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Poland! o'er which the avenging angel past,
But left thee as he found thee, still a waste;
Forgetting all thy still enduring claim,
Thy lotted people and extinguished name;
Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear,
That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear;
Kosciusko! on-on-on-the thirst of war
Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their Czar;
The half barbaric Moscow's minarets
Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets!
Moscow! thou limit of his long career,

For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear
To see in vain he saw thee-how? with spire
And palace fuel to one common fire.

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Thou other element! as strong and stern
To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn,
Whose icy wing flapped o'er the faltering foe,
Till fell a hero with each flake of snow;
How did thy numbing beak and silent fang
Pierce, till hosts perished with a single pang!

Of all the trophies gathered from the war,
What shall return? The conqueror's broken car!
The conqueror's yet unbroken heart! Again
The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain.
Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory,
Beholds him conquer, but, alas! not die :
Dresden surveys three despots fly once more
Before their sovereign,-sovereign as before;
But there exhausted Fortune quits the field,
And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquished yield;
The Saxon jackall leaves the lion's side
To turn the bear's, and wolf's, and fox's guide,
And backward to the den of his despair

The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair!

Oh ye! and each, and all! Oh, France! who found Thy long fair fields ploughed up as hostile ground, Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still

His only victor, from Montmartre's hill

Looked down o'er trampled Paris; and thou, isle,
Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts smile,
Thou momentary shelter of his pride,

Till wooed by danger, his yet weeping bride;
Oh, France! retaken by a single march,

Whose path was through one long triumphal arch!
Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo,

Which proves how fools may have their fortune too
Won, half by blunder, half by treachery;
Oh, dull Saint Helen! with thy jailer nigh-
Hear! hear! Prometheus from his rock appeal
To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel
His power and glory, all who yet shall hear
A name eternal as the rolling year;
He teaches them the lesson taught so long,
So oft, so vainly-learn to do no wrong!
A single step into the right had made
This man the Washington of worlds betrayed!
A single step into the wrong has given
His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven.'

The progress of the struggle for liberty in the new world leads the poet onwards to the old one. To Spain, and to the perilous but interesting condition in which she is placed, he has dedicated some verses, remarkable for the ardent martial spirit which they breathe: they stir the heart like the sound of a trumpet; all the glories of old Spain rush in a torrent upon our memories, and we feel impelled to raise voice and arm in her cause, to join her war-cry, and to assist in beating back the unjust invaders of her sacred soil.

The degradations to which Spain has of late been exposed, and to which may be ascribed the recent disorders, are admirably painted :

'The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both

By turns; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth;
The long degenerate noble; the debased
Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced
But more degraded; the unpeopled realm;
The once proud navy which forgot the helm;
The once impervious phalanx disarrayed;
The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade;
The foreign wealth that flow'd on ev'ry shore,
Save her's who earned it with the natives' gore;
The very language, which might vie with Rome's,
And once was known to nations like their home's,
Neglected or forgotten: such was Spain;
But such she is not, nor shall be again.
These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel
The new Numantine soul of old Castile.
Up! up again! undaunted Tauridor!
The bull of Phalaris renews his roar;
Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo! not in vain
Revive the cry-"Iago! and close Spain !"*
Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round,
And form the barrier which Napoleon found,-
The exterminating war; the desart plain;
The streets without a tenant, save the slain;
The wild Sierra, with its wilder troop
Of vulture-plumed Guerillas, on the stoop
For their incessant prey; the desperate wall
Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall;
The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid
Waving her more than Amazonian blade;
The knife of Arragon,† Toledo's steel;
The famous lance of chivalrous Castile;
The unerring rifle of the Catalan;
The Andalusian courser in the van;
The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid;

And in each heart the spirit of the Cid:

Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance,

And win-not Spain, but thine own freedom, France!'

The Holy Alliance receives its full meed of contempt from the indignant satirist; and of its members the Emperor of Russia is most severely handled :

"St. Iago! and close Spain!" the old Spanish war-cry.

†The Arragonians are peculiarly dextrous in the use of this weapon, and displayed it particularly in former French wars.

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Proceed, thou namesake of Great Philip's son !
La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on!
And that which Scythia was to him of yore,
Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore.
Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth,
Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth;
Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine,
Many an old woman, but no Catherine.*
Spain too hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles—
The bear may rush into the lion's toils.
Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields;
Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields?
Better reclaim thy desarts, turn thy swords

To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes,
Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout,
Than follow headlong in the fatal route,

To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure
With thy foul legions.'

After touching somewhat gently poor Louis le Desiré, he turns to England, and sneers with very bad taste at the Duke of Wellington, and sheds some passing spite upon the silent grave of the late Lord Londonderry. This is pitiful, and his praise of Mr. Canning is forced and common-place-he gives him credit for talent, when to deny it would be to peril his own judgment.

The country gentlemen and the Jews, who, in their different ways, and with different success, have aided in burdening the country, fall next under the vapulation of the poet. The Congress of Verona is introduced, and the widow of Buonaparte is justly damned to everlasting fame,' for an indecency, which, when it was first reported, must have shocked every person of right feeling.

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The imperial daughter, the imperial bride,
The imperial victim-sacrifice to pride;
The mother of the hero's hope, the boy,
The young Astyanax of modern Troy;
The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen
That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen;
She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour,
The theme of pity, and the wreck of power.
Oh, cruel mockery! Could not Austria spare
A daughter? What did France's widow there?
Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave,
Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave.
But, no, she still must hold a petty reign,
Flanked by her formidable chamberlain.

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But she appears! Verona sees her shorn

Of all her beams-while nations gaze and mourn-
Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time

To chill in their inhospitable clime;

The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter (called the Great by courtesy) when surrounded by the Mussulmans on the banks of the river Pruth.

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(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold;-
But no, their embers soon will burst the mould)
She comes!-the Andromache (but not Racine's,
Nor Homer's)-Lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans !
Yes! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo,
Which cut her lord's half shattered sceptre through,
Is offered and accepted! Could a slave
Do more or less and he in his new grave!
Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife,
And the Ex-Empress grows as Ex a wife!

So much for human ties in royal breasts!

Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests?'

The poet makes not a swan-like end,' for he bursts into a horse laugh upon a subject which may reasonably excuse that violation of the Chesterfield rules.

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My Muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt,

She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt!

While thronged the Chiefs of every Highland clan

To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman!

Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar,
While all the Common Council cry, Claymore!"

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To see proud Albyn's Tartans as a belt

Gird the gross sirloin of a City Celt,

She burst into a laughter so extreme,

That I awoke-and lo! it was no dream!

A report has been spread about that this poem is not Lord Byron's, but Leigh Hunt's. This is a weak invention of the enemy,'dare say Mr. Hunt devoutly wishes it were true.

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LETTERS ON ENGLAND.

BY VICTOIRE COUNT DE SOLIGNY.

It is not to be questioned that we live in times of unprecedented impudence. Next to the two medical practitioners who adroitly procured themselves to be knighted-those Poor Knights of Blackfriars, Sir Aldis and Sir Daniel-we think the author of these letters is entitled to the brazen crown. His effrontery and presumption can only be equalled by those his unworthy compeers, but we hardly think it is surpassed.

Impudence is sometimes amusing, when, either from its singularity or its dexterity, it defies detection, and almost disarms resentment by exciting laughter; but that paltry sort of impudence which has nothing to excuse it, and excites only unmingled disgust, is a com modity of the most worthless description. In this latter does the pseudo Count de Soligny deal by wholesale. He has assumed a title which no more belongs to him than does the country of which he pretends to be a native; and he speaks upon subjects which, from the obscurity of his own station in society, as well as from his limited capacity, he is utterly unable to comprehend. We do not know who the ingenious person may be; but we know, and we blush while we con. fess it, that he is an Englishman. No Frenchman, except the renowned General Pillet, would have ignorantly dared to libel and falsify the people, the modes, and the institutions of England; few,

very few Englishmen, besides the notable author of these letters, would have been base enough to slander their own country.

Under the false pretence, then, of a Frenchman visiting England, the author of these letters proposes to give a description of the manners which prevail here, and of the most eminent public persons connected with literature and the fine arts, at the same time presenting a sketch of the state of them. The plan is taken, as will be seen, from Peter's Letters, and, unless he could borrow an idea from some one, would be in a most pitiable plight; but it is infinitely below that amusing collection, in taste, spirit, and veracity. By way of keeping up the deception, which, however, does not extend beyond the title-page, the author gives himself out for the translator, and says he has performed his task by giving equivalent phrases instead of equivalent words, hoping thus to account for the vulgarities and slip-slop of his style. We do not say that, if he were so minded, he has not a right to take any travestimento that he chooses, but this should be only for masquerading; when he adopts the mask for the purpose of wounding the reputations and characters of his countrymen, he comes within the provi. sions of the Black Act, and must be convicted of felony in every court of literature.

His amiability, and good taste, and kindly feeling, may be learnt from some short extracts which we shall proceed to make. He arrives at Brighton, and does not hesitate to pronounce upon the English people in the following strain :

There is a hard coarseness of feature, and a repulsive coldness of manner, which, whatever of good or of beauty they may cover, are unequivocally bad in themselves; and these the English appear to me to possess in a remarkable degree. There is, besides, in all they say and do, an awkward and blundering abruptness, which is peculiarly offensive to a Frenchman. One is accustomed, too, in France, on all occasions, to give and receive a smile at meeting and at parting, even im one's intercourse with strangers. Perhaps these smiles do not mean much; but they are at least harmless. Here I never meet› with any thing like a smile, except sometimes an awkward half-suppressed one at my foreign English. This is one of the worst of rudenesses; and one to which the people here are more addicted than to' any other or perhaps it may appear so to me, because it is one which a Frenchman never falls into; though our language possesses such an. endless variety of delicacies, which foreigners, and, above all, the English, are perpetually violating. But, for the present, I willingly turn from the people to the country."

We have said the author is no Frenchman, but, if we were to collect** a thousand instances, none could show more plainly that he is a bad Englishman, than the profane way in which he has thought fit to talk about the South Downs, and the South Down mutton:

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The country, for leagues round, is one uninterrupted range of brown barren chalk-hills; on which a few lean dirty-looking sheep' tantalize their appetites by nibbling at the dry turf.'

As regards the picturesque, perhaps, the downs near Brighton may not be very beautiful-but the mutton! -The author places his countship in a boarding-house at Brighton. Upon this we have only to

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