IT SONNET

Hateful are those false themes of speculation Goading the wise and harassing the weak — This world of ours — so lovely and unique Why is it subject to such sad vexation ? — Tis all for want of proper occupation ‘Philosophers’ become so void and vain ; With birth, life, death, mind, matter, bone and brain Can there be any doubt of our Creation ? — And of our Spirit early information — Intelligence and Action ? — chiefly whereby Thro’ rapid glances of the inner eye The Soul is sentient of its own salvation And in the Faith that such a knowledge brings Feels the great glory of its Future wings.

{The Monthly Observer. N° 13. Mars 1849.)

SERENADE OF À Lovaz MarTyer

Sweet in her green cell the Flower of Beauty slumbers, Lulled by the faint breezes sighing thro’ her hair ; Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad lute amid the lonely air ?

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet.is teeming,

To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above: O that in tears from my rocky prison streaming

1 too could glide to the bower of my love !

Ah ! where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay,

Listening like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate’s call in the forests far away ?

Come then, my Bird ! — for the peace thou ever bearest Still heaven’s messenger of comfort to me,

Come ! —- this fond bosom, my faithfullest, my fairest, Bleeds with its death-wound, but deeper yet for thee.

GEoRrGE DARLEY.

Voici les deux premières et les trois dernières strophes d'Amour dans la Vallée, tel qu'il parut en 1851 [onze strophes en tout].

Sous ce hêtre là-bas parmi le vert gazon Couchée, avec les bras sous sa tête menue,

Les genoux repliés et ses cheveux tressés sur le sein, L'enfant que j’aime dort, à l’ombrage étendue.

Si j'avais le cœur de glisser mon bras sous sa taille, Et l’attirant à moi, de presser sa lèvre rêveuse,

S’éveillant sur-le-champ, elle devrait me rendre mon baiser. Ah! me garderait-elle, et serait-elle heureuse ?

Farouche comme l’écureuil et furtive comme l’aronde, Vive comme l’aronde quand en cerele elle se joue Sur l’onde à l’occident pour rencontrer ses ailes réfléchies, Telle est la bien-aimée en son vierge bouton. Farouche comme l’écureuil dont le nid est en haut des pins, Douce — oh! que je la voudrais jalouse comme la palombe ! Pleine de la sauvagerie des êtres des bois, Heureuse en elle-même est la vierge que j'aime.

Heureux, heureux moment où scintülle l'étoile grise Au-dessus des champs tout humides de rosée en fleur quand l’aurore aux joues fraîches monte rougissante dans Et que le soleil d’or l’épouse dans l’azur, {l’aube Alors, quand mon amour tente les brises matinales, Elle, la seule étoile qui ne meurt pas avec la nuit, Impuissant à rendre toute l’ardeur de ma passion Je saisis sa petite main tandis que nous écoutons l’alouette.

Tous les oiseaux en vain chanteront-ils leur sérénade

de saison en saison et d'année en année ?

Ne voudra-t-elle pas, la vierge, écouter leurs chants, Comprendre leur douceur, porter le voile des marées ?

Craint-elle le froid et l’hiver, craint-elle les branches nues ? Attend-elle pour dot les guirlandes printanières ?

Est-elle un rossignol refusant de nicher Jusqu’à ce que les boïs d’avril lui aient bâti une retraite ?

Viens donc, joyeux avril, avec tous tes oiseaux et toutes tes [beautés,

Ton front ceint du croissant, et ta joie de fleurs et d’ondées : Et tes feuilles qui s’ouvrent et tes fraiches verdures Et puisse ton croissant devenir ma lune de miel !

Viens, mois joyeux des coucous et des violettes !

Viens, Beauté en pleurs, dans ton ravissement d’azur !

Vois, le nid est tout prêt, ne me fais pas languir davantage ! Mène la dans mes bras le premier soir de Mai.

Tue Bzackgirp

being the true history of a Blackbird Known to me, poem by Mary Nicolls,

Rains of sorrow, fruitful showers, Calling forth the leaves and flowers

Of holy charity, That unwept from ductless eyes, In the spirit do surprise

Germs of mystery ;

Not alone in human bosoms Flourish the immortal blossoms Of divinity, But in earth's most careless creature Dwells a link, or blooms a feature Of immortality.

They shot the happy Blackbird’s mate, Long rose the heart-cry, desolate, From his golden bill ; .

Dimly an angel voice is heard In the bosom of the bird « There are sadder still. »

Of Love and Liberty, that be Chief blessings unto thine and thee, One leaveth thee.

Look down, where hung by yonder cot, À caged brother knoweth not, What either be ;

To him the pulse of Love doth seem The vision of a hopeless dream And mockery, That sea of air Where others sport To him a mist where shadows float No verity.

Whisper of the viewless Anvgel,

Uttered he in clear evangel From his quivering throat,

And ever round this caged bird

His legendary song is heard On the breeze to float,

And to the loveless prisoner Choice blackbird dainties, quaint and rare.

He with carte doth bring;

Sorrow from his heart departeth At each solace he imparteth In his communing

Mary Nicozrs.

[The Monthly Observer. N° 16. June 1849].

GASTRONOMY AND CIVILIZATION [opening and final paragraphs]

Two conditions are necessary to the cultivation of the science of gastronomy, national peace and individual taste. Wherever these have existed, the science has progressed, with more or less credit, limited by temperance and rational festivity where men were refined, and degraded into fantastic gluttony where they were licentious. The greatest abuse of this science has been under the monarchical form of government from ancient Egypt to modern Russia. Republican virtue has thriven on simple fare, from the turnips of Cincinnatus to Andrew Marvel’s cold shoulder of mutton . . ..

We have recorded, as historical evidence, that the most incor:uptible republicans were austere and abstemious ; but it is still a question whether they could not have exerted a more beneficial influence and have been better men, if they had moistened their throats with Madeira and enlarged their sympathies with grouse. Solitary habits take away many means of forming correct opinions, and prevent opportunities of removing prejudices. The student in his cabinet is an impartial spectator, and may be a wise judge, but he is never a good governor. Austerity, as Plato says, is the companion of solitude. It is problematical whether Coriolanus would not have gained the consulship, and thereby have saved his country from war and himself from disgrace, if he had been conciliating and social, instead of isolated and overbearing. If Robespierre had held companionship with others, he might have exercised in public the tenderness that characterized him at home, where it was never believed that he had commited the severities that distinguished his career. « Il était si doux » was the invariable reply of the girl where he lodged, to every accusation that was brought against his

memory. » M. M.

[c’est-à-dire Mary MEerEDITH |.

Vu LE 9 JUILLET 1922 :

Le Doyen de la Faculté des Lettres de l'Université de Paris,

Fer. BRUNOT.

Vu ET PERMIS D'IMPRIMER :

Le Recteur de l'Académie de Paris,