Reflect that they must stretch their legs,
And bundle out, and stir their pegs,
Or else, as sure as eggs are eggs,
Their masters strict and wary
With rattling bells will overhaul 'em,
Or, may be, rise themselves to call 'em
Up with a sesserary!—

Pendent on dyer's pole afloat,
Loose pantaloon and petticoat

Seem on each other's charms to doat,
Like lovers fond and bland:
Now swelling as the breezes rise,
They flout each other in the skies,
As if conjoin'd by marriage ties
They fought for th' upper hand.-
Beneath with dirty face and fell,
Timing his footsteps to a bell,

The dustman saunter'd slowly,
Bawling "Dust-O!" with might and main,
Or humming in a lower strain,
"Hi-ho, says Rowley!"-

Now at shop-windows near and far
The prentice boys alert

Fold gently back the jointed bar,
Then sink the shutter with a jar
Upon the ground unhurt;
While some from perforated tin
Sprinkle the pavement with a grin
Of indolent delight,

As poising on extended toe,

Their circling arm around they throw,
And on the stony page below

Their frolic fancies write.

What poems praised and puff'd, have just
Like these kick'd up a mighty dust,
But wanting the impressive power
To stamp a name beyond the hour,
Have soon become forgotten, mute,
Effaced, and trodden under foot!-

In future communications I shall send you some more tid-bits from our feast of intellect; but, as we have a meeting this evening to ballot for the admission of Miss Caustic the apothecary's daughter, (whom I mean to blackball,) I have only time to add that I have discarded my baptismal name of Harriet, as inappropriate and unclassical, and shall henceforth acknowledge no other appellation than that of Hebe Hoggins.

H.

NOUVELLES MESSÉNIENNES, PAR M. CASIMIR DELAVIGNE. NOTWITHSTANDING the violence of party spirit in France, which on every question of domestic policy, causes ruinous and paralyzing divisions among the people, the Greeks have found in that country an almost unanimous feeling of sympathy for their sufferings, and admiration of their courage. A miserable faction, who, themselves slaves by nature, would willingly see their whole species consigned to slavery, may raise its intolerant and pestilent breath against the noble struggle; --but such petty opposition is overpowered in the invocations uprising from every generous heart, for death to the Infidel, and liberty to Greece.

The Muses of several European countries have already saluted, with their songs of hope and joy, the devotion and the success of a regenerated people. France has not been silent during this enthusiastic chorus; and a young poet, already distinguished in various branches of his art, now joins his strain to those which echo at this moment through the civilized world. M. Delavigne, known to our readers as the author of two successful tragedies, "Les Vêpres Siciliennes" and "Le Paria," had already produced some short poems of considerable originality, and highly popular, as well from their merit as from their subject, which was the recent misfortunes of France. Those pieces were named by their author Messéniennes, the title of the songs of grief poured forth over the sufferings of his country by a Messenian in the "Voyage d'Anacharsis." We shall not stop here to debate the propriety or good taste of the title thus chosen by M. Delavigne for his patriotic effusions. It is something so refreshing to see novelty and vigour of thought connecting themselves, in any shape, with the monotony of French verse, that we hail their appearance with delight even in the title of a new production-and we are therefore inclined to pardon a little bizarrerie, even should it make itself evident in the more consequential pages which follow. To relieve himself from the solemnity of his theatral triumphs, M. Delavigne has composed these new Messéniennes, to which title the best two have rather a better claim than their predecessors, being inspired by the ills of Modern Greece. The other is connected with a subject of no less interest-the debasement and servitude of Italy.

M. Delavigne possesses talents at once flexible and fertile ; but notwithstanding their unquestioned developement in his two tragedies, his merit is probably more incontestable as a lyric writer. It is when poetic feeling, gracefully imagined, must be expressed with energy-when the effervescence of genius claims immediate and vigorous utterance that the success of this author is most certain. The management of a sustained and complicated work seems a labour to him, which he surmounts indeed, but evidently with pain:-an ode or an elegy flows from his pen without effort-we might almost say without fault. Lyric poetry loves to create-originality seems its necessary impulse-and it is of that above all others that we may say, what Burke applies to poetry and eloquence in general, " their business is to affect rather by sympathy than imitation, to display rather the effects of things on the mind of the speaker, or of others, than to present a clear idea of the things themselves." The Messéniennes of M. Delavigne

are good illustrations of this position. They are really lyric choruses, to which the interest of narrative is frequently joined. They present us with lively and varied images-brilliant lines-and eminently what the French call verve. It does not, however, appear to us that the author has attained in these new productions that blended tone of warlike and religious enthusiasm, which was most striking in his former pieces, particularly in the Elegy on the Battle of Waterloo, commencing

thus

"Ils ne sont plus, laissez en paix leur cendre."

The first of the present poems is the simple and touching recital of an incident related in the travels of M. Pouqueville. A young priest, alive to the oppression of his country, is seated one evening in his bark close under the walls of Coron, and mournfully sings, to the accompaniment of his lute, a pious hymn composed on the miseries of Greece. The Turkish sentinel who keeps watch on the ramparts hears the melancholy sounds, distinguishes the young Christian in the twilight, seizes his musquet, levels with an unerring aim, and pierces the youthful priest to the heart. His father, who had passed the night in watching for his return, finds at daybreak, on the borders of the gulf, his lute struck by a bullet and faintly stained with blood. He dares not express his griefs in the view of the murderer of his child, and retires weeping from the fatal scene. This subject is susceptible of much interest, and we think the poet has succeeded in its expression. Our readers will receive a double pleasure in the following passage, from the beauty of M. Delavigne's versification, and the tacit homage which he pays to our countryman Lord Byron, in having borrowed his exquisite and wellknown lines," "Tis Greece, but living Greece no more," &c.

Au bord de l'horizon le soleil suspendu,

Regarde cette plage, autrefois florissante,

Comme un amant en deuil, qui pleurant son amante,
Cherche encore dans ses traits l'éclat qu'ils ont perdu,
Et trouve, après la mort, sa beauté plus touchante.
Que cet astre, à regret, s'arrache à ses amours!
Que la brise du soir est douce et parfumée !

Que des feux d'un beau jour la mer brille enflammée !—
Mais pour un peuple esclave il n'est plus de beaux jours.

The sun, suspended o'er the horizon's plane,
Looks on those shores-the pride of other years-
As some lorn lover, seeking through his tears
The brilliant charm of her he mourns in vain,
But which in death more lovelily appears.
How sad the bright orb sinks below the waves!
How soft the night-breeze blends its rich perfume
With rays, that tinge the seas in roseate bloom-
But warm nor lighten not a land of slaves!

The force and beauty of the concluding thought (we refer solely to the
original, for we are aware of the injustice done it in our feeble imitation)
repays the unacknowledged debt for that which precedes it; and in the
following extract, there is a life and spirit of poetic painting, that half
excuses the plagiarism with which the catastrophe winds up.
The pious and patriotic Greek concludes his hymn-

O Dieu! la Grèce, libre en ses jours glorieux,
N'adorait pas encor ta parolle éternelle;

Chrétienne, elle est aux fers, tend ses bras vers les cieux:
Dieu vivant, seul vrai Dieu, feras-tu moins pour elle
Que Jupiter et ses faux dieux ?"

Il chantait, il pleurait, quand d'une tour voisine
Un Mussulman se lève, il court, il est armé.
Le turban du soldat sur son mousquet s'incline,
L'étincelle jaillit, le salpêtre a fumé,

L'air siffle, un cri s'entend-L'hymne pieux expire.
Ce cri, qui l'a poussé? vient-il de ton esquif?
Est-ce toi qui gémis, Lévite? est-ce ta lyre
Qui roule de tes mains avec ce bruit plaintif?

"O God! when Greece in glory's day was free,
She worshipped not thy all-eternal word.-

Christian-in chains-her arms are raised to thee!-
And wilt thou, true and living God, afford
Less aid than Jove, and each false deity?"
Singing he wept; when to the neighbouring walls
A Moslem soldier, armed and ardent, springs-
His turban towards his levelled musquet falls-
The flint is struck-the whistling bullet rings-

A cry resounds-the pious strains expire!

Whence comes the cry?-from whom that dying tone?
Is 't thou, ill-fated Greek?-Is that thy lyre

Which falling blends with thine its plaintive moan?

We need not remind the reader of modern French poetry of the fine passage in the tragedy of "Les Templiers," so highly extolled by Madame de Stael, where the author, after having described the valorous Chevalier singing in the middle of the flames, makes the personage commanded to suspend the execution exclaim

“Il n'était plus temps-les chants avaient cessé.”

The second Messénienne is entitled "Parthénope et L'Etrangère,' and is not only in execution a bold specimen of animated composition, but in conception a truly brilliant and original idea. Liberty, pursued by the confederate kings of the earth, demands an asylum within the walls of Naples, the ancient Parthénope. She is received-the people are excited by her presence to the most unbounded transports-and nothing is breathed but enthusiasm, valour, and devotion to her

cause.

Ils s'écrièrent tous d'une cominune voix

"Assis sous ton laurier que nous courons défendre,
Virgile, prends ta lyre et chante nos exploits;
Jamais un oppresseur ne foulera ta cendre!”—

Ils partirent alors ce peuple belliqueux,

Et trente jours plus tard, oppresseur et tranquille,
Le Germain triomphant s'enivrait avec eux
Au pied du laurier de Virgile!

Sing, Virgil," they cried, in a chorus of joy,

"Our exploits on thy lyre, while the foemen we spurn;

Thy fame to defend, 'gainst the tyrants we fly,

And we swear that they never shall rifle thy urn!"—
They are gone, but the flame of their warlike boast
In a short month subsides into vapour and fume-
When, linked with the victors, the recreant host
Lie drunk at the basement of Virgil's tomb!

In these lines we have rather imitated, than given a literal version of the original; and the passage is a fair specimen of the spirit of the whole, which is altogether so dramatic-so intrepidly dashed off-so unlike French poetry, commonly so called-so wide of les règles-that it somehow touches our sympathy more than its fellows, though, as a piece of French composition, decidedly inferior to them.

In the third Messénienne the poet contrasts the former glories of Greece with its subsequent (we cannot say its present) debasement; and takes a far, yet natural, flight into the realm of ancient fable, and of a history, where the miracles of patriotism and courage appear to us almost as apocryphal as the mythology with which they are joined. The hope of seeing the memory of the past inspire the present sons of Sparta and Athens, was a fine impulse to the genius of the poet, who has not, however, allowed his brilliant imagination to seduce him from those touches of simplicity and tenderness, so fitting to the melancholy tone of his subject. In recalling the remembrance of those treasures of which nature has been so prodigal in the beautiful clime he celebrates, the author execrates the tyranny by whose empoisoned breath they have been withered; and apostrophising the Eurotas, on the banks of which he observes the laurel-rose in bloom-as if in mockery of their slaveryhe exclaims:

C'en est fait, et ces jours que sont-ils devenus,
Où le cygne argenté, tout fier de sa parure,
Des vierges dans ses jeux caressait les pieds nus,
Où tes roseaux divins rendaient un doux murmure,
Où rechauffant Léda, pale de volupté,

Froide et tremblante encore au sortir de tes ondes,
Dans le sein qu'il couvrait de ses ailes fécondes
Un dieu versait la vie et l'immortalité ?
C'en est fait, et le cygne, exilé d'une terre
Où l'on enchaîne la beauté,

Devant l'eclat du cimiterre
A fui comme la Liberté.

'Tis o'er ;-the glorious days are past and gone,
When, in his plumed pride, the silver swan
Caressed with sportive grace the virgins' feet,
The while thy magic reeds gave murmur sweet-
Or, warming pale voluptuous Leda's breast,
As tremblingly she left thy chilling flood,
Within her bosom, to his soft wings pressed,
Immortal life was poured by Nature's God!
'Tis o'er ;-and far from this degraded land,
Where bending beauty droops her captive head,
Before the flashing sword and fiery brand

The exiled swan, like Liberty, has fled.

These (the original once more) are certainly fine lines; and with them we conclude our notice of this little work, to which we should not probably have devoted so much space, had not its subject been connected with all that is inspiring to the lovers of Justice and Freedom; and did not the perils and persecutions surrounding these glorious birthrights of mankind make them want the aid of every advocate-and more particularly that of talent and enthusiasm.