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476

Varieties: Critical, Literary, and Historical.

ANTIPATHIES.-LAROCHEJAQUELEIN.

From the London Literary Gazette.

CHATEAUBRIAND.

[VOL. 2

country teeming with recollections suited to his ardent imagination; he then visitThe Journal des Maires mentions a ed Turkey, Egypt, and lastly Jerusalein, woman who is seized with horrible con- the principal object of his journey. He vulsions whenever she sees a serpent or afterwards landed on the coasts of Afria toad. It likewise tells the story of M. ca, surveyed the spot on which Carthage Charles d'Escars, Bishop of Langres, once stood, and returned home through who fell into a trance at every eclipse of Spain in 1807. Soon afterward he pubthe Moon. A more extraordinary lished his Martyrs, and in 1811 l'Itinéinstance of this kind of phenomenon is raire de Paris à Jérusalem. At last related in the Memoirs of Madame de came the time when he found himself Larochejaquelein. The sight of a squirrel enabled to express freely his hatred to produced on the intrepid Henri de Bonaparte, and his devotion to the cause Larochejaquelein all the physical effects of the legitimate monarch. It was so of fear; the hero of La Vendée could early as the beginning of April 1814, not approach this weak and innocent that these sentiments burst forth with animal without trembling. This he equal beauty and eloquence, in his book himself confessed, though he smiled at entitled De Bonaparte et des Bourbons ; his own weakness, and made useless of which a prodigious number of copies efforts to overcome it. was printed by order of government, and which had an incalculable effect on the Chateaubriand was born in 1769, at public mind. He produced, at the end Comburg, near Fougères, of an antient of the same year, a work which was refamily in Brittany. He entered the ser- markable from the prevalent supposition vice in 1786, in the regiment of Na- that an august hand had influenced its varre, and was soon afterward presented composition: it was intitled Reflexions to the unfortunate Louis XVI. The Politiques sur quelques Brochures du army having revolted at the beginning of Jour. M. de Chateaubriand had been the Revolution, Chateaubriand went appointed several months by the King to over to North America in 1790, and an- fill the place of French ambassador at imated with enthusiasm for the beauties Stockholm: but he had not departed of nature, wandered with infinite delight for that city when his Majesty was obin the immense forests of the new world. liged to go to the Netherlands at the end It may be easily imagined what a power- of March 1815. He therefore accomful impression such scenes would make panied the King, and held at Ghent the on so elevated an imagination; and it station of one of his Majesty's ministers. cannot be doubted that he owed to them The report which he addressed to the much of his singular and romantic turn. King in the month of May, on the situHe lived there two years, returned to ation of France, was made public and Europe in 1792, and, resuming ser- printed even at that time in Paris withvice, was wounded in that year by a out any impediment from Bonaparte's shell before Thionville. This accident, police. Immediately on his return, the added to severe illness, which for three King created M. de Chateaubriand a years kept him on the point of death, peer of France and Minister of State: prevented him from remaining in the ar- but he throughout shewed himself an my. He then went to England, where Ultra-Royalist, and chose to dissent he experienced all the inconveniences of from the change adopted in September poverty, but became intimate with M. 1816 respecting the mode of treating the de Fontunes, whom he had slightly revolutionary party. His publication inknown in Paris; and it was this enlight- titled De la Monarchie selon la Chorte ed writer who first encouraged him to appeared a few days after the dissolution publish his Génie du Christianisme, of the Chamber of Deputies; it was which appeared in 1802. Anxious to seized by the police; and, three days add still farther to his stock of informa- after its publication, an order was intion, he departed for Egypt in July serted in the official journal, purporting 1806, taking his route through Italy, that M. de Chateaubriand was no longer and travelling through antient Greece, a to bear the title of Ministre d'Etat.

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Translations,)

THE current was against us, and as we (From an unpublished volume of Original Poetry and came near the city (Cairo) the wind lulled almost into a calm. While we were busy at the oar, we heard some unusual sounds on

the river's side, and our watermen suddenly WHEN o'er the surface of the dark green

threw themselves on their faces, and began a prayer. A procession was seen in a few moments after, advancing from a grove of date trees at a short distance from the bank. It' was a band of Bedouins, who, in one of their few ventures into the half-civilized world of Lower Egypt for trade, had lost their Chief by sickness. The train were mounted, and the body was borne in the middle of the foremost troop in a kind of palancuin, rude, but ornamented with the strange mixture of savageness and magnificence, that we find not unfrequently among the nobler barbarians of the East and South." The body was covered with a lion's skin; a green, golden-embroidered flag waved over it; and some remarkably rich ostrich feathers on lances made the pinars and capitals of this Arah hearse. The tribe seemed not to observe our boat, though they moved close to the shore; their faces were turned to the setting sun, which was then touching the horizon in full grandeur, with an immense canopy of gorgeous clouds closing round him in shade on shade of deepening purple. The air was remarkably still, and their song, in which the whole train joined at intervals, sounded almost sweet. Their voices were deep and regular, and as the long procession moved slowly away into the desert, with their diminishing forms, and fading chorus, they gave us the idea of a train passing into eternity. I send you a translation of their song or hymn, such as I could collect it from the unclassic lips of a Cairan boatman.

UR Father's brow was cold; his eye

OUR was heavily;

Pangs thick and deep his bosom wrung,
Silence was on the noble tongue;
Then writhed the lip, the final throe
That freed the struggling soul below.
He died!---Upon the desert gale

Shoot up bis eagle shafts to sail.
He died-Upon the desert-plain

Fling loose his camel's golden rein.
He died!---No other voice shall guide
O'er stream or sand its step of pride.

Whose is the hand that now shall rear,
Terror of man, the Sheik's red spear?
Lives there the warrior on whose brow
His turban's vulture-plume shall glow?
He's gone, and with our Father fell
Thy sun of glory, Ishmael!

seas,

With gentlest motion steals the rippling breeze:
While pleasing tremors agitate my mind,
The Muse I shun, to placid ease inclin'd.
But when the whitening surge like thunder

roars,

And the curv'd wave aloft impetuous soars,
I flee the terrors of the troubled main,
And turn my eyes to fields and woods again.
Safe o'er the land I then delight to rove,
And seek the shelter of the shadowy grove;
Where the full gust a constant murmur keeps,
And through the pine's close foliage whistling
sweeps.

Evil and toilsome is the fisher's lot,
The luckless tenant of a fragile boat:
Doom'd o'er the deep to take his dangerous
way,

And oft, in vain, pursue his finny prey.
Mine be the fate to sink in calm repose,
Where a deep shade the broad-leav'd plane-
tree throws.

Near may a murm'ring fount my senses charm,
With sound so soft the rustic's breast t' alarm.

From the Monthly Review, Oct. 1817.

ANACREONTIC.

[From a volume of Poems, just published.] BY ARTHUR BROOKE, ESQ.

NELL me not how fair she seemed,

T

Nor how her glances mildly beamed,
Nor tell me how her bosom's swell
Warmly rose and softly fell,

For not on me those glances turned,
And not for me that bosom burned;
And not a sigh that heaved its snows
For me in kind remembrance rose.
But did a sympathetic flow
Equal in either bosom glow;
Did feeling with a very twine
Connect her gentle heart to mine,
Oh long, my friend, would be thy task
To answer all that love would ask.
Every changing charm desiring,
Every word, each look requiring,
On whom she bent ber melting gaze,
Who led her through the dancing maze,
What chosen wreath her temples graced,
What envied zone her form embraced,
The hue of every robe she wore,
And oh! a thousand questions more

From the Manuscript Journal of a late traveller That long indeed would be thy task

in Egypt.

To answer all that love would ask.

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NOLL, Britain, toll

Thy knell the deepest,
Peace to thy soul,

Fair Saint, that sleepest.
Veil thy valour-blazon'd throne,
Where olive rich with laurel shone,
It's glory's now with willows strown,
United nations spread them,
Cambria's triple plume of snow,
That dane'd in Joy's elastic flow,
With heavy teardrops glimmers low,
United nations shed them.

O'er Albion's bier
Mourn, while ye show'r it,
Her roses there,

Both flow'r and flow'ret.
Thistle, bend thy blossoms red;

Thy pearly dew-drops, Shamrock, shed; And, neighbour Lily, bow thy head,

With long long farewell greet her;

Drooping wail her obsequies,
Then up and bail her to the skies,
And hope another bud may sise,
But never hope a sweeter.

Oh! England's rosé
Oh! hope's presuming;
Both these and those
We're now entombing.

Mind of Freedom, heart of Worth,
To glow at Altar, Helm, or Hearth,
With all that promis'd Peace on earth,
To thee was largely given.
When on high, in happier day,
We lift the laudatory lay,
Or blessings on thy people pray,
We'll think on thee in Heaven.
Nov. 1817.

From the Gentleman's Magazine, October 1817.
THE BEE.

By Professor SMYTH.

HOU Bee! come freely, come,

[VOL. 2

From the Naval Chronicle, Sept. 1817.

We make the following extract from Phrosyne, a Gre cian Tale, from the elegant pen of H. Gally Knight, Esq. just published, and wish our limits would per mit us to give one from Alastar, an Arabian Tale, contained in the same volume, and equally inter esting.

PHROSYNE.---A GRECIAN TALE.

Ghore

RECIA! though on thy heaven-deserted The virtues rest, and Freedom smiles no more; From Paphian groves, and Piudus' beechclad head,

Though ev'ry muse and ev'ry grace be fled---
Still glow the embers of thy fun'ral pyre
With fitful heat and momentary fire;
Still from the ashes springs a passing flame,
Proof and memorial of thy earlier fame :
Last sacred rays! that grace thee once again,
And teach the muse to wake the living strain.

Thron'd on a height, above th' Albanian
lands,

The Grecian city, Callihete, stands--
Parent of hardy sons! who long withstood
The rushing torrents of the Othman flood;
And still, protected by their rocks, retain
Blessings unknown to Grecians of the plain.
No turban'd soldier, with insulting frown
Stalks thro' their streets, nor awes the trem-
bling town:

Respected still, th' unviolated right,
Grecians alone possess the Grecian height:
Still their own archons rule the little state,
Improve the laws, and guard the city's fate;
Still the loud bell, resounding thro' the air,
Proclaims the worship, and invites to pray'r
And Liberty's and Pleasure's evening ray
Still on the favour'd mountain lov'd to play.

Yearly the youthful of that hardy band, At Summer's call, desert their native land; Traders, or Sailors, o'er the neigh'bring main They rove, and brave the danger for the gain, Hence wealth is theirs, to other Greeks un

known;

Hence ampler minds, enlarged by these alone.

From the Gentleman's Magazine.

To thereford my webiny, wer; Upon a Fly that flew into a Lady's Eye, and

Delight me with thy wandering hum,
And rouse me from my musing hour;
Oh! try no more yon tedious fields,
Come taste the sweets my garden yields :
The treasures of each blooming mine,
The bud, the blossom---all are thine!
And, careless of this noon-tide heat,

I'll follow as thy ramble guides;
To watch thee pause, and chafe thy feet,
And sweep them o'er thy downy sides:
Then in a flower's bell nestling lie,
And all thy envied ardour ply;
Then o'er the stem, tho' fair it grow,
With touch rejecting, glance, and go.
O Nature kind! O labourer wise!

That roam'st along the summer's ray, Glean'st every bliss thy life supplies,

And meet'st prepar'd thy wintery day!
Go, envied go---with crowded gates,
The hive thy rich return awaits;

Bear home thy store, in triumph gay,
And shame each idler of the day!

there lay buried in a Tear.

[From an old Author-Qu. who?]

OOR envious soul! what couldst thou see

Pio that bright orb of parity?
That active globe? that twinkling sphere
Of beauty, to be meddling there?
Or didst thou foolishly mistake
The glowing morn in that day-break?
Or was 't thy pride to mount so high
Only to kiss the Sun, and die?
Or didst thou think to rival all
Don Phaeton and his great fall?
And in a richer sea of brine
Drown Icarus again in thine?
"Twas bravely aim'd, and, which is more,
Th' hast sunk the fable o'er and o'er.
For in this single death of thee
Th' hast bankrupt all Antiquity.

O had the fair Ægyptian Queen
Thy glorious monument but seen,
How had she spar'd what Time forbids,
The needless tott'ring Pyramids !

VOL. 2.]

And in an emulative chafe

Have begg'd thy shrine her epitaph?
Where, when her aged marble must
Resign her honour to the dust,
Thou might'st have canonized her,
Deceased Time's Executor ?

To rip up all the Western bed
Of spices where Sol lays his head,
To squeeze the Phoenix and her nest
In one perfume that may write best,
Then blend the gallery of the skies
With her seraglio of eyes,
T'embalma name, and raise a tomb
The miracle of all to come,

Then, then compare it: Here's a gem
A pearl must shame and pity them.
An amber drop, distilled by
The sparkling limbeck of an eye,
Shall dazzle all the short essays
Of rubbish worth and shallow praise.

Original Poetry.

We strive not then to prize that tear,
Since we have nought to poise it here.
The world's too light. Hence, hence, we cry,
The world, the world 's not worth a fly.

From the Monthly Review, Oct. 1817. SELECTIONS FROM THE IDyls of Gesner,

TRANSLATED INTO VERSE.

[Just published.]

To those who love pastoral poetry, and the whole gen. tle class of composition connected with it, these selections afford a portion of their favourite entertainment. One of the best attempts in the book is

THE NAVIGATION.

479

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For none before this peaceful vale had known,
Save such as speak the fleeting hour the
while,

Or such as summon, with their solemn tone,
The neighb'ring hamlet to yon sacred pile;

Or, haply, save some more impressive chime,
That greets the parted spirit to its home;
But ne'er before, through long-remembered
time,

Such sound as this had left yon village dome.

But hark again! it is the convict's knell,
The warning voice of death---and lo! 'tis
past;

SMOOTH glides the vessel which to distant Now child of sorrow, quit thy prison-cell,

Conveys the lovely nymph my heart adores.
Zephyr, thy freshest, fairest breeze supply:
Around the bark, young Cupids hovering fly;
If on the deck the cooling air she courts,
Sea-gods! delight her with your frolic-sports;
When her soft eyes decline upon the sea,
'Tis then, ye gods! my Zoe thinks on me!
From myrile labyrinths that fringe the coast,
Pour forth, ye birds! the strains ye love the

most,

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Thy cup of bitterness to drain at last.

A few short moments make thy life a dream,
Which the oblivious dawn hath chased away;
Yet, as the vision flies, perchance a gleam
Shall turn the coming prospect into day.

From the Literary Gazette, Nov. 15, 1817,
SIR,

If Pulci should not this week favour you with any
of his highly poetical strains, perhaps you would
have room to insert, in your interesting paper, the
first and feeble chirpings of
J. C. T.

THE sparks that shoot from Beauty's eyes
Kindle a flame within my breast,

A flame, a bright as that which dyes
The clouds, that swim along the West.
'Tis not the flame the lightning dings

In livid gleams across the skies,
Which just has time to flash its wings,
Tis not the sun's meridian blaze,
Then, in its natal moment, dies.

That dries the mournful night's pearl tears;
Scorch'd by whose hot and glaring rays,
Fair nature's face a languor wears.
Ono! this flame is clear and bright,
(And now I feel it in me burn)
More like the pure and steady light

That flows from Cynthia's silver urn.
The spark was struck by Beauty's eyes,
'Twas fann'd to flame by Beauty' breath;
Cherish'd by Beauty's love, 'twill rise
And higher burn, till quench'd by death.

480

*SIR,

Poetry. Translation of an Ancient Latin Ballad.

To the Editor of the European Magazine.

The following little poem has never before appeared in an English dress, nor indeed has the original found its way into this country-it was put into my hands by a friend, together with the Latin manu · script; and will, I doubt not, be considered a curious and interesting document by your literary readers. R.A.D----.

LA HOGUE-BYE.

THE ancient monument of La Hogue-Bye, or, as it is now more generally called, La Tour d'Auvergne, is situated in a beautifully romantic spot in the parish of St. Saviour, in the Island of Jersey, and is built upon an artificial mound of earth, raised to such a height as to be easily distinguished from the coast of Normandy, while it commands a delightful and extensive prospect of the greater part of the Island, which, from the number of orchard-grounds, has the appearance of a continued forest. The monument has been kept in a state of preservation, and the grounds tastefully laid out, and planted with a variety of beautiful shrubs.

The incidents related in the annexed little Ballad, are with some variation, grounded upon an old Latin manuscript.

HOGUE-BYE; OR

THE KNIGHT OF HAMBEYA-A Romantic Tale :

Translated from the French by R. A. D----, Esq. YON Gothic tow'r, that lifts its head

ΤΟΝ

Above the neighb'ring wood,
In sad memorial of the dead,
Records a deed of blood.

Which oft the swain will lean to hear,
With sad and downcast eye:
The nymph oft shed the tender tear,
And breathe the heart-felt sigh.
In times of ancient chivalry,

When Love and Glory reign'd,
And knights with noble rivalry
Their sacred laws maintain'd;
A dragon near this peaceful spot
Had fix'd his fell abode;
And hapless was the pilgrim's lot,
That chanc'd to go that road.
Chill horror seized the country round,
And froze the hearts of men;
As oft the mangled limbs were found
Hard by the monster's den.

At length the Knight of Hambeya came,
From ancient Neustria's shore,

The country of heroic fame,
Where dwelt our sires of yore,*
The faithful partner of his bed
Implor'd his stay in vain ;

He vow'd to lay the monster dead,
Or ne'er return again.

For fear could not the knight subdue,
At danger wont to smile;
But prompt at Glory's call he flew
To Cesaréa's + Isle,

Attended by a single page,

The dragon soon he found;
His eye-balls fired with horrid rage,
And grimly gazing round.

But undismay'd the knight advanced,
And drew his well-strung bow;
The fatal shaft unerring glanced,
And laid the monster low.

* The Island of Jersey, previous to the conquest,

composed a part of the Dukedom of Norinandy.

+ Cesarea is the ancient name of Jersey.

Now agonized upon the earth
The hissing reptile lies,
And foams, and spits his venom forth,
Atlength exhausted dies!

[VOL. 2

"May Heaven bless our gallant knight,
And grant him length of days,
Unfading honours ever bright,
And never dying praise."
Thus sang the shepherds, with delight;
But who shall tell the fate
That soon befel the hapless knight?
Who the sad tale relate?
The faithless page had long desired

His master's virtuous wife;

And with unhallow'd passion fired,
Was bent against his life.
'Twas at the silent hour of rest,
Unto his couch he crept,
And plunged a dagger in his breast,
As fearlessly he slept.

Th' assassin then, with wicked speed,
His widow'd mistress sought,
And thus disguised the horrid deed
His murd'rous hand had wrought.
«Oh! Lady fair! a dismal tale,

Alas! I'm bound to tell;
And much it grieves me to reveal
What fate your lord befel.
"Beneath a hellish monster's grasp
Your slave received his latest gasp,
The knight resigned his breath;

And well revenged his death.
"Now, lady, hear the solemn 'best
Of your expiring lord;

'Oh! bear,'---he cried.--- this last request To her my soul adored.

"Tell her, the fiend you nobly slew
That robbed me of my life;
And 'tis but to your valour due
That she become your wife." "
What terror and surprise now fill'd
The wretched widow's breast!
Her blood became with horror chill'd,
But nought her lips express'd.
At length arrived the fated time,
The nuptial garlands bloom;
Her husband, to avert the crime,
Forth issued from the tomb.
On her accustomed hour of rest
The grisly spectre broke;

And, pointing to his wounded breast,
These awful accents spoke.

"Oh! wife, the damned treacherous slave
That would thine honour stain,
Thy husband did of life bereave,
His wicked ends to gain."

He said, and vanished from her sight,
Like mists of morning grey;
But Justice with a heavenly light
Beamed forth upon the day.
Which saw the wicked traitor seized,
And to the scaffold borne,

His master's restless shade appeased,
His mistress saved from scorn.
Beneath you consecrated mound,
Raised by his weeping spouse,
The knight was laid in depth profound,
Within the narrow house.

Which ceaseless from the coast opposed
She viewed with aching sight;

Till Death at last her eye-lids closed
In everlasting night.

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