Robert Burns in French. Ou bien encore flocons de niege au flot, Qu'on veut montrer et qui s'enfuit avant; Sa forme aimable, et qui dans l'air s'exhale- 83 We subjoin also one of the unrhymed translations, and select, for the sake of its expression, in which lies all its charm, My wife's a winsome wee thing.' The want of any thing like equivalent words in French has here imposed upon the translator a difficulty, of his conquest of which the reader must judge. C'est une charmante petite créature, C'est une belle petite créature, C'est une charmante petite créature, Que ma chère petite femme. Nous partageons les tracas du monde, Avec elle, je les supporterai joyeusement In the notice of the poet's life, which has many points of great beauty, M. de Wailly dwells with delight upon the manly independence of Burns's character, and his religious assertion of the unselfish principle which animated all his labours. The following passage, in relation to this topic, is calculated to leave a very favourable impression of the writer. "It was in vain that Thomson insisted on his accepting payment for his active co-operation in the collecting and writing of the Scottish Songs. In his opinion, this would have been an indignity offered to his muse. He therefore refused to accept any other compensation for his labour than a copy of his own exquisite poems. I am wrong-he received money. His evil destiny, thwarted by his noble independence, vowed humiliation. A hatter, to whom he owed a small sum of money, seeing his death was not far distant, brought an action against him, and would infallibly have had him arrested. The idea of imprisonment in the deplorable state of health in which he was-the fear of being separated from his family, before the final separation-nearly deprived him of reason, and forced him to have recourse to Thomson, whom he had hitherto so obstinately refused. He wrote to him a most affecting letter, begging an advance of £5. "What a discouraging example! What a heart-rending thought! Misfortune makes you its victim. In the midst of wretchedness, one sole sentiment sustains you that of your dignity. To preserve this pure and sacred in your soul, you have imposed privations upon yourself and others, sacrificing all to SELF RESPECT; and a day arrives, when this last consolation is snatched from you-when your delicacy becomes a ridiculous ill-sustained pretension-when coarse feelings seem to find their vindication and their revenge in your defeat. Lord Byron once resolved that glory should be the only revenue he would draw from the labours of his pen-yet he, wealthy, and a peer of England-he, an Englishman and a poet-he, the proudest of the proud-was obliged to act otherwise. Let his example, then, console thee in thy tomb, Robert Burns! Thou more courageous, and still more refined, for thou hadst to combat against the temptations of poverty and parental tenderness! Society will not pardon those virtues which are a perpetual commentary upon and reproach to itself. Sooner or later, they must yield in the unequal struggle." It was shortly after the revolution of July that Auguste Barbier, then a very young man, brought out the poem which, his contemporaries agree, at once raised him to the rank he has since held. We remember the author shared the enthusiasm it awakened. He was sought in the street by strangers, shaken by the hand, and congratulated with a warmth which efforts as meritorious must fail to arouse in an atmosphere of less excitement. This poem was 'La Curéc.' He followed up his success by other volumes, which had also the seal of originality upon them. Barbier is not what is ordinarily called a descriptive poet, and seldom a poet of tenderness. His inspiration is not of the mountain or the forest; the outward forms of the grand and the beautiful are not necessary to its awakening; he has found it most in the thick of cities, in truth always. He is not a bard of soft numbers, but to be noted chiefly for the characteristic boldness and manly vigour he has thrown into a form of verse not commonly deemed susceptible of either. Always harmonious he is not, but for the most part he is something better. He selects the word of his thought; it veils slightly, or lays wholly bare; but it is truth which is below, and sometimes in her rudest nakedness. He is a child of the Paris he knows so well, and has portrayed so truly. To an earlier volume he wrote one of those rare prefaces which speak this author's purpose frankly. . . . . In this uncertain world, Before the injury and uncured evil, The poet should stand forth, sublime protester In name of justice and humanity. Over Barbier's phrase there is spread no gloss. It never pitiably implores the oppressor's mercy, but ever indignantly gives voice to the wrongs of the injured. The sound the echo of the sense' sometimes to exaggeration, he forces into the ranks of his rhyme rebel words not always formed for such an office, and while he presents a lofty subject nobly, it may be admitted that The Poems of Auguste Barbier. 85, what is vile is seldom in his hands much raised from its native coarseness. To unfinished statues left by some able sculptor, his poetry may in general be not unfairly compared. Added touches would have softened, but the rude chisel has inscribed thereon the thought which guided it, and the muscles of the body have. their strength, and the lines of the face their story. Barbier deserves to be better known amongst us. He is a man of a strong and healthy mind, and has at all times scorned to lower himself to the less worthy passions and prejudices of his We could not offer clearer evidence of his power or of his character than by an endeavour to set forth his 'Idole' in an English dress: in our judgment one of the finest of his poems, and yet untranslated. We shall therefore make the attempt. The subject is Napoleon's bronze statue: of late years moulded and raised to the summit of the column, whence the allies pulled down its twin. It commences by a daring description of the casting of the figure, and is famous for the vigour of its lines on Napoleon, and on the presence of the Russian, and for the curse it courageously invokes on Buonaparte's memory. countrymen. THE IDOL. Come, stoker, come, more coal, more fuel, heap Iron and copper at our need, Come, your broad shovel and your long arms steep, To your wide furnace be full portion thrown To bid her sluggish teeth to grind, Tear and devour the weight which she doth own, A fire palace she must find. 'Tis well-'tis here! the flame, wide, wild, intense, Unsparing and blood-coloured, flung From the vault down, where the assaults commence And bounds, and howlings of delirium born, Lead, copper, iron, mingled well, All twisting, lengthening, and embraced, and torn, And tortured, like the damned in hell. The work is done! the spent flame burns no more, The iron flood boils over.-Ope the door, And let the haughty one pass by! To gulp your lava-waves earth's jaws extend, In your steel mould, O Bronze, a Slave descend, Again NAPOLEON-'tis his form appears! Hard soldier in unending quarrel, Who cost so much of insult, blood and tears, For mourning France it was a day of grief His mighty statue like some shameful thief In coils of a vile rope was hung. When we beheld at the grand column's base, And o'er a shrieking cable bowed, The stranger's strength that mighty bronze displace To hurrahs of a foreign crowd. When, forced by thousand arms, headforemost thrown, The proud mass cast in monarch mould Made sudden fall; and on the hard, cold stone Its iron carcase sternly rolled. The Hun, the stupid Hun, with soiled rank skin, Ignoble fury in his glance, The Emperor's form the kennel's filth within, Drew after him in face of France! On those within whose bosoms hearts hold reign, That hour like remorse must weigh On each French brow-'tis the eternal stain, Which only death can wash away! I saw where palace walls gave shade and ease, The waggons of the foreign force; I saw them strip the bark which clothed our trees I saw the northman, with his savage lip, In the abasement and the pain-the weight Of outrages no words make known I charged one only being with my hate, Be thou accursed, Napoleon! O lank-haired Corsican! Your France was fair, In the full sun of Messidor, She was a tameless and a rebel mare, Nor steel bit nor gold rein she bore. Wild steed with rustic flank-yet, while she trod Recking with blood of royalty, But proud with strong foot striking the old sod, At last, and for the first time, free Never a hand her virgin form past o'er Left blemish nor affront essayed, And never her broad sides the saddle bore, Nor harness by the stranger made. A noble vagrant-with coat smooth and bright, As high she reared, she did the world affright, Hot Centaur, twisting in her mane your hand, Then, as she loved the war's exciting sound, The smell of powder and the drum, You gave her Earth for exercising ground, Then, no repose for her! No nights, no sleep, And human forms like unto sand crushed deep, Barbier's Idol. And she passed smoking in her speed and force Till-tired in ne'er earned goal to place vain trust, To knead the universe and like a dust To uplift scattered human kind— She craved for rest the Corsican who rode. You pressed her harder with your nervous thigh, Choked in her foaming mouth her frantic cry, She rose-but the strife came. From farther fall She went down, pillowed on the cannon ball, And thou wert broken by the blow ! Now born again, from depths where thou wert hurled, Winging thy flight again to rule the world, No longer now the robber of a crown- With cushions of a throne, unpitying, down And France's image until death dragged on Thanks to the flatterer's tuneful race- Still sounded ceaselessly, as thro' the fight From the high suburbs, where the people crowd, Each day descend to greet the pillar proud, Thus, Gentle Monarchs, pass unnoted on! Sages, depart, as common brows have gone, For vainly You make light the people's chain- On Your own footsteps, without sweat or pain, 87 |