It is too laboured and lofty to be the offspring of real passion; and was, I believe, written by a person who thought more of himself than of his mistress.

My love is lovely in her smile of light,

Beautiful smile! that, like the sun in May,

Makes the sweet landscape look more purely bright-
Light, frolic spirits, innocently gay,

Wait on her steps, and chase my cares away.

My love is lovely in her awful frown,
Dashing the intoxicating cup from me,

Which else my thought too soon had deem'd my own,
And in her high and matchless dignity,
Quelling each glance too passionately free.
But loveliest is my love, when spirit shaken
By years of patient, meek humility,
One softer thought will in her breast awaken,
And down there steals a tear of sympathy,-
Ah happy he whose love that tear shall dry!
So the relenting snows, long bound by frost,
In noontide beams their apathy resign,

Free and uncheck'd, no more their motion cross'd,
Melting and mingling hasten to combine-
So mingled be our hearts, sweet Valentine!

The next is of so threatening a kind that I think I have understood the poor wight, who, with a mixture of feigned bravery and real cowardice, penned it, and who well knowing that his mistress suspected him, did not venture to appear before her till the month of May following. I hope I shall not be thought to break my pledge of secrecy when I hint he was very favourably received, considering the offence given.

I must sigh-for thy joy is iny sadness;

I must weep-for my grief is thy gladness;
And mourn-for thy mirth is in mourning,
O'er vanish'd hopes, never returning ;—
Yet, lady, bethink thee, my sorrow
Thus nobly begotten may borrow
A grandeur, a deathless renown,
Unperishing, bright as thine own:
Then smile, or immortal shall be
The frown now impending o'er me.
Smile, lady; thy beauty shall fail thee,
No more shall its radiance avail thee,
If the wrath of the Poet assail thee.
Smile, proud one! or tremble before me,-
To rapture and blessing restore me,

Or, throned on the seat of the scorning,
I'll place thee, the fickle one's warning-
And maidens shall see, and beware

Of the bitter revenge of despair!

The next is from a poor melancholy witling, who really loved love, because it added to his stock of romantic musings. If his lady had smiled upon him, it would infallibly have broken the charm, and his heart also. But from this catastrophe he was happily delivered. He has not unaptly pourtrayed his feelings in these lines, and therefore I select them from among a dozen more appropriate to the occasion.

Poor Primrose! that through covering snow
Peep'st forth the morn to greet,
Why fairer than the Rose art thou?
Than summer flowers more sweet?
Why, ask'st thou? Doth not Nature still
In man thus wayward prove?
Must she not charge the cup with ill
Ere aught he finds to love?

And has not Love, by fortune's blast,
By storms, by perils tried,

And more than conqueror proved,-at last
'Mid smiles and sunshine died?
Yes! thou that liv'st on Hope, believe
That Hope is man's true bliss-

No brighter joy hath Heaven to give,
No fairer flower than this.

It is said that the sweet air of "Rousseau's Dream," to which all our poets, now-a-days, have a song, was first imported into this country twenty-two years ago, and that the first English words ever written to it were in the form of a serenade from a lover to his betrothed on the morning of Valentine's day. If this be true, my readers will, no doubt, thank me for laying before them a copy of these lines.

Health to thee, mine own sweet lady!
Health and blessing, first and last!
Now may Heaven, all bounteous, aid me,
Round thy path new spells to cast.

Blessed be thine early morning!

Blessed be thine evening close!

Bless'd thy going and returning,
Summer hours, and winter snows.

Not to thee, all undeceiving,
Pure of spirit, frank of heart,
Shall the Muse, her fictions weaving,
Act the faithless flatterer's part.
Win and wear thy prize, sweet lady!
Faith as true, as pure as thine;
Love and service ever ready
From thy well-known Valentine.

B.

SONNET.-FRANCESCO REDI.
"Era 'l mio animo rozzo e selvaggio."

My mind was like a rugged soil that lay
With thick and cloudy darkness overspread,
Which chilling skies and iron seasons made
A sterile waste, with their ungentle sway.
Warm'd in the light of Beauty's genial ray,
Its icy bands were loosed, its rigour fled,
And many a budding flow'ret rear'd its head,
As blooms the meadow in the prime of May.
Then came Love's gentle summer breath, to form
Flowers into fruit: and soon his fostering care
Had to a golden Autumn led the way ;—
But ah! fell Jealousy's untimely storm
Stirr'd by my lovely foe, soon fill'd the air,
And swept the harvest of my hopes away.

CASANOVA'S VISIT TO VOLTAIRE.

(Concluded from page 178.)

ACCORDING to my promise I went to dine with Voltaire on the following day, and met the Duke de Villars. He had just arrived at Geneva to consult the celebrated physician Tronchin, who had some years before saved his life. I said very little during dinner, but afterwards Voltaire entered into a conversation with me about the constitution of Venice; he knew that I was dissatisfied with the government; I nevertheless disappointed his expectations. I endeavoured to convince him that no country in the world enjoyed greater liberty than Venice. Perceiving the subject was not agreeable to me, he took me aside, and went with me into his garden, of which he styled himself the creator. When we came to the extremity of a long avenue, close to a running water, "This," said he, "is the Rhone, which I send to France." He at the same time directed my attention to the beautiful prospect he had of Geneva and Mont Blanc.

He afterwards began a conversation upon Italian literature, and evinced great ingenuity and much learning; but his conclusions were generally erroneous: I however allowed him to enjoy his opinion. He disagreed with me on Horner, Dante, and Petrarch. His judgment of the works of these great men is well known. He could not refrain from writing exactly as objects represented themselves to his own mind, and this has greatly injured him in the public opinion. I contented myself with merely replying, that if these great men had not really deserved the admiration of all who had studied them, they would not have acquired the high reputation which they still maintained.

The Duke de Villars, and the celebrated Tronchin, had in the mean time joined us again.

Tronchin was tall, well formed, obliging, eloquent without being talkative, a profound naturalist, a man of genius, and, as a physician, a favourite pupil of Boerhaave. He was entirely free from the talkativeness and quackery of the inferior class of his profession. He expected the cure of his patients chiefly from a proper regimen; but to determine this, a man must be an accurate and philosophical observer.

The exterior of the Duke de Villars, then governor of Provence, attracted my principal attention. When I contemplated his figure and demeanour, I fancied I saw a woman of sixty years of age in men's clothes, who, though now lean, shrunk, and feeble, might have been handsome in her youth. His copper-coloured cheeks were painted with rouge, his lips with carmine, his eye-brows black, and he had artificial teeth and hair. A well-scented pomatum kept the curls close to his head, and a large nosegay, fixed in the uppermost button-hole of his coat, reached to his chin. He affected the amiable man in every thing, and spoke so affectedly and lispingly, that it was difficult to understand him. He was, in other respects, polite and condescending, but all his manners were of the taste prevalent in the time of the Regency. I accompanied Voltaire into his sleeping-room, where he changed his wig, and the little cap he used to wear under it as a preservative against rheumatism. On his writing-table lay several Italian poets, and among others, the "La Secchia rapita" of Tassoni. "This," said he, "is the only tragi-comic poem Italy possesses. Tassoni was a monk,

and united with learning a taste for the belles-lettres. As a poet he is not without genius."

C." His talent as a poet, I will not dispute, but I will not allow that he was a learned man. He derided the system of Copernicus, and maintained that neither the theory of the moon's phases, nor that of the eclipses, could be established upon it."

V. "Where has he made so foolish an assertion?”

C. "In his 'Discorsi Academici.'"

V. "I do not possess them, but I will procure them." Voltaire then wrote down the title, and continued,

V." Yet Tassoni severely censures your Petrarch, and I conceive justly." C. "This has done as little honour to his scientific mind and taste, as it has to that of Muratori."

V. "There he is!-you will surely acknowledge his profound erudition." C. "Est ubi peccat.'

Voltaire now took me into a room and shewed me a number of parcels, amounting perhaps to a hundred. "This," said he, "is my correspondence. You see here nearly fifty thousand letters, which I have answered."

C. "Do you keep copies of your answers?"

V. "Of a great many of them. I keep an amanuensis for that purpose." C. I know booksellers who would give you a high price for these trea

sures.

V. "Be on your guard with the booksellers, should you ever publish a work; but perhaps you have already published something?"

C. "I will begin when I am older."

I then quoted a macaronic strophe from Merlin Cocci.*
V. "What is that?"

C." A strophe of a celebrated poem of twenty-four cantos."
V. "Celebrated?”

C." At least deserving to be so, which is still more. must be master of the dialect of Mantua."

But to enjoy it, one

V. "Oh! I shall understand it: pray procure it for me."

C. "To-morrow I shall have the honour of presenting it to you, and of begging your acceptance of it."

V. "You will oblige me much."

We were now called to join the company, and two hours passed away in social conversation. The great poet shone and entertained the whole circle. He was constantly applauded, although his satires were sometimes very severe. He always laughed at them himself, and most of the company joined him. It was impossible to keep a better house than Voltaire did. In fact he was the only person who gave a good dinner. He was then sixty-six years of age, and had an annual income of 125,000 livres. Those who assert that he became rich by taking an unfair advantage over the booksellers are mistaken, The booksellers, on the contrary, acted unfairly towards him, except only the Cramers †, whose fortune he made. He gave them his works as a present, and thus promoted their circulation. During my stay with him, he sent them his "Princess of Babylon," a charming tale, which he wrote in three days.

The next day I sent Voltaire an epistle in blank verse, which cost me more trouble than if I had written it in rhyme. I at the same time enclosed to him the poem of Theophilus Folingo, which was wrong, I ought to have foreseen that it would not please him. Voltaire did

A kind of burlesque poetry of the Italians, interspersed with popular expressions, to which Latin or other foreign terminations are given.

+ At Amsterdam.

not make his appearance at dinner; but the presence of Madame Denis was a sufficient compensation. She had read much, and to a refined taste she joined a sound judgment, without being arrogant. She greatly admired Frederic II. Voltaire entered the room about five o'clock with a letter in his hand. Addressing me,

V. "Do you know the senator Marquis Albergati Capocelli, of Bologna, and the Count Paradisi?"

C. "I know Paradisi: and by report and his reputation, I know Albergati: he, however, is not a senator: he is only a member of the Forty' of Bologna, of which there are fifty!"

V." Bless me! You tell me a riddle!"

C. "Do you know him?"

V. "No! but he announces that he sends me the dramatic works of Goldoni, Bologna sausages, and a translation of my Tancred. He intends to pay me a visit."

C. "He will not come. He is too wise for that."

V. "Too wise! How so? But certainly it is a folly to visit me!"

C. "For Albergati, it certainly is. He well knows how much he must lose by it. At present he deceives himself, and he rejoices in the high opinion which he thinks you have of him. But if he visits you, he may be sure you will be able to judge of his abilities with accuracy, and then farewell illusion. He is otherwise a gallant cavalier, who spends his six thousand ducats a year; but he has the theatrical mania. He is a good actor, and has written some comedies in prose, but they make nobody laugh."

V. "Your recommendation of him is good. But as to his being one of the forty,' of which there are fifty! How is this to be understood?"

C. "Just in the same way as it is understood, that in Basil it is noon at eleven o'clock."

V. "I understand you: in the same way as your senate of ten consists of fifteen members."

C." Yes: but with the damned forty in Bologna it has another meaning." V. "Why do you call them damned?”

C. "

They are not subject to the fiscus. They therefore commit all crimes for which they have an inclination, and then leave the country, that they may spend their income without being disturbed."

V. "That is not a damnation: it is a redemption.-But to return to our former subject; Albergati is certainly a learned man,"

C. "He knows his native language and writes well; but he tires his readers, for he is too fond of hearing himself. Conciseness is entirely foreign to him, and he has but little genius."

V. "He is an actor, you say?"

C. "An excellent one, when he performs his own pieces, and when he plays the parts of lovers."

V. "Is he handsome?"

C. "On the stage he is, but not when seen near. He has an unmeaning face."

V. "But his pieces please."

C. "By no means. If they were understood, they would be hissed."

V. "What do you think of Goldoni ?"

C. "He is our Moliere."

V. "Why does he call himself the poet to the Duke of Parma ?"

C. "Because he delights in a title. The duke does not know any thing of it. For the same reason he calls himself an advocate; because it is in his power to become one. He is a good writer of comedy, and that is all that can be said of him. All Venice knows that I am his friend. He never shines in company: he is extremely tiresome, and as soft as a penny-roll."

V. "Exactly in the same sense they have written to me concerning him.