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HABITS OF EARL (ALLEN) BATHURST.

ABSTINENCE, (abs-teneo) say some lexicographers, comes from abs, from, and temetum, a kind of wine. This reminds me of a derivation I once heard, by a facetious personage, of allegory, from alle, convenient, and gory, belief! In truth, abstinence, so necessary occasionally to the sedentary and the studious, would be prejudicial to others. The celebrated Lord Bathurst, whose name is associated with the Augustan age of English literature, as the friend of Pope, Swift, and Gay, was by no means of abstinent habits. This nobleman lived to the age of ninety-one, and continued of a convivial disposition to the very last. After his son became Chancellor, he went down to visit his father, who invited a large party to meet him at dinner. The whole company kept it up till a late hour, with the exception of the Chancellor, who retired about twelve o'clock, on which the venerable Earl, with great facetiousness, said, "now, my friends, as the old gentleman is gone to bed, we can manage to take another bottle." When Dr. Cadogan published his work on abstinence in gout, the old Lord said, he should not be debarred by it from taking his bottle, because Cheyne had told him fifty years before, that he would die if he did not leave off port; "you see, however," observed he, "that in spite of Cheyne and Cadogan, I am here yet!"

THE SUMMUM BONUM.

HEAVEN deals to mortal men, from out its store,
Its ever-varying gifts, in various ways→

But no man runs his boat, with single oar,

None pocket up their neighbour's share of praise.
Thus they who shine in blooming beauty's rays,
Are oft deficient in the upper story,

[And they who wander learning's wildering maze,
As oft want beauty's soul-dissolving glory,]
As crook-backed Pope has said or sung before me.

Some dart through time-space-death, and science wide,
Beyond creation's bounds their fancies stray,

Some nature gave o'er dunce's necks to ride,

While wit's triumphant lightnings round them play.
Some shine in talents-varied as the day,

Or tow'r-sustained by genius,-o'er the world :-
Rude mobs the voice of Eloquence obey,

Kings from their thrones by gifted bards are hurled,

And round some happy brows the wreath of sense is curled.

But high o'er all, a favour'd few are bless'd

With that which art or genius ne'er could frame :

Before it melts the snow on beauty's breast;

Sense, wit, worth, virtue, hide their heads in shame.
'Tis IMPUDENCE, the talismanic name!

Th' ascendant star of gravity and mirth-
The domineering lord of wealth and fame-

It crowns and arms its children from their birth,
Rulers of kings-Dictators of the earth!

Δ.

ELEGIAC STANZAS ON LORD BYRON.

"De mortuus nil nisi bonum."

LET the spirit of song pour the accents of sorrow,
O'er the cold urn of BYRON, her favourite child;
Each muse from her lyre grief's expression shall borrow,
The strain shall be solemn, the notes shall be wild.

In youth's early dawn, on the brow of the mountain
He drank inspiration, pure nature his theme;
And wand'ring entranc'd by the gush of the fountain,
He mus❜d in the rapture of poesy's dream.

The dominion of passion, the empire of feeling,
Each pulse of the heart own'd his magic control;
To his eye wanton fancy her treasures revealing,
The bright flame of genius enkindled his soul."

"Hours of Indolence" then to the Muse were devoted,
To her inspirations each feeling was strung;
On the breeze of the morning the harmony floated,
With the rude voice of echo his native woods rung,

The stores of tradition, the legends of story,
By his magic touch liv'd again in the page,
The heroes of Ossian reviv'd in their glory,
And started to life as the chiefs of the age.

To him the rude tempest, that swept o'er the billow, Bore the voice of the spirit that rode on the storm; And reclin'd on the rock, the wild heath for his pillow, With the pen of the poet he painted its form.

But not the rude scenes of his youthful seclusion
Alone warm'd his fancy, and liv'd in his heart;

There the young buds of feeling then blush'd in profusion,
The offspring of nature, untainted by art.

By culture improv'd, their perfection unfolding,
Disclos'd a heart fraught with love of mankind;
By the tendrils of love to each youthful friend holding,
Their thoughts were united, their motives entwin'd.

Thus passed buoyant youth, and as manhood succeeded,
The stream of his ardour less rapidly flow'd;

The shoals of experience its torrent impeded,
And the thick weeds of sorrow no passage allow'd.

To far distant lands as an exile he wander'd,

To realms that to classic remembrance are dear; There o'er the cold ashes of heroes he ponder'd, And drop'd to their manes the eloquent tear.

"Childe Harold" shall tell of each highly wrought feeling,

As o'er the mementos of ages he stray'd;

When the deep shades of night o'er the landscape were stealing, And the tribute to each mournful relic he paid.

To these scenes ow'd the "Giaour" its soul-thrilling beauty,
The sky-piercing mountain, the ravine's deep shade,
Where the bandit, unaw'd by remorse or by duty,

To the shaggy-mouth'd cavern condemns the sweet maid.

The "Bride of Abydos," the "Corsair's" proud daring,
Bespoke a soul worthy of deathless renown;

He saw not the chalice that fate was preparing,

Or knew not the draught had been doom'd as his own.

The dark clouds of grief o'er his destiny hover'd,
Though the sunshine of Hope still illumin'd his way;
The tempest that broke on the morrow discover'd,
The deceitful illusion that brighten❜d to-day.

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DIFFICULTIES OF TRANSLATION. FRENCH POETRY.

age

In the present, as well as past, rage for book-making, and in this “ of poetic' brass," it had often surprised me, that some of those unhappy barbouilleurs de papier, whose hours of idleness (and too frequently hours. which should be of business), are employed in supplying the periodical press with its daily poetic bread, had never turned their heads or hands, for I know not which has the greater share in their productions, to a translation of some of the French poets into English verse; there not being, that I am aware of, a single translation of any of the "chef-d'œuvres" of the French poets; certainly none of note.

Impressed with this idea, and being one of the aforesaid barbouilleurs, I treasured it up as a discovery scarcely less important, at least to my own fame and profit, than that of a north-west passage, or a perpetual motion, resolved, when leisure should offer from the occupations of my profession, to set about a translation of nothing less than Voltaire's Henriade, that idol of national pride, and summit of universal perfection; indeed, so eager was I" for the fray," that a little before that leisure offered, I stole some hours from my proper studies, to set about that pleasing, though profitless one, of poetry.-Poetry! sweet maid, though thou wilt have much to answer for, when our Otways, Savages, Goldsmiths, Chattertons, and the long list of others, whom I remember not, and those by the world forgotten, shall rise up in judgment against thee. Yet, "with all thy faults, I love thee still." Apostrophe, en poete, and to proceed.

All difficulties melted before the warmth of my first attack, and the lines glided from my brain, or from what other department of my head you are pleased to imagine, down my pen with wonderful velocity; and thus the first paragraph appeared.

I sing the hero who o'er Gallia reign'd,

A throne by conquest and by birthright gain'd ;
Who, from protracted ills, had learnt to sway,
And awe the foes and factions of his day;
To conquer and forgive alike he knew,
Where honor called, or mercy claim'd her due;
Mayenne, The League, Iberia felt his ire,
And own'd a king, a conqueror, and a sire!

O heavenly truth, descend! and on these lays,
Expand the force and brightness of thy rays;
That kings once more, with thee familiar grown,
May learn from thee whatever should be known;
And to a nation, too, be 't thine to show,
What guilty troubles from dissension flow;-
O tell how discord has our country torn;
A people's ills, and prince's errors mourn ;-
Here speak and if 'tis true there was a time,
When fable might with thy sweet accents chime;
When her soft hand might deck thy noble brow,
And, by a shade, adorn-assist me now!
Upon thy footsteps let my fable glide,
To ornament thy graces-not to hide!

:

Still Valois reign'd, and from his faithless hand,
Th' imperial reins of this infuriate band

Flow'd at full freedom-laws were trampled o'er,
And right-and Valois rather-reign'd no more!—
VOL. 1. 21.

Y

No longer 'twas the prince with glory crown'd;
By victory early taught the combats round;
Whose mighty progress, Europe trembling mark'd,
With whom his country's deep regret embark'd;
When from the north, so fame her hero grac'd,
That nations at his feet their sceptres placed;
How station acts on man, the muse must sing,
From dauntless warrior, sprung a slothful king!—
Lull'd in the breast of softness on a throne,
The weighty jewel weighed his weakness down:
Quelus, St. Megrui, Joyeuse, d'Epernon,

Reign'd in their sovereign's stead-voluptuous throng!
Whose only tenure of their power was this,
To plunge in joy his lethargies of bliss!

The Guises, now their rapid fortune prais'd,
For on his errors they their grandeur rais'd;
And found that fatal League, in Paris known,
The haughty rival of a nerveless throne;
The fev'rish mob, vile minions of the great,
Pursued their prince, and swell'd the tyrant's state.
His friends corrupted, from allegiance haste,
And from the Louvre by his subjects chas'd;
Revolted Paris drove him from her walls,
And all was ruin!-when Bourbon recalls
With noble ardour, and with virtue's charms,
Strength to the prince, and valor to his arms;
Leads them, still struck with wonder and with awe,
From shame to glory, and from sports to war !—
E'en to the city gates the kings advance;

Rome grows alarmed-Spain trembles for her France-
And Europe, watchful of the glorious prize,

On these unhappy walls directs her eyes!

In Paris was inhuman discord seen,

Stirring to war the Leaguers and Mayenne,

People and Church; and from its towers amain,
Imploring succour from the arms of Spain !—-
This ruthless monster, bloody and severe,
The dreaded tyrant of his subjects' fear,
To human suff'ring bounds his vengeful view;
Oft his own minions' blood his hands imbrue;
And with a tyrant-justice points the fires
Of vengeance, on the crimes himself inspires !

Down on the west, those flowery borders near,
Where winds the Seine's swift current, broad and clear;
Now the retreat from bustle and from courts,

Where arts are nourished, and where nature sports;
Then the red stage, which mortal combat decks,

Unhappy Valois there his force collects,

There saw we those fam'd champions of the state,
By sect disjoin'd, united still by hate :
Before Bourbon those mighty heroes fall,
And in his breast are re-united all.

Truly they said, when by his wisdom sway'd,
They'd but one church, and but one chief obey'd.

Unable to comprise the second couplet of—

Qui par de longs malheurs apprit à gouverner,
Calma les factions, sut vainere, et pardonner,

in one of English verse, I was compelled to stretch it into two; but this was a liberty which I conceived every translator at liberty to take, although

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