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noticed and quoted in other periodical works, we shall pass on to his last Messenienne on the death of Lord Byron, which seems scarcely yet to have reached this country. It commences with allusions to the well-known attempt of the Northern Review to crush him, and the noble Lord's vengeance:

“ Par de lâches clameurs quel génie insulté

Dans son obscurité première,
Changea plus promptement et sa nuit en lumière,

Et son siècle en posterité ?" In continuing to celebrate the foibles and the misfortunes of the bard, he takes an opportunity to offer a piece of very necessary advice to his brethren;

“Poëtes, respectez les prêtres et les femmes,

Ces terrestres Divinités !

Comme dans les célestes âmes,
L'outrage est immortel dans leurs cours irrités.
Un temple qu'on mutile, a recueilli Voltaire:
Vain réfuge, ct l'echo des foudres de la chaire,
Que le prêtre accoutumé à maudire un grand nom,
Tonne encore pour chasser son ombre solitaire

Des noirs caveaux du Panthéon."
He then addresses Byron in verses of great truth and force:

“ Victime de l'orgueil, tu chantas les victimes

Qu'il immole sur ses autels ;
Entouré de debris qui racontaient des crimes,

Tu peignis de grands criminels.
Rebelle à son malheur, ton ame indépendante
N'en put sans désespoir porter le joug de fer;

Persécuté comme le Dante,

Comme lui tu rêvas l'enfer." M. Delavigne seems to imagine, with that obliquity that always seems to haunt the minds of party-poets, that England persecuted Lord Byron, that she banished him, used him very cruelly, &c. But this is merely an excuse to scold. After a very beautiful paraphrase of Byron's celebrated comparison between Greece and a dead female ; he follows it up:

“ C'est la Grèce, as tu dit, c'est la Grèce opprimée,

La Grèce belle encore, mais froide, inanimée;
La Grèce morte!..... arrête, et regarde ses yeux;

Leur paupière longtemps fermée,

Se rouvre à la clarté des cieux.
Regarde: elle s'anime : écoute: sous ses chaines

Son corps frémit, et s'est dressé ;
Ce pur sang, que le fer a tant de fois versé
Pour se répandre encore bouillonne dans ses veines;

Son front qui reprend sa fierté,
Pâle d'un long trépas, menace et se relève,

Son bras s'allonge, et cherche une glaive;

Elle vit, elle parle, elle a dit. Liberté !" We shall conclude our notice of M. Delavigne with his concluding stanzas to our lost poet:

“Il n'est plus ! il n'est plus ! toi qui fut sa patrie,

Pleure, ingrate Albion : l'exil paya ses chants,
Berceau de ses aieux, pleure, antique Neustrie,

Corneille et lui sont tes enfans.
Tyrans, pleurez; vos nuits, qui vengent l'innocence,

Coutaient moins tristement quand vous lisiez ses vers.
“ Pleure, esclave ; son luth consolait ta souffrance,

Son glaive aurait brisé tes fers !"
“ Les Grecs le vengeront, ils l'ont juré ; la gloire

Prépare les funèbres jeux:

Qu'ils vont offrir à sa mémoire ;
Qu'ils marchent, que son cæur repose au milieu d'eux,

Enséveli par la victoire.
Alors avec le fer du croissant abattu

Ils graveront sur son dernier asile:

“O mort! que ne l'espargnais-tu ?

Il chantait comme Homère, il fut mort comme Achille."
“ Ah! quels que soient les lieux par son tombe illustrés,
Temple de la vertu, des arts, de la vaillance,
Dont Londres est fière encore et qu'a perdu la France ;
Son ombre doit s'asseoir sous tes pavois sacrés.
Westminster, ouvre toi ! levez vous devant elle,

De vos linceuls depouillez les lambeaux,
Royales Majestés ! et vous, race immortelle,
Majestés du talent, qui peuplez ces tombeaux !
Le voilà sur le seuil, il s'avance, il se nomme-
Pressez vous, faites place à ce digne héritier-
Milton, place au poëte! Howe, place au guerrier!

Pressez vous, rois, place au grand homme!"

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SOMEBODY blaming metrical translations, I believe Cowper, says that translating in verse is like dancing in fetters; and that therefore the looser the links are made, the more graceful is the motion. This was said to recommend blank verse translations. I differ altogether; if I must dance in fetters, let them jingle.

But putting this pun out of the question, and a poor pun it is, it has always struck me that blank verse translations are apt, from the comparative easiness of their metre, to fall into something like plain prose; and that the necessity of rhyme makes the translation, when well done, so much more carefully done, as to resemble better an original poem, than otherwise. Moved by these considerations, and others which there is no need of mentioning, I have done into Spenserian (the most rhyme-demanding of all our stanzas,) the pleasant little mock Homeric poem of the “ Battle of the Frogs and Mice;' and with it the Homeric hymn to Pan, it is not worth any body's while on this occasion to squabble about authenticity,) treated in a similar fashion.

In the Batrachomyomachia I have retained the Grecian names of the warriors, though I know Goldsmith's objection to it; viz., that we lose the burlesque effect arising from the significancy of their humble denominations. I think, however, that we gain another piece of burlesque comicality in the imposing grandeur of the sound applied to such tiny combatants. Potempter may be droller than Embasichytros, but the latter is more magnificent in sound;

and the drollery of the former is, to our ears at least, more like that of Æsop's Fables, than of an epic poem. I agree with Southey's remark to the same effect in his preface to Amadis, where he assigns as a reason for retaining Beltenebros in his text untranslated, that nobody ever thinks of calling St. Peter, Stone the apostle, though the name was avowedly significant. Lord Thurlow, not the present, but the chancellor, has translated the names in his version of the Battle of the Frogs and Mice.' In giving the Greek names, I trust I have escaped the barbarous unprosodaical pronunciation of Parnell.

I do not recollect ever having seen any part of Homer in Spenserian verse, except a fragment of the fourteenth book of the Iliad in Blackwood's Magazine,' about four years ago; nor indeed in any other stanza, except the hymn to Mercury, so admirably translated by Shelley ; and a few detached passages of the Iliad, by a youg writer, who has since realized all the promises of his boyhood, as a poet and a scholar.



Into my soul, * fair Heliconian train,
Enter, and fill me with your tuneful quire!
For on my knees my tablets have I ta’en,
To heap them full of strife and tumult dire;
Hear, sons of men ! while with poetic fire
I sing how mice the frogs in fight withstood,
Performing deeds of valour in their ire,

That mock'd the achievements of the giant brood :-
As Fame the story told, thus rose the deadly feud :-

A thirsty mouse, escaping from a cat,
Dipp'd his soft whisker in a neighbouring lake;
Him, while upon its verdant marge he sat,
With its sweet stream his panting thirst to slake,
A croaking native of the pool bespake,
" Who art thou? what thy race? whence hast thou come,
Reply with truth, no fraudful answer make,

For I shall lead thee to my royal dome,
If worthy of my love-and make my house thy home.'


“ I am the king Physignathus, whose sway

Is own'd through all these waters, high and low;
Me, as their rightful lord, the frogs obey,
And to my sceptre long have loved to bow.
Peleus, the prince to whom my
Wedded his bride Hydromedusa fair,
In amorous transport on the banks of Po;

Thee too, thy vigorous form and lordly air
A sceptre-bearing chief, and warrior tried declare.”

birth I owe,

* Enov ntog. Lungs, I believe, would express what the poet meant; but I am afraid that in these days we cannot ask the muses there.

So spake the frog. Psicharpax answered “ Why
Dost thou inquire my lofty lineage, known
To those who dwell in heaven-in earth-in sky-
To gods—to men- to birds—to every one ?
Psicharpax is my name,—and I am son
Of old Troxartas, most magnific mouse,
And sweet Lychomele, who shares his throne,

The pride of Pternotractas' regal house,
Who in a darksome cavern bore me to her spouse.

“ She nursed me up with fond maternal care,

And in soft luxury my youth was bred;
Feasted was I on dainties rich and rare,
On figs, and nuts, and cates, delightful fed:
But how can we, Physignathus, who tread
Such different paths, in social concord meet;
You where the lakes their glassy mansions spread

Live mid the waters, while to me 'tis sweet
To dwell with lordly man, and what he eats I eat.

6. To me no dainty morsel is unknown,

Not thrice-baked bread in rounded platter laid-
Not wide spread cake with sesamé bestrown-
Not livers rich in snow-white fat array'd-
Not slice from gammon cut with trenchant blade
Not pudding, food for gods immortal fit-
Nor new-pressed cheese from milk delicious made,

Nor aught sage cooks prepare, whose learned wit Lines the capacious pot with many a luscious bit.

“ Nor from the slaughterous combat do I flee,

But bear me bravely in the foremost fight;
Even man himself, vast though his stature be,
Fills not my dauntless bosom with affright.
Into his very bed I march by night,
And seize with nibbling tooth his heel or toe;
He slunibers on, unconscious of the bite,

Nor dreams how near, how desperate is his foe: Two living things alone can fill my heart with woe,

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