despair at the loss of his happiness seems to enter his mind—he has no consciousness of his voluntary descent into mortality—no apparent knowledge of himself as being more than a man. The whole effect is manqiiihy this curious failure on the part of the poet even to identify his own conception: he would seem either to have forgotten it altogether, or to have felt himself unable to grasp the idea of a loftier nature than that of humanity, or to think of an angel as anything beyond the handsome youth with flowing hair which painters have taken as the type of heavenly existence. Thus, once more, everything that is desirable in life comes to be represented by kisses and languishing looks, by the mutual self-absorption of two beings, who find a somewhat monotonous heaven in each other's arms, and around whom the world may tremble or be convulsed, and all the race of man disappear, without even awakening them from their private raptures. All this, however, let the reader remember, is combined with the most perfect virtue. It is connubiality rendered improper, and domesticity made indecent; but there is no idea of evil in the whole matter; it is virtue, only too sweet, too fond, too loving—maudlin and nasty if you please, but virtue all the same.
We are glad to be able to retire out of this sickly sweetness to the better atmosphere of the fugitive poems, those meditations and harmonies, which, if never reaching the highest level of poetry, are still expressive of many of the gentler feelings of the heart, its languors and sadness, its tender recollections, and that vague melancholy which, there can be little doubt, gives so much of its charm to nature. In this point of view, as a reflective and descriptive poet, giving a harmonious medium of expression to many a gentle, voiceless soul, Lamartine will probably long retain his place in the estimation of his countrymen. His longer poems are, we trust, as dead by this time as they deserve to be, and we feel a personal necessity to remove the sickly odour which they leave behind them by one more return to the native soil which gave him strength, and filled him with an inspiration more wholesome and sweet than sentiment. Here is Milly once more, the beloved home, with all its gentle habits and daily life—but this time in melodious verse, which we venture to put into a very literal English version:—
Then come in turn the many cares of day—
To reap the fields, the gathered grain to lay
On the heaped carts, before the rain-cloud rent
By sudden lightning from its gloom has sent
Quick-failing floods to swell the ripened ear,
Or stain with white decay its golden cheer;
Gather the fruit that falls from trees bereft;
Call back the bees to homes this morning left
The laden branch weighed down with wealth sustain;
Clear the choked runlet from its sandy stain.
Then tend the poor, who, stretching empty hands,
Asking for pence or bread in God's name stands;
Or widow, who, from souls untouched by fears,
Alms of the heart, asks tears to swell her tears;
Or hopeful counsel on the unthrifty shed,
Give orphan work, and to the sick a bed:
Then 'neath the trees at noon a pause is made—
Masters and servants, talking in the shade
Of wind that rises, of bright skies that pale,
Of the thick clouds that fall in whitening hail,
The boughs by caterpillars eaten black,
The ragged brier that tears the scythe's edge back.
Then come the children: 'midst them, in her place,
The mother teaches of God's name and grace;
Or half-spelt words are murmured, homelier lore,
Or numbers, finger-counted o'er and o'er;
Or trains them, thread from lint or wool to win,
Or weave their garments from the thread they spin.
Thus toil on toil from hour to hour goes on,
Till gently, lo! the working-time is done:
The full day softly falls; eve comes, and we
Beside the door sit on the fallen tree,
And watch the great wain heaped with odorous grass,
The gleaners following where its slow wheels pass;
The herdsman leading back from field and wood
The heavy-uddered goats; in grateful mood,
Charged with the gifts the kindly vale bestowed,
The beggar passing bowed beneath his load.
Behind the hill, in mists of gold, the sun
With love we watch go down, his journey done;
And as his great round, dropping, drowned in shade,
Broideries of gold or sombre furrows made,
We fix the fortunes of the coming morn,
If to dim skies or radiant brightness born.
Thus to the Christian eye life's darkening eve
Promise of bright days after death can give.
The angelus sounds soft when fails the light,
Convoking spirits blest to bless the night.
All darkens with the sky: the soul is still,
The memories of the dead come back at will;
