lectual revelry, farewell! Yet still, like Ovid quit

ting Rome for Scythia—

"Sæpè vale dicens, multùm sum deinde locutus,

Et quasi discedens oscula summa dedi :
Indulgens animo, pes mihi tardus erat".

loath to depart, I have once more opened the volume of the enchanter, and must indulge myself in a last lingering look at one-perhaps the loftiest of Béranger's lays. It is addressed by him to a fair incognita; but in my version I have taken the liberty of giving a more intelligible and, I fear not to add, more appropriate direction to the splendid allegory.

L'Ange exile.

A Corinne de L******.

Je veux pour vous prendre un ton moins frivole,
Corinne! il fut des anges révoltés:

Dieu sur leur front fait tomber sa parole,
Et dans l'abîme ils sont précipités.
Doux, mais fragile, un seul dans leur ruine,
Contre ses maux garde un puissant secours,
Il reste armé de sa lyre divine-

Ange aux yeux bleus, protégez-moi toujours!

L'enfer mugit d'un effroyable rire,

Quand, dégoûté de l'orgueil des méchans,
L'ange, qui pleure en accordant sa lyre,

Fait éclater ses remords et ses chants.

Dieu d'un regard l'arrache au gouffre immonde,
Mais ici bas veut qu'il charme nos jours;

La Poésie enivrera le monde

Ange aux yeux bleus, protégez-moi toujours!

Vers nous il vole, en secouant ses ailes,
Comme l'oiseau que l'orage a mouillé ;
Soudain la terre entend des voix nouvelles,
Maint peuple errant s'arrête émerveillé.

Tout culte alors n'était que l'harmonie —

Aux cieux jamais Dieu ne dit, "Soyez sourds!" L'autel s'épure aux parfums du génie!—

Ange aux yeux bleus, protégez-moi toujours!

En vain l'enfer, des clameurs de l'envie,
Poursuit cet ange, échappé de ses rangs;
De l'homme inculte il adoucit la vie,

Et sous le dais montre au doigt les tyrans.
Tandis qu'à tout sa voix prétant des charmes,
Court jusqu'au pôle éveiller les amours:
Dieu compte au ciel ce qu'il sèche de larmes !-
Ange aux yeux bleus, protégez-moi toujours!

Qui peut me dire où luit son auréole?

De son exil Dieu l'a-t-il rappelé ?

Mais vous chantez, mais votre voix console-
Corinne, en vous l'ange s'est dévoilé !
Votre printems veut des fleurs éternelles,
Votre beauté de célestes atours;

Pour un long vol vous déployez vos ailes ! —

Ange aux yeux bleus, protégez-moi toujours!

1

The Angel of Poetry.

To L. E. L.

Lady! for thee a holier key shall harmonise the chord

In Heaven's defence Omnipotence drew an avenging sword;
But when the bolt had crush'd revolt, one angel, fair though frail,
Retain'd his lute, fond attribute! to charm that gloomy vale.
The lyre he kept his wild hand swept; the music he'd awaken
Would sweetly thrill from the lonely hill where he sat apart for-

saken:

There he'd lament his banishment, his thoughts to grief abandon, And weep his full. 'Twas pitiful to see him weep, fair Landon!

He wept his fault!

song;

Hell's gloomy vault grew vocal with his

But all throughout derision's shout burst from the guilty throng:
God pitying view'd his fortitude in that unhallow'd den,
Free'd him from hell, but bade him dwell amid the sons of men.
Lady! for us, an exile thus, immortal Poesy

Came upon earth, and lutes gave birth to sweetest minstrelsy;
And poets wrought their spellwords, taught by that angelic mind,
And music lent soft blandishment to fascinate mankind.

Religion rose! man sought repose in the shadow of her wings; Music for her walked harbinger, and Genius touch'd the strings: Tears from the tree of Araby cast on her altar burn'd,

But earth and wave most fragrance gave where Poetry sojourn'd. Vainly, with hate inveterate, hell labour'd, in its rage,

To persecute that angel's lute, and cross his pilgrimage:

Unmoved and calm, his songs pour'd balm on sorrow all the

while;

Vice he unmask'd, but virtue bask'd in the radiance of his smile.

O where, among the fair and young, or in what kingly court,
In what gay path where Pleasure hath her favourite resort,
Where hast thou gone, angelic one? Back to thy native skies?
Or dost thou dwell in cloister'd cell, in pensive hermit's guise?
Methinks I ken a denizen of this our island-nay,

Leave me to guess, fair poetess! queen of the matchless lay!
The thrilling line, lady! is thine; the spirit pure and free;
And England views that angel-muse, Landon! reveal'd in THEE!

193

No. XI.

THE SONGS OF ITALY.

CHAPTER I.

From the Prout Papers.

"Latiùs opinione disseminatum est hoc malum: manavit non solùm per Galliam, sed etiam transcendit Alpes, et obscurè serpens multas jam provincias occupavit.”

CICERO in Catilinam, Or. IV.

Starting from France, across Mount Cenis,

Prout visits Mantua and Venice;

Through many a tuneful province strolls,
"Smit with the love" of barcarolles.
Petrarcha's ghost he conjures up,
And with old Dante quaffs a cup;
Next, from her jar Etruscan, he
Uncorks the Muse of Tuscany.

O. Y.

FROM the contents of " the chest❞ hitherto put forth by us to the gaze of a discriminating public, the sagacious glance of the critic, unless his eye happen to be somehow " by drop serene or dim suffusion veiled," must have scanned pretty accurately the peculiar cast and character of old Prout's genius.