ing of poetry. Even their rugged nomenclature becomes flexible to the will of the hand who possessed a peculiar power of bending the French language to his purpose, while he preserved all its grace and harmony.

Thus a new situation combined with the general progress of modern improvement and discovery to make Delille a greater poet, in spite of his political prejudices, and almost against his will. He would have been satisfied to look at what could be seen of nature by a poet's eye, through the narrow casements of a gothic castle; but he was borne down the torrent-stream of the Revolution, and his muse was forced to walk abroad amidst scenery of more extensive beauty and sublimer grandeur.

There belongs to Delille's character a moral excellence which cannot be passed unnoticed, and that was his stedfast adherence to his principles. He was called, in the eloquent language of M. de Chateaubriand, "le courtisan de l'adversité;" and he has been celebrated also for his unshaken fidelity by a young poet now no more, Charles Loyson*, who has joined with the name of Delille that of the venerable poet and patriot Ducis, the translator of Hamlet and Macbeth. Ducis braved far longer than Delille the power of Buonaparte; refused all his gifts, and honours, the red ribbon, and the place of senator, and acquired the title of the last of the Romans. The following are the lines of Charles Loyson: "Voyez-vous ce tyran? la foule en vain l'encense, De Ducis, de Delille, il entend la silence,

Qu'il soumette à ses loix l'Europe, et l'Univers, De leur muse inflexible il n'aura pas un vers." Those who have passed through the various phases of a revolution know how to appreciate the virtue of independence.' +

We

This young poet died not long since, of a consumption. His last composition, a farewell to life, is entitled "Le Jeune Poète au Lit de Mort," where he laments his untimely fate in a strain of beautifully plaintive verse. I shall transcribe a few of the

stanzas.

"Couvrez mon lit de fleurs, couronnez-en ma téte;

Placez, placez ma lyre en mes tremblantes mains ;
Je salarai la mort par une hymne de féte;

Vous, de mes derniers chants répéter les refrains.
"Mais quel trouble s'élève en mon ame affaiblie?

Pourquoi tombent soudain ces transports généreux ?
Mes regards, malgré moi, se tournent vers la vie,
Et ma lyre ne rend que des sons douloureux.
"Malheureux que je suis! je n'ai rien fait encore
Qui puisse du trépas sauver mon souvenir !
J'emporte dans la tombe un nom que l'on ignore,
Et tout entier la mort m'enlève à l'avenir!"'

It must be acknowledged that the fine arts too often follow the impulsion of power. Of this the first exhibition of painting

at

We have thus far ventured to digress from our poetical text without fear of responsibility; inasmuch as our task is rendered lighter by the circumstance, before mentioned, of many of the poems contained in this volume having previously made their appearance. These having come under our notice on their first publication, and requiring no farther comment, will leave us at liberty to attend to such as are wholly new; which, though not equal, in many instances, to the earlier pieces, bear indisputable marks of poetical power of a very pleasing kind, if not, as we before observed, of the highest order. As a proof of this being the case, it will, perhaps, be sufficient to allege the fact, that one of Miss W.'s earlier effusions was really mistaken by the judicious biographer of Robert Burns for a song written by the Scotish poet, and actually published as such in the collection of his works. Our readers may accept, as a specimen of these poems,

THE TRAVELLERS IN HASTE;

Addressed to T. Clarkson, Esq., in 1814, when many English arrived
at Paris, but remained a very short time.
'Lov'd England! now the narrow sea
In vain would sep'rate France and thee:
May fav'ring zephyrs swell the sail
That wafts the crowd my wishes hail !
Strangers to me, they hither roam,
But English accents speak of home;
And Scotia, still more dear to me
Are those which lead me back to thee!
Accents that wake with magic powers
The spirits of departed hours!

Ah, lost to me thy fir-clad hills,

The music of thy mountain-rills,

Yet ever shall the mem'ry last,

"Pleasant and mournful" of the past.

But here from scenes so new, so strange,
Where meditation long might range,
And taste might fix her ardent eye,

How swift the rapid travellers fly!

at the Louvre, after the Restoration, furnished a striking evidence. We had been accustomed to see nothing but battles on every canvas, and the figure of Napoleon ever in the foreground of the piece. But suddenly" all pomp and circumstance of war" disappeared; the snows of Wagram stained with blood melted away; the fields of Austerlitz and Jena sunk from the horizon; and marshals, soldiers, cannon, precipices, camps, and broken bridges, were all swept into one common ruin. The walls were crowded with Madonas and processions, and not one single warrior fixed the eye but the good Henry the Fourth, always dear indeed to the French, and to whom they have never forgotten their allegiance.'

What

What haste to come, what haste to go,
Unknowing half they wish to know;
Delighted as they rush along,
But not less eager to be gone.
In vain the arts unfold their gates,
For there no stranger ever waits;
In vain unlock that wealth sublime
Immortal genius wrests from time :-
Ah, wherefore ope the classic book,
For those who have no time to look?
Who 'midst the academic bowers,
On Breguet call to mark the hours;
Through the long gall'ry swift advance,
And judge perfection with a glance!
But to what class does he belong
Who comes less eager to be gone,
And yet inflexibly refuses

To heed the arts, or court the muses?
The groups that press to give th' "Apollo"
A parting glance he scorns to follow;
In vain the "Venus" may expect
One look, and wonder at neglect;
For Clarkson slights all forms of beauty,
Not that he thinks indiff'rence duty,
But dearer pleasures fill the space
Of classic charms, and attic grace:-
He comes at this decisive hour
In pity's cause, to plead with power;
His embassy is from the slave,
His diplomatic skill to save!

He comes the fetter'd to unbind,

To stipulate for half mankind;

And when applause records his name,

Sighs that philanthropy is fame.'

We select one other example, of a different kind.

HYMN, WRITTEN AMONG THE ALPS.

Creation's God! with thought elate,

Thy hand divine I see

Impressed on scenes, where all is great,
Where all is full of thee!

'Where stern the Alpine mountains raise
Their heads of massive snow;

Where the sharp rock the chamois treads,
Or slippery summit scales;

Or where the whitening snow-bird spreads
Her plumes to icy gales :

♦ Where the rude cliff's steep column glows
With morning's tint of blue;
Or evening on the glacier throws
The rose's blushing hue:

Or where by twilight's softer light,
The mountain's shadow bends;
And sudden casts a partial night,
As black its form descends:

• Where the full ray of noon alone
Down the deep valley falls :
Or where the sunbeam never shone
Between its rifted walls:

Where cloudless regions calm the soul,
Bid mortal cares be still,

Can passion's wayward wish controul,
And rectify the will:

• Where midst some vast expanse the mind,
Which swelling virtue fires,
Forgets that earth it leaves behind,
And to it's heaven aspires :

Where far along the desart air
Is heard no creature's call:
And, undisturbing mortal ear,
The avalanches fall:

Where rushing from their snowy source,
The daring torrents urge

Their loud-toned waters' headlong course,

And lift their feathered surge:

• Where swift the lines of light and shade Flit o'er the lucid lake:

Or the shrill winds its breast invade,
And its green billows wake:

10

Where on the slope, with speckled dye

I

The pigmy herds I scan:

Or soothed, the scattered Chalets spy,
The last abode of man:

Where red the mountain-ash reclines
Along the clifted rock;

Where firm the dark unbending pines
The howling tempests mock:

'Where, level with the ice-ribb'd bound,
The yellow harvests glow;

Or vales with purple vines are crown'd
Beneath the impending snow:

Where the rich min'rals catch the ray,
With varying lustre bright,

And glittering fragments strew the way
With sparks of liquid light:

'Or where the moss forbears to creep,
Where loftier summits rear
Their untrod snow, and frozen sleep
Locks all the uncolour'd year:

In every scene, where every hour
Sheds some terrific grace,

In nature's vast o'erwhelming power,
Thee, Thee, my God, I trace!'

Several more pieces of a religious nature are inserted; viz. another Hymn, and Paraphrases on Psalm lxxiv. 16, 17., on Isaiah, xlix. 15., on Matthew, vi. 4. and vii. 22. We observe also two or three feeling compositions addressed to the descendants of a deceased sister.

哩

Perhaps, the poetic character of Miss W. is already too well known to receive much elucidation, or addition, from the accompanying specimens afforded by her later effusions; which, whatever positive degree of merit they may possess, would suffer from a comparison with some of her earlier pieces. This, however, is a sort of parallel on which we feel the same reluctance to enter that we should experience in instituting an inquiry into the changes, varieties, and apparent inconsistencies of political opinion, in which this lady is said, of late years, to have involved herself. On this head, it will be enough to admit that, from the very singular and unexpected course of events in France, as great a diversity and opposition of sentiments must arise; and Miss W. may have had reason at different times to express different views and expectations, by which she became undeservedly exposed to a certain degree of obloquy or suspicion. For ourselves, we can readily account for her enmity towards Bonaparte, without accusing her of tergiversation: - we can even forgive her for hailing the restoration, with the constitutional charter of Louis le Désiré, as a prospect of better things, until he proved a deceiver and an oppressor: - but we cannot so easily

account