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to die.

Mr. Cuppage put down his tea. manner at the cow, and the cow gazing Even his buttered toast could afford at his tail in Mr. Cuppage's hand. him no gratification compared with I never heard whether he recovered that of doing the poor-law collector. his pony, but certainly he took the He seized his hat, and sallied out like a thing very much to heart, and had knight of old, prepared to conquer or thoughts at one time of emigrating to

America, but gave it up, hearing of There was a short way across the the buffalo hunts there. His first and country, and, although a timid horse- only hunt is ever before his mind; he man, he prefers to take this to going is á cynic in disposition, and talks by the road. He clears the fences gals mysteriously of the hand of fate, and lantly; and, on gaining arising ground, of being done by a poor-rate collector. he sees the object of his hopes and fears grazing unconsciously in the field, A few days after I had heard of Mr. about half-a-mile off. He pulls up to Cuppage's adventure, I was paying a gloat his eyes upon it, and chuckling, visit at Lady --'s; as I was an old thinks that he has done the poor-rate acquaintance, the servant did not bring collector.

up my name, and as I reached the Hark! what does he hear in the drawing-room door I heard her ladydistance ? it is a horse ;-a horse; and ship (who has a deuce's own temper), on its back Quinlan.

blowing up her governess, or maidWith a cry of horror Cuppage lashes servant, as I thought. As it is unpleahis horse, and dashes down the steep sant catching a lady in an excited in the direction of the cow - on, on, state, I hesitated, undetermined wheover hedges, and ditches, and stone ther to advance or retreat, and neceswalls. Some fate seems to guard the sarily heard some of the conversation. riders, for neither gets a fall. On, on; I could hear her ladyship, in a loud, if the race were a hundred yards longer, imperious voice, and another person in Quinlan would win; but Cuppage keeps a subdued one, seemingly deprecating the lead.

her wrath. In the next field unconsciously crop- “What business had you to dare to ping the clover is the cow: a large

think so ?" fence, impracticable to horses, separates “I entreat your ladyship’s pardon ; her from her pursuers. Cuppage leaps I did not know you wished me to apoff, and dashing at an open place, gets pear when there was company." through in spite of the thorns.

“I might have expected such ingraThere are two ways to seize a cow, titude," said her ladyship, sweeping by the horn or by the tail. He looks out of the room, “when I took Irish at the cow's head, but the cow looks vi- beggars into my house." ciously at him; and he prefers the safer, Thinking that the governess, for so but more ignominious method, and I could perceive the other party to be, grasping the cow by the tail, he ex- had also departed, and not wishing to claims in a solemn voice

be caught eavesdropping, I quietly I hereby declare that I seize this entered the room. As I did so, I saw a cow, which is found on the land of young girl seated near the window, John Ormsby, Esq., for county-cess with her head buried in her hands. At due by him to me, and I call you, Peter the noise she started up, throwing back Quinlan, to be witness to the seizure.” her dark-brown ringlets from her fore“ With all my heart, Mr. Cuppage,”

head. said Mr. Quinlan, from the other side “Gracious heaven! Emily Ormsby." of the hedge. " And I," here he It was, indeed; but how changed I seized Mr. Čuppage's pony-"declare The wild Irish girl was then no more; that I seize this pony which I find on it was a pale, broken-hearted creature, Mr. Ormsby's land, for poor-rate due to too true an emblem of Ireland herself. me, and I call you, Mr. Cuppage, to be She might pass for the genius of Erin, witness to the seizure. I wish you with her harp unstrung, weeping over good morning, Mr. Cuppage." the wreck of former hopes, and wist

And he rode off, leading Mr. Cup- fully lingering on the thoughts of those page's pony by the bridle, and leaving days she should see no more. Mr. Cuppage gazing in a bewildered

HALF AN HOUR WITH THE MODERN FRENCH POETS.

Among the many “ Popular Fallacies” which Jeremy Bentham has left untouched in his celebrated essay, there is none more generally diffused than this very great fallacy, that there are no French poets, properly so called, and no such thing as French poetry. It is true that the French, having chosen to put trammels on their language, and to make their poetry dance, as it were, in fetters, by encumbering it with rigid and superfluous rules, their natural genius has been cramped, and its productions disfigured, by a cold. ness and stiffness hardly reconcilable with the effusion of genuine poesy. Still the poetic spirit inherent in the Celtic race (the same which had al. ready, in ruder times, produced in France the laisof the menestrals and troubadours, and the more recent ballads and rondeaus of Clement Marot) could not be wholly kept under. The genius of a Racine, bursting its bonds, showed itself in many a lofty passage of the “ Andromaque,” the * Esther," and the “ Athalie;" while a Malesherbes, a Moncrif, and others scarcely known to us by name in these islands, produced, despite all obstacles, some exquisite stanzas, and some ballads as simple and pathetic as are to be found in any language. The revolutions, the many revolutions in politics to which France has been subjected, have been accompanied, too, by a revolution scarcely less important in literature. The rules of the Academy have not only been relaxed, and words and subjects, long taboo's, been al. lowed to the French poet, but “ Free Trade” in verse-making has been proclaimed to him in all respects, and he is now quite as much of a “chartered libertine" as any of his European or American co-minstrels. The barriers of prohibition once removed, the natural consequences have followed-a torrent of verse, fresh, natural, and impetuous, has been poured forth ; and if haply some of it has been turbid and unclean, yet by far the greater part has either dashed along over rock and stone, bright, bound ing, and sparkling, or glided on in a gentle and pellucid current, mur. muring soft music to the listening

ear. To drop metaphor, the France of our day deserves any reproach rather than that of being unpoetical ; for without speaking of the world-famous Chateaubriand, whose verses are all too few, of Hugo, and LAMARTINE, and BERANGER — the greatest of the three, there are numbers of original and pleasing poets among the French writers of the present day, who are quite unknown in these countries, and who have not yet attained any consi. derable degree of fame in their own. Among these, Henri Blaze and Ernest Legouvé are favourites of our own; and as we should wish to give an idea of their powers and their manner to such of our readers as do not understand French, we venture to offer to their notice the two following translations, one of which is from each poet, premising that the first, “ Claire," by Henri Blaze, is rendered nearly word for word, the metre of the original being as much as possible preserved ; while the second, the “ Two Mothers,'* by Legouvé, is altered only by being “ done into " blank verse, instead of rbyming couplets:

CLAIRE. “ Hear’st thou? The wind is rising in the

wood; It moaneth wildly through the rustling

grass, O'er which the beech-tree leaves are thickly

strewed: Even the oak bendeth as the storm-gusts

pass. Lowly the willow doth its branches trail, And through the chestnuts sound the music

of the gale. "The nightingale sits silent in the shade,

The fresh acacia bends each vigorous bough, The streamlet gurgles o'er its pebbly bed,

The reeds wave sad and silently; while not The clouds, driven wildly o'er the sky's blue

plains, Pass like a rapid flight of snow-white

cranes.

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Comes to the stream, balf scared, as sudden

wakes The sobbing of the wind among the brakes.

"Her fair hair, loosened by the ungentle

breeze, Adown her shoulders falls in flakes of gold; While, flying like a bird away, she sees

The snowy cap in which it erst was rolled. While still the wind is following in her trace, And seeks at every step her garments to dis

place.

“Virgin who oft, lit by the moon's pale beam,

Art seated, weeping, neath a willow tree, Upon the margin of a troubled stream,

To which thy plaints confided are by thee, Sole drop of honey in that draught of ill, Which sorrow doth for human hearts distil. "Harmonious daughter of the tearful night,

Who bears as crown upon her sacred brow The golden sun-set's lingering rays of light.

Goddess, in every season loved as now! The young and old unite to cherish thee, Child of presentiment and of memory. “ But now across the heath the wind blows

shrill, The darkness will spread snares around

thy feet, 'Tis time to seek thy cottage on the hill. * Return, my child !' thy mother's lips re

peat; She hears the church-clock strike, in anxious

fret, And turns her wheel and sighs, Claire

comes not yet!

“Blushing, she turns in anxions haste to spy

If any witness lurks among the leaves ; Then, satisfied that no one lingers nigh, No longer at such slight annoyance

grieves ; But smiling smooths her ruffled robes: anon, Still struggling'gainst the wind, she passes on.

" And now the maid hath reached the

river's edge, The still-vexed river,'when she plunges in Her pitcher near the margin clothed with

sedge, Then sits her down a short repose to win, As 'tis her wont, upon the river's brink, Her pleasing task performed, to sit and think.

“The young girl now recalls each wander

ing thought From the fantastic world, where they have

strayed ; Her golden hair, wet with the mists, she has

caught, And with light fingers fixed in graceful

braid; A glance she throws, at parting, on the

strea:n, Near which so long she sat in a delicious

dream.

“And looking still regretfully, she takes

Her pitcher up, and is about to go Along the path which leads across the brakes

To the more distant heath and hill, when lo! Upon the stream a wreath of flowers is seen, Fresh as if midst the waves its birth bad been.

“The forest sighs, the fresh and full-voiced

wind Chases the gleaming dewdrops o'er the

grass; The glorious sun hath in the west declined, And his last rays, empurpling many a

mass Of clouds, discover by what way he goes Each eve, to seek the Naiads' palace of repose. “What is the thought which makes Claire

all forget? What seek those eyes so beautiful, so

sweet, In the far west, where stream and sky seem

met? What voices do the echoes of her heart re

peat? What whisper winds and waves with magic

spell ? Of love, of hope, of melancholy they tell. "O melancholy !-- voice of earth and hea

venMysterious key of worlds without an endPortal through which to us ingress is given

To the ideal—Nature's gentlest friendThe many letters of whose name appears Wrote on the daisy's cup in dewy tears ! "O melancholy !-voice of day and night, Chaste muse with candid brow !_eternal

bride! Whom mortals here below seek with delight,

Whom the forsaken finds still at her side O name divine !—first and last thought of all Upon this earth who flourish or who fall.

“ There wild flowers cluster round the lily

white, By pale nymphea neighboured ; corn

flowers blue Contrast with clematis, and iris bright

Twines with the eglantine of roseate hue. The flowery trophy floats upon the stream, Like some creation of a poet's dream.

“O charming prodigy !_behold it glide,

At the wind's bidding, o'er the azure waveNow rising high—now sinking in the tide

As if the stream took back the gift it gave, The stream that, from reflecting oft her face, Seemed to have grown enamoured of each

grace.

"Meanwhile the maiden, standing silently,

Forgets the night, the dangers of the way, The wind that every moment blows more free,

Her distant home, her water-yase of clay,

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It seems to us that the preceding poem, although somewhat fantastical in design, and occasionally rather rhapsodical, may yet claim the merit of originality of thought and expression. The second poem is of a very different description, extremely simple in both style and subject; but we shall let it speak for itself :

“THE TWO MOTHERS.

" BY ERNEST LEGOUVE.

“ The wreath of flowers-the fairy wreath

appears From forth the wave to understand her

song, And by the moonlight Claire can see it steers

Its downward course more rapidly along ; She, with light footstep, follows as it goes

Along the margin of the deep, deep stream; But now the north wind more tempestuous

blows, The huge oaks groan, and fitful wild fires

gleam Upon the wave, which Claire thinks dia

mond-strewn, Amid the darkness, round her flowery crown"O tell, loved wreath! who cast thee on the

wave ? She cries, and he my heart, my hand, my

life shall have !

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"Some paces thence the stream a winding

makes, Which Claire, lost in love ravings, does

not see; The moon is hid by clouds, the path by

brakesHer foot slips as she passes rapidly

A sleeping child, scarce one year old, she

bears : The other Ella, slowly moves along ; Her eyes are full of languor, and her speech, Tho'clear, is low; while in her faint, sweet

smile We read that she, too, soon will be a mo

ther. We see engraven on her pallid brow Thy venerable seal, Maternity,

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