THIS elegant volume is from the pen of the charming Improvisatrice, a young lady who has acquired, and, what is more creditable to her talents, retained a high and deserving reputation, despite of the extravagant and injudicious flattery which her first effusions were doomed to meet. Coming from the pen of a young and talented female, they required no other recommendation to a British public, to insure a successful reception. However, such of her friends, to whose surveillance (as the fair author herself expresses her sense of their kindness) the volume was ushered into the world, in their anxiety to promote its success, were nearly the means of effectually depriving it of what it so richly deserved, by exciting expectations which, with all its beauties, it could not realize. Were we not aware of the contrary being the case, we should have suspected the following delicate and touching description of a youthful poet's disappointment to have been indebted to a higher origin than the mere fancy of its depicter :

I know not whether Love can fling

A deeper witchery from his wing

Than falls, sweet Power of Song, from thine.
Yet, ah! the wreath that binds thy shrine,
Though seemingly all bloom and light,

Hides thorn and canker, worm and blight.
Planet of wayward destinies,
Thy victims are thy votaries!
Alas! for him whose youthful fire
Is vowed and wasted on the lyre,—
Alas! for him who shall essay
The laurel's long and dreary way!
Mocking will greet, neglect will chill
His spirit's gush, his bosom's thrill;
And, worst of all, that heartless praise
Echoed from what another says.
He dreams a dream of life and light,
And grasps the rainbow that appears
Afar all beautiful and bright,

And finds it only formed of tears.
Ay, let him reach the goal,-let fame
Pour glory's sunlight on his name,—
Let his songs be on every tongue,

And wealth and honours round him flung:
Then let him show his secret thought,
Will it not own them dearly bought?
See him, in weariness, fling down
The golden harp, the violet crown;
And sigh for all the toil, the care,
The wrong that he has had to bear;
Then wish the treasures of his lute
Had been, like his own feelings, mute;
And curse the hour when that he gave
To sight that wealth, his lord and slave.

It is not our intention to go through a systematic analysis of this captivating poem: we shall prefer laying before our readers the flowers

* The Troubadour, and other Poems, by L. E. L., author of "The Improvisatrice." London: Hurst, Robinson, and Co., 1825.-pp. 326.

that most have pleased us, to the task of dissecting the whole nosegay. It may be necessary, however, to mention, that "The Troubadour" relates to the life of a young hero, and is descriptive of the deeds in which all heroes excel-love and war, as well as being characteristic of the chivalrous period (the fourteenth) in which the incidents occur. The prefatory advertisement informs us, that the poem is founded " on an ancient custom of Provence, according to which a festival was held, and the minstrel who bore away the prize from his competitors was rewarded, by the lady who presided, with a golden violet. The following beautiful picture forms the opening.

Call to mind your loveliest dream,—

When your sleep is lull'd by a mountain stream,
When your pillow is made of the violet,
And over your head the branches are met
Of a lime-tree cover'd with bloom and bees,
When the roses' breath is on the breeze,
When odours and light on your eyelids press
With summer's delicious idleness;

And upon you some shadowy likeness may glance
Of the faery banks of the bright Durance;

Just where at first its current flows

'Mid willows and its own white rose,

Its clear and early tide, or ere

A shade, save trees, its waters bear.

The sun, like an Indian king, has left
To that fair river a royal gift

Of gold and purple; no longer shines
His broad red disk o'er that forest of pines,
Sweeping beneath the burning sky,

Like a death-black ocean, whose billows lie
Dreaming dark dreams of storm in their sleep

When the wings of the tempest shall over them sweep.
-And with its towers cleaving the red:

Of the sunset clouds, and its shadow spread
Like a cloak before it, darkening the ranks
Of the light young trees on the river's banks,
And ending there, as the waters shone
Too bright for shadows to rest upon,
A castle stands; whose windows gleam
Like the golden flash of a noon-lit stream,
Seen through the lily and water-flag's screen:

Just so shine those panes through the ivy green,

A curtain to shut out sun and air, "
Which the work of years has woven there.
-But not in the lighted pomp of the west,
Looks the evening its loveliest:

Enter yon turret, and round you gaze
On what the twilight east displays;
One star, pure, clear, as if it shed
The dew on each young flower's head;
And, like a beauty of southern clime,
Her veil thrown back for the first time,
Pale, timid as she feared to own
Her claim upon the midnight throne,
Shows the fair moon her crescent sign.
-Beneath, in many a serpentine,
The river wanders; chestnut trees
Spread their old boughs o'er cottages,
Where the low roofs and porticoes.
Are covered with the Provence rose.

And there are vineyards, none might view
The fruit o'er which the foliage weaves;
And olive groves, pale as the dew

Crusted its silver o'er the leaves.
And there the castle garden lay,
With tints in beautiful array;

Its dark green walks, its fountains falling,
Its tame birds to each other calling ;
The peacock with its orient rings,
The silver pheasant's gleaming wings;
And on the breeze rich odours sent
Sweet messages, as if they meant
To rouse each sleeping sense to all
The loveliness of evening's fall.—
That lonely turret, is it not

A minstrel's own peculiar spot?
Thus, with the light of shadowy gray,
To dream the pleasant hours away.

Our author has been accused of depicturing too exclusively the softer and more delicate feelings of the heart, in preference to its more powerful energies. How far this may be the truth, we will not decide; but will produce the following animated description of a youthful warrior's feelings, as evidence that it is not the want of the necessary power which has been the cause of the preference.

And waning stars, and brightening sky,

And on the clouds a crimson dye,
And fresher breeze, and opening flowers,
Tell the approach of morning hours.
Oh, how can breath, and light, and bloom,
Herald a day of death and doom!
With nightly pennons, which were spread
Like mirrors for the morning's red,
Gather the ranks, while shout and horn
Are o'er the distant mountains borne.
'Twas a fair sight, that arm'd array
Winding through the deep vale their way,
Helmet and breast-plate gleaming in gold,
Banners waving their crimson fold,

Like clouds of the day-break. Hark to the peal
Of the war-cry, answer'd by clanging steel!
The young chief strokes his courser's neck,
The ire himself had provoked to check,

Impatient for that battle plain

He may reach but never leave again;
And with flashing eye and sudden start,
He hears the trumpet's stately tone,
Like the echo of his beating heart,

And meant to rouse his ear alone.
And by his side the warrior gray,
With hair as white as the plumes that play
Over his head, yet spurs he as proud,

As keen as the youngest knight of the crowd:

And glad and glorious on they ride

In strength and beauty, power and pride.

And such the morning; but, let day
Close on that gallant fair array,
The moon will see another sight
Than that which met the dawning light.
Look on that field,-'tis the battle field!
Look on what harvest victory will yield!

There the steed and his rider, o'erthrown,
Crouch together, their warfare is done :
The bolt is undrawn, the bow is unbent,
And the archer lies, like his arrow, spent.
Deep is the banner of crimson dyed,
But not with red of its morning pride;
Torn and trampled with soil and stain,
When will it float on the breeze again ?—
And over the ghastly plain are spread,
Pillow'd together, the dying and dead.
There lay one with an unclosed eye
Set in bright, cold vacancy,

While on its fix'd gaze the moonbeam shone,
Light mocking the eye whose light was gone;
And by his side another lay,

The life-blood ebbing fast away,

But calm his cheek and calm his eye,

As if leant on his mother's bosom to die;
Too weak to move, he feebly eyed

A wolf and a vulture close to his side,
Watching and waiting, himself the prey,
While each one kept the other away.

Little of this the young warrior deems
When, with heart and head all hopes and dreams,
He hastes for the battle.-The trumpet's call
Waken'd RAYMOND the first of all:

His the first step that to stirrup sprung,
His the first banner upwards flung;

And brow and cheek with his spirit glow'd,

When first at DE VALENCE's side he rode.

The quiet glen is left behind,

The dark wood lost in the blue sky;

When other sounds come on the wind,

And other pennons float on high.

With snow-white plumes and glancing crest,

And standard raised, and spear in rest,

On a small river's farther banks,

Wait their approach Sir HERBERT's ranks.-

One silent gaze, as if each band

Could slaughter both with eye and hand.

Then peals the war-cry! then the dash

Amid the waters! and the crash

Of spears, the falchion's iron ring,

The arrow hissing from the string,

Tell they have met. Thus from the height

The torrent rushes in its might;

With the lightning's speed, the thunder's peal,

Flashes the lance, and strikes the steel.

Many a steed to the earth is borne,

Many a banner trampled and torn;

Or ever its brand could strike a blow,

Many a gallant arm lies low ;—

Many a scarf, many a crest,

Float with the leaves on the river's breast.

And strange it is to see how around,

Buds and flowers strew the ground,

For the banks were cover'd with wild rose trees;-

Oh! what should they do amid scenes like these! In the blue stream, as it hover'd o'er,

A hawk was mirror'd, and before

Its wings could reach yon pine, which stands
A bow-shot off from the struggling bands,

The stain of death was on the flood,

And the red waters roll'd dark with blood.-

RAYMOND'S spear was the first that flew,
He the first who dash'd the deep river through;
His step the first on the hostile strand,

And the first that fell was borne down by his hand.
The fight is ended :—the same sun

Has seen the battle lost and won ;

The field is covered with dying and dead,

With the valiant who stood, and the coward who fled.
And a gallant salute the trumpets sound,

As the warriors gather from victory around.

Had we any doubts, in our own minds, that feeling was the source of poetic inspiration, we think that they would be dissipated by the beautiful passage which closes "The Troubadour,”—a passage which, while we admire its exquisite pathos, we cannot help regretting the melancholy event through which it owes its origin.

My task is done, the tale is told,
The lute drops from my wearied hold.
Spreads no green earth, no summer sky,
To raise fresh visions for my eye?
The hour is dark, the winter rain
Beats cold and harsh against the pane,
Where, spendthrift like, the branches twine,
Worn, knotted, of a leafless vine;
And the wind howls in gusts around,
As omens were in each drear sound,-
Omens that bear upon their breath
Tidings of sorrow, pain, and death.
Thus should it be,-I could not bear
The breath of flowers, the sunny air
Upon that ending page should be,
Which ONE will never, never see.
Yet who will love it like that one,
Who cherish as he would have done,
My, father! albeit but in vain
This clasping of a broken chain;
And albeit, of all vainest things
That haunt with sad imaginings,
None has the sting of memory;
Yet still my spirit turns to thee,
Despite of long and lone regret,
Rejoicing it cannot forget.

I would not lose the lightest thought

With one remembrance of thine fraught,—
And my heart said, no name but thine
Shall be on this last page of mine.

My father, though no more thine ear
Censure or praise of mine can hear,
It soothes me to embalm thy name
With all my hope, my pride, my fame,-
Treasures of Fancy's fairy hall,-
Thy name most precious far of all.

My page is wet with bitter tears;
I cannot but think of those years,
When happiness and I would wait,
On summer evenings, by the gate;
And keep o'er the green fields our watch,
The first sound of thy step to catch;
Then run for the first kiss, and word,-
An unkind one I never heard.

But these are pleasant memories,
And later years have none like these: