Attuned to the sad harmony of that closing stanza, and set to the same key-note of impassioned sorrow, are the following lines of Chateaubriand, which I believe have never appeared in print, at least in this country. They were composed on the occasion of a young and beautiful girl's premature death, the day her remains were, with the usual ceremony of placing a wreath of white roses on the bier, consigned to the earth. Chateaubriand. Sur la Fille de mon Ami, enterrée hier devant moi au Cimetière de Passy, 16 Juin, 1832, Il descend ce cercueil! et les roses sans taches Ah! ne les rends jamais à ce monde prophane, Tu dors, pauvre Elisa, si legère d'années! Tu ne crains plus du jour le poids et la chaleur ; Jeune fille et jeune fleur ! Ere that coffin goes down, let it bear on its lid The garland of roses Which the hand of a father, her mourners amid, In silence deposes 'Tis the young maiden's funeral hour! From thy bosom, O Earth! sprung that young budding rose, And 'tis meet that together thy lap should enclose The young maid and the flower! Never, never give back the two symbols so pure Which to thee we confide; From the breath of this world and its plague-spot secure, Let them sleep side by side They shall know not its pestilent power! Soon the breath of contagion, the deadly mildew, Or the fierce scorching sun, might parch up as they grew The young maid and the flower! Poor Eliza! for thee life's enjoyments have fled, But its pangs too are flown! Then go sleep in the grave! in that cold bridal bed Death may call thee his own Take this handful of clay for thy dower! Of a texture wert thou far too gentle to last; 'Twas a morning thy life! now the matins are past For the maid and the flower! 97 No. IX. THE SONGS OF FRANCE. ON WINE, WAR, WOMEN, WOODEN SHOES, PHILOSOPHY, FROGS, AND FREE TRADE. BEFORE we plunge with Prout into the depths of French Philosophy, we must pluck a crow with the "Sun." Not often does it occur to us to notice a newspaper criticism; nor, indeed, in this case, should we condescend to wax angry at the discharge of the penny-a-liner's popgun, were it not that an imputation has been cast on the good father's memory, which cannot be overlooked, and must be wiped away. The caitiff who writes in the "Sun" has, at the instigation of Satan, thrown out a hint that these songs, and specifically his brilliant translation of "Malbrouck," were written "under vinous inspiration!" A false and atrocious libel this, and, to use the language of Tom Duncombe, an instance of the unparalleled audacity of the press. Great mental powers and superior cleverness are too often supposed to derive assistance from the bottle. Thus the virtue of the elder Cato (prisci Catonis) is most unjustifiably ascribed to potations by the giddy, unreflecting Horace; and a profane French sophist has attributed Noah's escape from the Flood to his partiality for the vine: "Noé le patriarche, Si célèbre par l'arche, Aima fort le jus du tonneau; Puisqu'il planta la vigne, Convenez qu'était digne De ne point se noyer dans l'eau!" "To have drown'd an old chap, Such a friend to the tap,' The Flood would have felt compunc tion: Noah owed his escape To his love for the grape; And his ark' was an empty puncheon." The illustrious Queen Anne, who, like our own REGINA, encouraged literature and patronised wit, was similarly calumniated after her death, when her statue was put up where it now stands, with its back to Paul's church and its face turned towards |