LAST VERSES OF THE DUC DE NIVERNOIS.

THIS venerable Peer, the negociator of the peace of 1763, died at St. Ouen, near Paris, in June, 1797, at the age of eighty-two. His poetical talents, and his friendship for Barthelemi, the author of "Anacharsis," are well known. A few hours before his death, it was recommended to have a consultation of physicians; but he declined the proposal, by addressing the following note to his friend and physician, Lacaille, who regularly attended him:

"Ne consultons point d'avocats;
Hippocrates ne viendrait pas :

"Now advocates shall plead in vain,

Hippocrates his aid denies ;

None other counsel I'll retain,

Than Nature's power, sweet Friendship's ties,

Or Death will hear them and obey:
Or Nature has pronounc'd my doom,
In thy lov'd arms no fears dismay,

Let Friendship lead me to the tomb."

LOVE SONGS.

A LITERAL translation of the love songs of the various races of mankind, from the mere savage to the enlightened European, would afford a curious display of similar sentiments, diversified with local costume. Not a few which have been applauded by elegant circles in both London and Paris, but are much inferior to the following effusion of a Finland peasant girl, which was given to Colonel Skioldebrand, as a literary curiosity, by one of the most esteemed poets of Sweden:

"Oh! if my beloved would come,

If my well-known would appear;
How my kisses should fly to his lips,

Though they were tinged with the blood of the wolf,
How I would lock his hands in mine,

Though a serpent were intervowen with them.

Why has not the breath of the wind a voice?

Why has it not a tongue

To bear my thoughts to my love,

And bring the looks to me;

To exchange the discourse of two fond hearts?

I would refuse the feasts of the Curate,

I would reject the dress of his daughter,
Rather than resign the dear object:

He whom I have tried to enslave in the summer,
And to subdue in the winter!"

DEATH OF ALFIERI.

WHEN Alfieri was near his end, he was persuaded to see a priest. When the priest came, he said to him with an uncommon affability, "Have the kindness to look in to-morrow; I trust that Death will wait for four-and-twenty hours." The sacred monitor again appeared next day. Upon his entrance, Alfieri was sitting in his arm-chair, and said, " At present I fancy I have but few minutes to spare." He begged that the Countess of Albany, widow of Charles Edward Stuart, the Pretender, and who was, as the inscription on his tomb records, "his only love," might be brought in; and at the instant he saw her, he exclaimed, "Clasp my hand, my dear friend, I die."

"PARADISE LOST."

THIS poem, when ready for the press, was nearly being suppressed through the ignorance or malice of the Licenser, who saw or fancied treason in the following noble simile:

"". As when the sun new risen

Looks through the horizontal misty air

Shorn of his beams: or from behind the moon,
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations, and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs."

This obstacle overcome, Milton sold the copyright for five pounds, ready-money; to be paid the same sum when one thousand three hundred of the books should have been disposed of, and five more pounds when a second and third edition were published. By this agreement, Milton received but fifteen pounds; and afterwards, his widow gave up every claim for eight pounds.

VOLTAIRE AND SHAKSPEARE.

AN Englishman once complained to Voltaire, that few foreigners relished the beauties of

Shakspeare." Sir," replied he, "bad translations torment and vex them, and prevent their understanding your great Dramatist.-A blind man, Sir, cannot conceive the beauty of a rose, who only pricks his fingers with the thorns."

JOHN KEATS.

THIS imaginative being died at Rome, Feb. 23rd, 1821, whither he had gone for the benefit of his health. His complaint was a consumption, under which he had languished for some time; but his death was accelerated by a cold, caught in his voyage to Italy. It is rather singular, that, in the year 1816, he expressed an ardent desire to visit these classic regions;—and, five years after, his wish was gratified.

The Sonnet, in which he expresses a hope that he may at some period visit the shores of Italy, is one of his earliest productions, and is too beautiful to be omitted in this humble tribute to his memory.

<< Happy in England! I could be content

To see no other verdure than its own;
To feel no other breezes than are blown

Through its tall woods with high romances blent;