THE

SPIRIT

PUBLIC

OF THE

JOURNALS.

TO HIS

ADDENDA TO VOL. XIV.

BONAPARTE'S SACRIFICE

GOOD PEOPLE OF PARIS, IN (AS NEARLY AS TRANSLATION WILL ALLOW) HIS OWN WORDS, AT THE

NUPTIAL ALTAR.

OUR

[From the Bath Herald.]

UR Royal Self we here to France
Devote, her glory to enhance,

Aud banish her alarms;

We spuru our darling Demirep, see,
And brave a fit of catalepsy

In this young Virgin's arms."

April 14, 1810.

W. L.

A TRANSLATION OF AN IRISH SONNET.

BY JAMES STUART.

[From the British Press, May 14, 1810.]

ARISE, O my Love! near yon dew-spangled bower, That waves its green boughs in the soft-sighing gale The king of day breaks on the hawthorn's white flower, That hangs on the brow of the wood-cinctur'd vale.

VOL. XV.

From

From his sun-circled throne, see Morning advances,

Soft-tinging the air with his rays as he goes;

And he mingles the blush with his smiles and his glances, That his kisses have stol'n from the crimson'd-ey'd rose.

O, thou soul of my soul-Evelina, arise!

More charming thy smile than the morn's mildest hues; More modest the beam of thy love-kindling eyes,

Than the lily, when, rifled, she weeps in her dews.

More serene is thy face, with beauty's blush beaming,
Than yon blue vault above, at the dawning of day,
When the sun's trembling light, o'er the azure arch streaming,
Has embosom'd the heavens in glory's pure ray.

The richness of wild-honey dwells on thy lip;
Such sweets lie enclos'd in the bean's snowy flower,
And tempt the wing'd bee its soft nectar to sip,

Ere it melts in the dew, or dissolves in the shower.

Red, red, is that lip, with playful smiles glowing,

As the strawberry that peeps at the foot of the thorn; Or the young-ey'd moss-rose, when, in loveliness blowing, It pouts and it bends in the tears of the morn.

More fragrant thy breath than the apple's bright blossom,
Whose perfume the zephyr hath stol'n as he goes,
When trembling he pants on its half-open'd bosom,
And sighs as he leaves it to rifle the rose.

O glossy and black, as the jetty-wing'd raven,
Adown thy white shoulders thy dark tresses flow;
And thy look in the breeze, when thy ringlets are waving,
Like shadows that move o'er a surface of snow!

More fair is thy neck than the mcon-beam in motion,
Or the breast of the swan, when he floats in his pride,
And his bosom, that rests on the slow-moving ocean,
Is wantonly heav'd by the swell of the tide.

[ing,

Arise, Evelina! the sun-beam descending,
Lingers fondly with kisses thy beauty to meet;
And the heath and the wild-furze their bloomy sweets blend-
Have reserv'd all their odours, my fair-one to greet.

I will

STATUE OF THE DYING GLADIATOR.

3

I will range o'er the grove, at the foot of yon mountain,
Where, in rapture's soft notes, gently cooes the ring-dove;
And cull the fresh flowrets, that bloom near yon fountain,
And lay all their sweets at the feet of my love.

O, thou fair queen of smiles, my soul's only treasure,
O, life of my life, in thy beauty arise!

For, ah! ev'ry hour of thy absence I measure,

And number each moment that passes with sighs! In the moss-circled cave shall I never behold thee, Sweet virgin, nor gaze on thy heart-thrilling charms? In Miscother's deep wood shall I never enfold thee, Nor press thee, enchantress, again in my arms ?

Chaste child of a meek-ey'd and white-bosom'd mother, Hast thou heard the lone song that I breath'd on the breeze?

And wilt thou descend to the groves of Miscother,
And wander with me in the shade of its trees?

Thou com'st like gay spring, when, encircled with glory,
She cheers the chill'd sons of the frost with her beam,
And dissolves the cold mantle, which, icy and hoary,
Stern winter had spread on the face of the stream!

O! thus to the trav'ler, sad, feeble, and weary,
Morning's harbinger comes with her soul-cheering light;
When through the deep forest, dark, cheerless, and dreary,
He wanders alone in the storms of the night!

THE STATUE OF THE DYING GLADIATOR.

MR.

R. Chinnery's excellent Prize Poem on The Dying Gladiator*, gave rise to much emulation at Oxford. The following lines, by a Non-Academic, are deserving of preservation:

IMPERIAL Rome and trophied Greece no more
O'er prostrate realms their conqu'ring legions pour;

* See vol. xiv. p. 286.

B 2

All

All their vain hopes of boundless empire crush'd,
The victor-shout, the storm of war, is hush'd:
Yet, in the relics of a milder fame,

Still lives the Roman, still the Grecian name.
Hoar boasts of genius, rescu'd wrecks of time,
Tell their proud height, when science soar'd sublime,
And Learning there unveil'd her mystic charms—
They rul'd in arts, triumphant as in arms.

Yon carv'd memorial of their peerless skill,
Sculpture! 't was thine to model at thy will;
Who from the rude rock call'st the perfect form,
Canst soften stone, and flinty marble warm;
There has thy lavish hand giv'n all but speech,
To show how far thy wondrous art can reach :
So rich the glow thy magic chisel gives,
Through thee the Dying Gladiator lives.

His form how strongly mark'd! each swelling vein
So chastely touch'd, we read his inward pain:
Here the distended vessels scarce can hold
The raging blood-while there, congeal'd and cold,
Where ruthless Death hath press'd his heavy hand,
Life's frighted current starts at his command *.
His sinewy make proclaims his pristine might,
And marks him fashion'd for the fiercest fight-
Yet see! he droops beneath the weight of woe,
Shrunk his proud neck, his haughty head bent low;
On his swoll'n arm he rests his tortur'd frame,
His life, and, dearer still, his dying fame :
For, as he liv'd but in the public eye,
So, but for public sport, he seems to die.
His soul still thirsts, unsated, for the praise
That cheer'd his savage feats in former days;
Ere fell defeat had brought despair and shame,
And nipp'd the growing honours of his name.
Though in the grasp of Death, he strives to please;
Though torn by pangs, denies his suff'rings ease;

*One of the Commentators upon this Statue thought he could discover the torpor of death extending itself gradually from the extremities of the body.

Studious