. 
1809.] 
Yes, o’er this land of lawgtvers were spread 
The fairest blossoms which adorn’d his head ; 
The laws here triumph’d in their native 
ground, 
The sfirit, and the substance, here he found. 
VoLTAIRE might aim his irony and wit; 
Yet often, while the mark he strove to hit, 
‘The arrow on the shooter’s breast recoil’d, 
His art was frustrated, his fancy foil’d. 
While he his many-mingled simples press‘d, 
He sew not poison in the juice confessed 3 
Deep drank his country of the envenemed 
bowl, 
And madness now fires each licentious soul, 
Reusseauv a Frenchman! He despised 
the name; 
On other sentiments he built his fame: 
Nof for Parisian-converse was he born ; 
Their music, and their manners, were his 
scorn. 
Fancying the spacious universe he loved, 
Jn his small sphere a misanthrope he roved; 
A victim to his discontent and pride, 
Without a real friend, he lived and died. 
By these instructors was our judgment 
form’d ? 
By these, ovr taste inspired, our fancy 
warm’d ? 
Doubtless, from them our flimsy novels rose 3 
From. them, such verse as Della Crusca’s 
flows: 
From them our frigid plays with plots so 
deep, ; 
Which run nine nights, and sink in endless 
sleep. 
But long ’ere they began their fated course, 
Our’s was wit, genius, elegance, and force. 
Ere they a single sprig of grace had won, 
Boccacio, Danre, ARtosTo, shone: 
From Greece and Virgil, Tasso caught hi 
fire, 
And strung for high heroic notes the lyre. 
Sunk in barbarian ignorance was France, 
‘Taste had not darted there her slightest 
glance, 
When Spain, besprinkled with Castalian dews, 
Beheld her Epic, and her Comic Muse; 
‘When wit and humour to CERVANTES gave; 
Lo free from maddening errantry the brave. 
When Tagus heard the trump which Ca- 
MOENS blew, 
As to Heaven’s glorious arch aloft he flew ; 
When Spenser pour’d his energy of strain, 
And all the polish’d virtues join’d his train ; 
When Surrey, form’d in camps or courts to 
shine, 
Tun’d his melodious notes to Geraldine 5 
O’er every bard, when Mitton fix’d his 
rule, : 
The noblest pupil of the Italian school. 
But who to SHAKESPEARE gave that mae 
gic skill, 
To turn and wind the passions at his will? 
What masters form’d his bold and ardent 
mind? ; 
Greeks, Romans, and Italians, lag behind, 
Original Poetry, 
401 
France, and her sons, are wrapt in pale deve 
pair, 
At what immense an interval—VortTaire! 
Bacon, untutor’d shot his fulgid ray, 
And the dark wilds of science blazed witl 
day. ie 
By whom was Locx®’s perspicuous plan de- 
sign’d, 
When he unravelled all the powers of mind? 
Who taught our Newron WNature’s laws 
to trace, 
And bade his hands that ancient veil displace, 
Which none e’er raised before from Isis’ face ? 
In France, what genius, what invention 
- ‘flows? 
What is her utmost baast but polished prose ? 
Where has she reached the nervous, the subs 
lime! 
Her best of poetry, is prose in rhime. 
Her pigmy merits let her still possess 3 
Her art of writing is the art of dress: 
dasy, familiar, sprightly, lo, she plays, 
And turns a thought a thousand different 
ways. 
With many alily decks her barren ground, 
And many blooming roses sca:ters round. 
But this allowed—I grant her not a name, 
6¢ Dear as Achaian worth to lettered fame 5” 
In vain your much-loved nation you advancey 
Ske ever was, and ever will be, France: 
Like Greece, or Britain, never can she shine; 
Our’s are the great originals divine! 
ee 
SONNET 3 
BY THE TURKISH POET, BAUK!, TRANS 
LATED BY SIR WM. OUSELEY, 
66 Dil griftar ser zulfung oldi om 
Sabr ser panebeh shehbauz oldi, Sev? 
oe 
MY heart has been a captive bound in thy 
flowing ringlets ; 
My patience, like the dove, has yielded to thy 
vulture grasp. 
Yet I am delighted with these odours which, 
the western gale now brings, 
For this enchanting fragrance, proclaims the 
approach of my beloved. 
I am one whose life depends on a harsh sen- 
‘tence from thy lips; 
I fear to offend by disclosing the secret of my 
love. 
My thoughtless friends, whilst they enjoy the 
banquet and the minstrel’s song, 
Reproach me for having retired to the desert, 
like a pensive hermit. 
Despair not, O Bauki! thy miseries cannot 
long continue, 
Death must soon terminate them, or a smile 
frem thy mistress make thee happy. 
PROCEEDINGS 
