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ter Adam, cabinet-maker of Nevers, might be aptly placed against the English shoemaker. At this moment, J. C. Jouvenot, a working locksmith, has just published two volumes of poems, comedies and tragedies, Reboul, baker of Nimes, has addressed to a mother these stanzas of poetic and touching inspiration :
L'ANGE ET L'ENFANT.
Un ange au radieux visage,
“Charmant enfant qui me ressemble,
Disait-il, oh! viens avec moi :
“Là, jamais entière allégresse ;
souffre de ses plaisirs ; Les cris de joie ont leur tristesse ; Les voluptés ont leurs soupirs.
"Eh ! quoi ! les chagrins, les alarmes,
Viendraient troubler ce front si pur,
“Non, non, dans les champs de l'espace
Avec moi tu vas t'envoler;
Et, secouant ses blanches ailes,
Pauvre mère, ton fils est mort.
Here are some lines by a clerk in the post-office at Poligny :
ELEGIE AUX MANES DE MARIE GRAND.
Son aurore était belle; elle était à cet âge
Elle tendit les bras, et nos cæurs s'enlacèrent ;
THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.-KNOX.
I HAVE just named Hogg, the last cottage-poet of the three kingdoms: I shall now say a few words concerning the last Muse of the British palaces, to show how everything dies in this age of death. The princess Charlotte of England has sung the beauties of Claremont, by applying to them these lines of an eminent poet :
To Claremont's terrac'd heights and Esher's groves, Where, in the sweetest solitude, embrac'd By the soft windings of the silent Mole, From courts and cities Charlotte finds repose : Enchanting vale ! beyond whate'er the muse Has of Achaia or Hesperia sung. O yale of bliss ! O softly swelling hills ! On which the power of cultivation lies, And joys to see the wonders of its toil. When one sees this queen presumptive, so young and so happy, thus musing in the groves of Esher, we have reason to believe that she would have descended to the grave with less pain from the throne of Elizabeth than from the terraces of Claremont. I had seen that princess, when a child, in the arms of her mother; I did not find her, in 1822, at Windsor with her father. These depredations, which death is incessantly committing among us, nevertheless surprise us: but who knows whether it was not out of mercy that Providence so soon withdrew from the world the daughter of George IV.? What apparent felicity attended Marie Antoinette when she came to Versailles to place upon her head the fairest crown in the world! Overwhelmed a few years later with outrages of every kind, she found not a voice in France to say, Peace to her sorrows! The august victim was sung only in foreign lands by fugitives or by strangers. Delille demanded expiations from his faithful lyre; Alfieri composed the admirable Sonnet, Regina sempre ;" Knox mourned the captivity of the widowed queen and martyr.
If thy breast soft pity knows,
O! drop a tear with me :
Of widow'd royalty.
Fallen, fallen from a throne !
Lo! beauty, grandeur, pow'r;
From yonder dismal tow'r.
I hear her say, or seem to say,
“ Ye who listen to my story, Learn how transient beauty's day,
How unstable human glory!"
The song, as ancient in England as it is in the kingdom of St. Louis, has assumed all sorts of forms: it changes to a hymn for religion ; it remains a song for the thousand trifles and the thousand incidents of life, gay or grave. Lord Dorset's song, written at sea during the first Dutch war, in 1665, the night before an engagement, is an elegant composition.
ladies now at land
With a fa la, la la, la la.
For though the Muses should prove kind,
And fill our empty brain ;
To wave the azure main,
With a fa la, la la, la la.