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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:


Un ange au radieux visage,
Penché sur le bord d'un berçeau,
Semblait contempler son image
Comme dans l'onde d'un ruisseau.

"Charmant enfant qui me ressemble,
Disait-il, oh! viens avec moi :
Viens, nous serons heureux ensemble,
La terre est indigne de toi.

"Là, jamais entière allégresse ;
L'ame y 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,
Et par l'amertume des larmes,
Se terniraieut ces yeux d'azur !

"Non, non, dans les champs de l'espace
Avec moi tu vas t'envoler;

La Providence te fait grâce
Des jours que tu devais couler."

Et, secouant ses blanches ailes,
L'ange à ces mots a pris l'essor
Vers les demeures éternelles. ...
Pauvre mère, ton fils est mort.

If M. Reboul has taken a wife from among the daughters of Ceres, and she should become his Muse, France will have her Fornarina.

Here are some lines by a clerk in the post-office at Poligny

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Son aurore était belle; elle était à cet âge
Où l'aimable langueur qui pâlit le visage

Donne aux yeux tant de charme et parle à tant de cœurs !
Elle était à cet âge où l'on verse des pleurs.

O pleurs délicieux! . . . . Sa paupière arrosée,
Payait à la nature une douce rosée,

Déjà dans ses yeux Lleus on voyait chaque jour
Eclore, puis mourir un beau




Elle était
Tendre comme l'agneau qui bêle à la colline
Quand son dos caressant vers la brebis s'incline.
Hélas! tant de vertus ne devraient point finir.
Pourquoi n'en reste-t-il, hélas ! qu'un souvenir?






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Elle tendit les bras, et nos cœurs s'enlacèrent ;
Nos soupirs confondus ensemble s'étouffèrent!
Cette heure si cruelle était pour nous des jours:
Cette heure vit encore, et je pleure toujours.


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.

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If thy breast soft pity knows,
O! drop a tear with me :
Feel for th' unexampled woes
Of widow'd royalty.

Fallen, fallen from a throne!
Lo! beauty, grandeur, pow'r;
Hark! 'tis a queen's, a mother's moan;
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.

To all you ladies now at land
We men at sea indite;

But first would have you understand
How hard it is to write;

The Muses now, and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you,
With a fa la, la la, la la.

For though the Muses should prove kind,
And fill our empty brain;

Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind
To wave the azure main,

Our paper, pen, and ink, and we.
up and down our ships at sea,
With a fa la, la la, la la.

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