and perhaps not the best specimens of them. But his better poems are too "long drawn out" for our present purpose; for this, the Orientales and the ballads are much more suitable. The following finds a place among the finer fragments of French poetry for the combined grace and innocent piety it breathes. We hope we have been able to bring away some of the innocent piety, at least. THE CHILD'S HYMN ON WAKING. O Father, by my father worshipped, thou The sun, the brightest of all things, They say that thou hast made to live They say 'tis thou producest every flower No fruit would come upon the orchard boughs: That all the world at thy kind bidding shares The wild thyme feeds the lamb; the goat picks up The lark receives the rusty wheat-ear spoiled, And to obtain each boon O God, my mouth is lisping now That at thy heavenly footstool sing and bow. And since his ear can hear, though far away, O God! give water to the springs; Give shade and dew to make the fields be cool. Give health to make the sick man well, The bread he weeps for to the beggarman, A home unto the orphan wan, And freedom to the captive in the cell. Give a large family to bless The pious father that fears God, and then To make my mother happy;—and Amen! The next is an Elegy. But it is strongly epicurean in sentiment,-has something of the Pagan philosophy of Anacreon, Catullus, and a crowd of other Greek and Latin poets, who loved to take carpe diem for the "motto of their revelry." Yet the feeling and the idea are as old as the human heart, and poets and pensive thinkers of all ages and nations have expressed them over and over. So natural is the wish, that bards gone by Since life is evanescent let us enjoy it. Catullus, addressing Lesbia, says: Nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux, And Propertius has the same sentiment : Dum nos fata sinunt, oculos satiemus amore; and twenty other instances will occur to the reader's memory. But let us hear what Lamartine says on this head: ELEGY. Cueillons, cueillons la rose, au matin de la vie, etc. Ah! let us cull the rose, in life's young morn, By angry waves, and shipwreck seems at hand, Unfamed, unperilled, in his lowly lot, He ne'er had felt the fatal wish to rove. Thus man, beneath the weight of winters bowed, Weeps unreturning spring with vain lament; "Give me," he cries, "those hours profanely spent, "I knew not to enjoy them as they flowed." Death answers, and the deprecated fate Urges him sternly to his final scene, Nor lets him stoop to take, alas! too lateThe flowers he gathered not when time had been! O let us love, my best-beloved one! And laugh at man's dire cares; one-half his daysWhile from his truest good he blindly strays, Led by a vapoury lure,-are lost and gone. Let us not envy his vain pride and boast, Whether the laurel crown us, and our name Or Love, upon our humble brows shall set II. SOUMET. M. Soumet gives us the lyric, La Pauvre Fille, which shows how natural the ardent French genius can be. And in M. Soumet it would seem to be ardent enough. He has written a very bold and original epic poem called The Divine Epopee, and the argument of it is Hades, and its redemption by the mediation and sufferings of Jesus Christ. As Milton took the inspiration and first impulse of his Paradise Lost from some poetical and picturesque verses in the Apocalypse ("And there was a war in Heaven," &c.), so Soumet would seem to have got his idea from the Apostles' Creed, one clause of which (not inserted in it till about the sixth century) speaks of the descent into hell. Soumet makes the divine mission successful, and, in the end, Satan shows himself in heaven, a wiser if not a sadder angel. Now we must not be too hard upon this poetic heresy. It was also the belief of Origen that the devil and his angels would ultimately be saved, and he ventilated this doctrine somewhere about the third century. Origen was a large-hearted old theologue, apparently. It is curious how certain people have shown a leaning to that terrible Prince of Flies! Sir William Browne confesses he never could heartily hate the devil. Poor Robert Burns, whose heart never plagiarised from Origen, but would melt, naturally, at the fate even of "a fieldish mouse," felt for the ruined archangel: of certain professors of theology. But, to come died one of the most faithful adherents of the back to the lyric we spoke of. THE POOR GIRL. I've left the painful sleep and dreary That never, never knows one happy dream; I've come across the mountain weary, Before the sun's first beam. Waking with Nature, lo! The young bird sings upon the flowery thorn; Its mother brought it nourishment ere mornO my sad heart!-my eyes again o'erflow! O why have I no mother? Why, alas, Am I not like the young bird on the tree? Nothing of all the earth belongs to me; I had not even a cradle; for I was An infant found one day before the porch Of a poor village church. From father, mother banished, I ne'er knew The dear, dear comfort of their lost embrace; The children of the valley, too, Ne'er call me, sister, and I have no place In their gay sports of evening when they meet; The happy peasant asks me to a seat. I see his children-while I stand aloof Around the blazing vine-boughs laughing, pressing To climb his knees, as wont, for his caressing. Towards yonder hospitable church, I trace I first began my griefs-I look to find Oft in yon burial-ground so lone, My footsteps pace around among the tombs; All are alike to me-all strange, cold stoneAs little kindred finds the hapless one In burial places, as in living homes. I've mourned for fourteen springs, exiled From the dear arms that have deserted me; O mother, come! mother, I wait for thee III. CHATEAUBRIAN D. We finish, for the present, with a little lyric of Chateaubriand, showing that the solemn and melancholy Viscount, generally so full of the melodramatic loftiness of the French temperament, can speak the language of the affections with much simplicity and tenderness. Chateaubriand, as everybody knows, lived and elder branch of the Bourbons. He may have been called the Abdiel of a generally deserted cause. Beranger says of his attachment to them: Son eloquence à ces rois fit l'aumône; During his lifetime, he pawned his posthumous memoirs (which he was engaged to write), for a decent subsistence; and the copyright was held by a joint-stock company. This would seem to be a very unpoetical transaction. We believe it is also a fact, that the memoirs of his life and times, to which Beranger is devoting the last years of his existence, are, in the same anticipatory way, ministering to the comforts or necessities of the poet's old age. A curious sort of life-insurance! which, however, can only be extended to a few. Chateaubriand's lyric, "The Emigrant Mountaineer," is, in the original, a perfect bijou for its pensive grace and music. THE EMIGRANT MOUNTAINEER. O how my memory ever fondly strays Back to my birthplace, and my dwelling once! Still be my cherished love, my native shore, Dost thou remember when our mother prest, My sister, dost thou not remember thee And dost thou not remember the calm lake, Where the quick-skimming swallows used to fly? And the light breezes that would scarcely shake The reeds thereby? And the fair sunset waters, gleaming soft, O, who will give me back my Helen, dear? Still be my cherished love, my native shore, And they were lovers ere they were aware,- One day her coyness melted into love, Like a snow-flake dissolving in a cup Of fiery wine, and then her lustrous eyes Looked into his, as if to read his soul, EARTS lose the freshness and the dew of youth, Battles and bloodshed and the wrongs of men; In the lone theatres of martyred souls, With no spectators but the eye of God, And the poor actors writhing through their parts, Till the black curtain of the grave descends! There was a Poet and a maiden once, Unfathomable in their lucid depths! And when her hand touched his, a thrill intense They met one night to part.-The moon was lost He would be happy soon, she knew he would, Filled all its tablets with the one loved name! They used to study, simple strains of music, And made his soul exceeding sorrowful! And oft at midnight, when the careless world Was locked in slumber, and he sat alone, Poring on pastorals and impassioned songs, He laid his aching head upon the book And wept, and wept, until the leaves were wet As with a summer rain, and then he rose And walked the streets in bitterness of soul, Wild with his utter wo and loneliness, And questioned Nature and Eternity Until it seemed his very heart would break! What came to her I know not, but believe Her fate was but the counterpart of his; Sadder, if anything, for she endured Neglect from those who should have cherished her, And taunts because she would not wed another! And thus it stands between them; and they live In loneliness apart;-their youth has gone, And left a dark remembrance, and they feel The need of sympathy and love again, But never can be what they were before! Meantime the world is busy with its nothings, And years depart, and the great Earth rolls on, Thundering amid the spheres its ancient song, And God is watching in Eternity! "And the soldiers platted a crown of thorns, and put it on his head, and they put on him a purple robe, and said, Hail, King of the Jews: and they smote him with their hands. "Then came Jesus forth, wearing the crown of thorns."-JOHN xix. 2, 5. "Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows."-ISAIAH liii. 4. |