Until, for very sympathy With the unfathomed mystery, That goblet wrought to a rare device But mocked them with its frozen wine, Till they were numb of the dusky ice. And then a voice within me said, From the tumult of this heart? Knowst thou not that mightier river, Is a human heart that can bear no more?" That goblet wrought to a rare device And then in sorrow and shame I cried, THE CITY ROSE TO THE WILD ROSE. BY SARAH ROBERTS. THE wild bee brought your message, Just at the peep of day, Tapping, buzzing at my window, Then gaily flew away. I thank you, fair young sister, But 'twould break my heart to roam, So many, many love me, In my dusty city home. You tell of fresh green meadows, Of upland, hill, and glade, Of the many merry sisters, And the still and pleasant shade; You say we'll have sweet music Shall do my bidding every day, You say I must be lonely, That you tremble for my health, That the fresh and fragrant breezes Are worth the city's wealth; But could you see the fair young girl You'd say how happy was my lot, There are but few to love her, She'll weep when I am dead; Wild sister, who will weep for you When winter bows your head? She opes the window early, To toil till day is done; And when she rests her weary hands, And drops a tear on me, And cheer her gratefully. The children, poor and wretched, My gentle mistress seemeth ill, Where sombre willows wave, A NIGHT WITH THE LATER FRENCH LYRIC POETS. BY WILLIAM DOWE, ESQ. LATE CONTRIBUTOR TO THE DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE, ETC., ETC. Ir is a fact that it is with the inferior por- | siping amiability in sharing it, which may be tions of French literature we are most exten- fairly set down to his account. And it sively acquainted in a popular way. Everybody has read the high-flavoured novels and stories of Sue, Dumas, Dudevant, De Kock, and the rest of that school-very clever and very talented-but dashed and blended with the melodramatic and the extravagant to an unwholesome degree. Suiting the tastes of the many, the publication of their works is a good speculation, and hence the facility with which English-speaking people are introduced to them. For these reasons of trade, acting in a circle, the better literature of our sister republic is comparatively unappreciated. may naturally be a received impression, therefore, that the literature of modern France is an affair of sentiment and passion, chiefly champagne and gunpowder-in keeping with the social and political character the people there have earned, for all sorts of exciting and terrible things. However true this idea may be to the nature of the "literary lower empire" we have spoken of, it is a mistaken one, as regards modern French literature. In the departments of History, Poetry, Ethics, and Science they exhibit qualities and tendencies as excellent as those of any other literatureancient or modern. Perhaps of these denominations French Poetry is that which is least appreciated by foreigners. The robust and massive elements of prose are more easily transfused than the subtile and unaccommodating spirit of poesy-racy on its own soil, and evaporating, in a more or less degree, in a strange atmosphere. And this is the case when verse is even well translated. An intimacy with a language-not a mere knowledge of it is necessary to comprehend it; and then there are the equivalent parallel thought, tone and word to be premised. Nevertheless, though these are good reasons why foreign poetry cannot necessarily be so favourably or generally appreciated as prose, they are not always conclusive against the wish to appropriate what is another's, which would seem to be an instinct, and to animate human nature, from Queens, Kings, and Presidents, down to translators and others, whom we scruple to name along with such respectable people. But it is difficult for a man to keep the knowledge of a good thing to himself; and there's a gos Who can behold the ripened rose nor seek though it may afterwards wither in his handling. In the following we would merely presume to indicate some of the more sparkling fountains of French literature-directing to them the attention of our young and intellectual readers, that they may "better the instruction," and in the way of reading and study, enjoy what a certain old king-we forget his nameoffered a reward for,- -a new pleasure. Glancing along the array of French poetry, the eye is first attracted by the picturesque muse of Victor Hugo-Baron Victor Hugo. We and tournaments-the goblins, wizards, herald- "the Saint Bartholemew of the privileged, is at home among the courts, castles, cathedrals, orders," as Burke called it. So, he has been forced (Hugo, not Burke) to put his patent in his pocket for awhile-like Mozart, who on his way through the piebald principalities of Germany used, after his father's prudent advice, to hang out his Pope's Cross in some places, and put it up in others. However, things have already taken a turn in Francein Paris, at least and Victor Hugo may shortly exhibit his patent at his button-hole if he likes that is, if he may not actually do so as affairs stand in that republic of a year. Matters there are getting on à reculons, and some more restorations would seem to be in the wind. Victor Hugo is prouder of his title, we believe, than of the authorship of Nôtre Dame. In this he resembles Lord Byron, (who considered an old English Baron the first of dignities-even when no longer a schoolboy)—and, must we add, Sir Walter Scott? Yes; for with that healthful Cervantic mind of his so like Chaucer's in many of its features-Scott would rather be rated as descendant or kinsman of the cattle-stealing chief of Harden, than the man who drew Jeannie Deans, and the Jewess, Balfour of Burley, and the Baron of Bradwardine. And we may remark how much Scott resembles Shakespeare, in one particular-if not in others. Both were thinking more of building houses for themselves and their families, than of that edifice of immortality which the world has inherited in their names. Shakespeare, in one of his Sonnets written after he had made money as a stage-manager, complains of the degradation and loss of respectability he endured by writing and acting plays! How unlike Milton in this respect, who put himself under a solemn course of intellectual training, before he strode prepense upon the epic stage, and challenged a renown that the world should not willingly let die! Congreve, who also made his literature a subordinate consideration, was rebuked by Voltaire for his affectation, while it was probably no affectation, but a truth of character now countenanced by loftier examples. Perhaps there is something after all in that preference for high station, and that looking back to feudal times and pretensions, if philosophy would but hunt it out. It may be these great intellects have not exhibited such tendencies for nothing. But, as we were saying, Victor Hugo is proud of his countship; it suits his name, which has something Merovingian in it. He has long been at the head of what the French have called, by a rather loose kind of nomenclature, the romantic school of poetry, contradistinguished from the classical. His genius, certainly, like that of Scott, exhibits a strong leaning to the chivalrous period of society, and Howe'er it be, it seems to me And simple faith than Norman blood. We will pursue this digression no longer, but there may be something more than fancy in it. Coming to Victor Hugo:-he is one of the first of French lyric poets, not the first. His fame will rest less upon his Notre Dame, a work truer to its Gothic details and the distinctives of a historic period than to human nature and probability (in this far inferior to Sir Walter Scott), less upon his dramas, which are more remarkable for a certain pomp of style and imagery, and an exaggeration of character, than for the sweet touches of humanity which make Shakespeare akin to the whole world-than upon his lyrics. Though he does not think so himself, probably; for, with a wonderful self-delusion, he fancies he could be to Shakespeare what Napoleon was to Charlemagne. But his lyric poetry gives him celebrity enough. In this he seems to run through all modes of the lyre, and be master of them. In 1822, being twenty years old, he published his Odes and Ballads. In his Odes he showed himself a legitimist-the poet of royalty and the denouncer of Napoleon. That did not hinder him, however, from worshipping the memory of the buried Emperor afterwards, and in a very little time, too! His father was a General of the Empire. But his mother was a royalist, and her sentiments early impressed the mind of the young poet, giving one more instance of the truth of Napoleon's saying, that the mother greatly influences the character of the child. The Ballads contain some sweet pieces, breathing the simple spirit of the earlier times of knighthood and the troubadours-such as Ecoute-moi Madelaine, and La Fiancée du Timbalier. The last is as follows. There has been a good deal said about translation-from Horace down; we think a man has the best chance of doing his victim justice who gives him as literally as possible. Horace advises a free translation; that is very good when your translator is equal to the original-a Shelley, a Coleridge, or a Hunt. But we have been much struck with a certain opinion of Chaucer's -to wit: "Whoso shall tellen a tale after a man, He muste reherse as nigh as ever he can, Everich word, if it be in his charge, All speke he never so rudely and so large;" and so in the matters following, we have observed this fine-hearted old troubadour's advice, as much as possible. THE CYMBALIER'S BRIDE. My lord, the Duke of bold Bretagne, Barons were there whose blazons bold To Aquitaine he went away, Looked quite a captain-one would say— Since then, distracted by my fear, I've ceaseless prayed our kind St. Bride, To send his guardian-angel here To watch that wandering cymbalier For ever by his side. I've bid our Abbot pray a prayer For all our valiant soldiers gone, And to repay his holy care I've burned three waxen tapers fair St. Gildas' shrine upon. Our Lady of Loretto, too, I've promised her, right sore distressed, To wear, this dreary absence through, Under my 'kerchief, hid from view, The scallop on my breast. No token came to soothe my wo, To-day he will return, I trow, The Duke returns and brings, elate, His torn and honoured banner here: Maidens, come stand beneath the gate, To see his Highness pass in stateAnd my bold cymbalier. Come, see his charger harnessed gay For this day's noble pageant, bound Beneath his rider with a neigh, And toss his proud head all the way, With purple feathers crowned. Maidens, you dress too slowly, come To see my soldier-love advance; His cymbals will strike gaily home, And mingled with the rolling drum, Make every bosom dance. Come, see him, too, so proudly wear The mantle by my fingers drest; My true-love, he will look so fair, And like a chief with lofty air, Bear his steel cap and crest. A gipsy woman yesterday Behind a pillar called me near, And said-may Heaven her weird gainsay!- Truce to sad thoughts!-come, come along! Now two and two the host comes by; And first the pikemen, stout and slow; Next, under pennons flaunting high, Barons in cloaks of silken soy And caps of velvet go. Then priests in chasubles; then prance The heralds on their steeds of white, While on their tabards they advance Their master's proper cognizance Emblazoned there aright. Next rides the Templars' dreaded van, The Duke! the Duke! his banner borne The captive standards battle-torn She said her eager glance was thrown O'er all the train in trembling haste; Then in the careless crowd, alone, Senseless she sank, with dying moan, The Cymbaliers had passed! In his Orientales, Victor Hugo exhibits most of that glowing imagery and graceful pomp of versification which particularly distinguish his writings. He says he got the inspiration of them one evening while looking at a beautiful sunset. But if he was looking at a sunset, he should have originated Occidentales. Passing this by, we believe that his youth, spent in Spain and familiar with the architectural remnants, literary notices and traditions of the Moorish occupation, left on his mind impressions which afterwards revealed themselves. The Orientales, in fact, only refer to European scenes and characters-in Spain and part of Turkey. When we consider that they were published before he was twenty-five years old, we must hold a high opinion of Victor Hugo's poetical genius. The sentiment of these lyrics is generally true to the scene and character of their subjects, and there is a warm glow of mingled romance and orientalism in them, which took the public after the manner of Byron's and Scott's splendid poetic fragments and narratives, in English-speaking land. But with a difference. The latter possess an irregular power-a fluent energy contrasting with the sentimental polish and point of the French lyrics. It is curious that, under a general view, this poetry of the Anglo-Saxon temperament should exhibit itself in narrative and movement, while the lively, subtle Gauls should diffuse themselves in the psychological and moral affections:-one would have inferred the very contrary. At all events, Victor Hugo has set forth the sentiment of his Orientales, in a very graceful and attractive manner-" painted and chiselled" as he says himself-making them very difficult of rendering. truth and simplicity in the following: ADIEU OF THE ARAB HOSTESS. There is Puisque rien ne t'arrête en cet heureux pays, etc. Since nought in our fair clime can woo thy stay— The loving bosoms of our gentle maids Adieu, white man! my hands have girt for thee, Still thou wilt roam:-why art thou not of those Perhaps, if it had pleased thy wandering thoughts, And chanting a soft song to soothe thy rest, Weave a light fan of greenest leaves to keep The wayward insects from thy cherished sleep. But thou wilt go, lone journeying night and day, With ever watchful glance; thy horse's hoof Striking the sparkles from the rocky way, While on thy lance, extended high aloof, The demons of the night will blindly hit Their ghastly wings and rend them as they flit. If thou return, come o'er yon far dark hill, But shouldst thou not-ah! sometimes think upon O, young white man, upon thy rapid way, Adieu! thy path lies straight; avoid the sun That gilds the brown, but burns the white man's brow, And our wide wastes impassable, and shun The old and withered beldame, bending low; And those that with their white mysterious wands In the dim eve make circles on the sands. Coming back to the Morisco ground of Spain, Victor Hugo finds himself at home in a Gothic ballad. A MOORISH ROMANCE. Don Rodrigue est a la chasse, etc. Rodrigo to the chase is gone, But sword or corslet bears he none; The summer's day to noon has rolled, And now, beneath the green wood tree, On shady sward reposes heReposes Don Rodrigo bold. His heart with hate is burning sore; Him to encounter, hand to hand, Appeared a stalwart horseman tall. "Christian or Moor, whate'er thou be, Sir Knight, beneath the greenwood tree, God keep thee in his hand alway”— "Now Christ his grace and benison Be thine, Sir Knight, that wendest onThat wendest on the public way" "Christian or Moor, whate'er thou be, A true knight's or a felon's crest"— "If it imports thee to be told, Know, I am Don Rodrigo bold, Rodrigo of De Lara's race; |