CANTO III.

THE FOREST OF FONTAINEBLEAU-THE GRAND VENEURTHE PALACE-TALLEYRAND-THE WIDOW-NAPOLEON'S CHAMBER-PORT VENASQUE-MONT D'OR-CLERMONT.

I.

MINE is no Clio, stalking from the study!

My Muse must be a sister of the Graces;
A little wild perhaps,-rose-cheeked (not ruddy)—
A summer-bird,-a fawn in all her paces,
Darting her brilliant eyes in all odd places;

Yet, capable of tears,—just one, or two,

(Such drops as eve on closing blossoms traces)

That tell you of the tender and the true,

But, mark, no floods for me; mine must be bright—and few!

II.

Tourists! observe-if you would fill my shelves,

I care not sixpence for Madonna's eyes:
Feed me with facts, give pictures of ourselves.
I tire of "Raphael's grace," and "Titian's dyes!"
Annihilate, for once, your "orange skies;"

Give me, however rough, the stamp of life,

The hearts strong throbs, the soul, without disguise. (N. B.)-No history of your child, or wife;

With such I am at war-aye, 66 even to the knife."

III.

Give me live men and women, thoughts and things;
No sentiment (to turtles leave their cooing)—
No politics; I honour all Earth's Kings,

(Nor care this ink-drop, what they all are brewing ;) No scraps from your blue books, I hate all blueing. But, give me wit, opinion, character,

The only game that I think worth pursuing;

Show me the leading spirits of our sphere—

Those are the sights to see-those are the sounds to hear.

IV.

THE FOREST.

'Tis pleasant, bowling o'er those old French roads,

When summer lets you gallop

"off the stones;

It much the spirit of its cares unloads,

To travel without fear of broken bones!

And, hark! how sweet those distant city-tones!
Those chiming bells upon the wavering breeze,
As up the hill our straining axle groans:
And now, the landscape, opening by degrees,
Shows royal roofs, amidst a wilderness of trees.

V.

I always liked thee, France, and loved thy belles,
Them for their dress, and thee for thy undress:

I liked thee for thy open hills and dells,

(Not for thy Habeas Corpus' and Free Press,— With those thou 'rt always sure to make a mess.) 'Tis true, thou hast not England's woodbine cots,

Nor her sweet girls' blue eye and auburn tress;But then-thou hast not England's landscape-blots,— Her sullen factory smokes, and "Land in building lots."

VI.

England, ere half a century has flown,

Thou 'lt be all brickwork! chimneys all thy shade ! Thine only breezes, from their funnels blown:

Grass in Museums, twenty pounds a blade!

The Island one Bazaar,—one black Arcade:

No river but Fleet-ditch,-no evening air,—

No plough, no lark, no tree, no nut-brown maid,—

No vale, no hill,-all brick, no room to spare,

One London-suburb all,—all grim as Grosvenor Square.

VII.

Thine is indeed a Forest, Fontainebleau !

Where lovely Nature has her "own sweet will:" ('Twas now in all the summer's golden glow.)— How nobly soars in light yon oak-crowned hill! How richly larch and ash these valleys fill, Empurpled with the tinging of the year:

All stillness, save the rushing of the rill,

That from its fissured rock bursts cool and clear,

Or watch-dog's distant bark,—or bray of browsing deer.

VIII.

As on we roll, 'tis one delicious Wild,

With soft, green glades, between the tall, old trees; Gleaming in sunny tufts, like velvet piled

With knots of primrose and anemones,

And many a blossomed plant, beloved of bees: And, with broad gaze upon the setting sun, Huge, quiet cattle, couching at their ease;

Or stag, lone stalking through the copses dun;

But, hush! what means this Stone, which all the peasants

shun?

IX.

THE GRAND VENEUR.

'Twas in this very spot, that Henri Quatre

Had his day's hunting with the "Grand Veneur."

Whence came that huntsman, now is no great matter;

Henri himself was not a

"Simon pure."

He just had flung his falcon from the lure,

When burst a furious din of horns and hounds;

Off flew his grooms, the culprits to secure,

And fine them royally for breaking bounds.

Nothing annoys the great, like poaching on their grounds!