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CHINESE POETRY.

We extract the following from a work published at the press of the Hon. East India Company in China, in 1824:—

INSIDE OF THE LADIES' OR RETIRED APARTMENTS.

Young Leang now saw that the book-stands were filled with books row after row; And perceived that the flowers in every direction sent forth their fragrance.

On the table lay the pearly dulcimer, with its silver strings,

And in the brazen vase, was lit a stick of famed incense.

The silver song and pearly flute, hung against the wall,

And in the corner was placed a double set of dice with the chess board.

On each side of the room were suspended ancient drawings, and elegant stanzas ; And the newly blown flowers were arranged in a line.

A CHINESE DWELLING.

"To obtain the building," said he, “I will not grudge a thousand pieces of gold, And will order the joiner to build a good room for a study.

The back-garden shall be laid out with the choicest taste;

To the west of which shall be raised the evening-fragrant hall.

By the side flowers, I will erect a winding railing,

That the eastern wind may send forth the fragrance of every rare flower;

To the north shall be built the Secluded-spring room.

Where framed flowers, of every kind, shall be arranged on each side.

From thence a spring of water shall flow to the pond,

While the basin, for the gold and silver fish, shall appear in front of the garden;
On each side shall be planted the delicate drooping willow,

And near to each other, shall be the red and white water lilies.

The room for observing the passing clouds, shall front the east,

And be ornamented with divers colours to reflect the evening's splendour,

In two rows shall be planted the peach and black bamboos,

While the red railings shall lead to the hall of delightful odours.

In front of the hall shall grow many a rare shrub,

And handsome pans of brown flowers shall be arranged on each side;
To the south shall be raised a temple to the green plum,
Whose pillars shall be inlaid with five different colours.

A hill shall be formed with stones of grotesque appearance,
On which birds and strange beasts shall appear in motion,
Its beautiful appearance shall excite the envy of the gods,

While its lovely prospect shall surpass the garden of the immortals.

In the London Evening Post, of October 10, 1771, is the following advertisement from the late celebrated Dr. Parr :

The Rev. Mr. Parr, late assistant to the Rev. Dr. Sumner, of Harrow, has purchased a large and commodious house at Stanmore, in Middlesex, late in the occupation of Lady Mary Tryon, and has prepared it for the reception of young gentlemen. His terms are twenty-six guineas for teaching and board, and six guineas entrance.

Mr. Parr will open his school on Monday the 14th instant, and he will take care to provide the best masters for dancing, fencing, and all proper accomplishments.

N.B. As a report, highly prejudicial to my character, has been circulated in respect to my conduct on Thursday last, I find myself under the necessity of publicly denying it. I neither advised, directed, nor encouraged the unhappy disturbance, into which the young gentlemen were hurried. I used every method in my power to check their violence, and gave them the most favourable, and, I must add, just representation of my competitor's deserts. For the propriety of my behaviour I appeal to every person who saw me that day.

October 17, 1771.

VOL. I.

SAMUEL PARR.

M

POETRY AND PROSE.

Dr. Darwin draws the following just distinction between poetry and prose, in one of his interludes of the Botanic Garden:

Next to the measure of the language, the principal distinction between poetry and prose appears to consist in this—that poetry admits of but few words expressive of very abstracted ideas, whereas prose abounds with them. And, as our ideas derived from visible objects are more distinct than those derived from the objects of our other senses; the words expressive of these ideas belonging to vision, make up the principal part of poetical language. Pope has written a bad verse in the Windsor Forest

And Kennet swift for silver eels RENOWNED.

The word renowned does not present the idea of a visible object to the mind, and is thence prosaic. But change this line thus:

And Kennet swift, where silver graylings play

It becomes poetry, because the scenery is then brought before the eye.

How elaborately Dr. Darwin formed his own poetry, upon this principle is known to every reader of the Botanic Garden and the Temple of Nature. Nothing is there abstracted-but every thing is placed before the eye in the full luxuriance of particular imagery. Yet, it sometimes betrayed him into ludicrous personification. There is surely something asinine, for example, in the following description:

Then, on soft tiptoe, NIGHT approaching near
Hung o'er the tuneless lyre his sable ear;
Gemm'd with bright stars the still ethereal plain,
And bade his nightingales repeat the strain.

These lines close the Botanic Garden: but what a violent image is that of night! Who would not suppose it was a donkey hanging his long ears over the "tuneless lyre"?

A person was boasting, in Foote's presence, of the extraordinary facility with which he could commit any thing to memory, when the modern Aristophanes said he would write down a dozen lines in prose which he would not repeat, from memory, in as many minutes. A wager was instantly laid, and Foote produced the following:

So she went into the gardens to cut a cabbage leaf to make an apple pie; and at the same time a great she bear coming up the street, pops its head into the shop. What, no soap? So he died, and she very imprudently married the barber; and there were present the Picninnies, and the Joblillies, and the Garyulies, and the grand Panjandrum himself, with the little round button at top; and they all fell to playing the game of catch as catch can, till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their boots.

Such a mass of unconnected nonsense defied memory, and the wit won his wager.

TO THE METHODIST.

Oh say not that sorrow like pain is our doom,

That in penance and tears we existence must spend!
This beautiful world to o'ershadow with gloom
Attempt not, nor vainly with nature contend!
Say, wherefore our strong social impulses given,
If in joy to converse with our species be sin?
If worthless renown, why resistlessly driven
By peril and toil reputation to win?

Say, why ev'ry nerve, ev'ry pulse in our frame

To sweet names of kindred throbs yearningly true,

If no more of love than a stranger may claim
To parent, child, brother, or consort be due?

Would nature so lavishly charm ev'ry sense,

If but to be vanquished were senses bestow'd?
Would science, wit, genius, such rapture dispense,
From their culture if guilt and impiety flow'd?
Then, what tho' enthusiast zealots may rave
Of devotional feelings unearthly as these?
That beneficent God all our feelings who gave
By unnatural sacrifice think not to please.
Our instincts, our reason, sense, passion, and wit,
All are portions alike of Omniscience' plan,
That temp'ring each other, harmoniously knit,

Their union might form the perfection of man.
Nor were they bestow'd, those emotions and powers
To torture, enthrall'd-or down-trampled, decay,
But our arduous path to embellish with flowers,
To ennoble, enlighten, and sweeten life's day.
On the beauties by nature profusely display'd
Let thy senses then revel in holy delight.-

On the mountain, the rock, the embrown'd forests' shade,
The measureless ocean's tempestuous night,

Or transparent expanse that of emerald hue,

Glitters bright in the sunshine with undulous swell, On the silvery moon in her realm of deep blue,

Let thine eyes with inebriate luxury dwell.

Of the fragrance that breathes from the earth and the air,
And Flora's gay children, the perfume inhale ;

Let thine ear drink the music, untutor'd by care,

That resounds from the woodland, that floats on the gale.

Nor deem it less innocent joy to admire

Of genius possess'd by thy fellows the fruit;
Art's self is but Nature; th' unquenchable fire
Her boon, that distinguishes man from the brute.
Then revel uncheck'd in the wonders of art,

Of the pencil, the chisel, the lyre's golden strings;
And bless the rich gift, over mind, sense and heart,
Her spell ether-woven, when pocsy flings.

Let the theatre's witch'ry, the actor's rare skill,
An hundred fold force to her talisman give,

And passion's impetuous sympathies thrill,

The soul that now seems but for laughter to live.

Thy faculties quicken, invig'rate, refine;

The heights, and the depths of each science explore;
Let thy fancy and wit, vivid meteors, shine
Enrich'd with all fable's, all history's lore.
And to tender affections surrender thy heart,
Ev'n to passionate love, so its ardour be pure;
Take freely in gay social converse thy part,

Nor ev'n fashion's enjoyments austerely abjure.
Nor in study nor pleasure pollution suspect,
While no eye by thy fault is bedimm'd with a tear,
While the blissful possession's unbought by neglect
Of the duties allotted to each in his sphere.

M. M.

М?

ODE TO THE YEAR 1831.

BY UN AMICA, ED AMATORE DELLA POESIA ITALIANO.

The following is one of several translations we have received of the Italian Ode which graced our last number (p. 88); and while thanking our correspondents collectively, they will perceive we have selected that which has caught the inspiration of the poet with the greatest energy.

1.

ARISE! brandish the warlike spear! wave on thy forehead the helmet's plume! descend to the field thou minister of fate: for oh! how many things are expected of thee! In the road which Time points out to thee, may ev'ry step be deeply traced: to the people may it prove a joyful memento, but to kings an awful remembrance!

2.

Oh! should'st thou complete the sublime work, for which fate has made thee its minister, thy name in the list of great events, shall be called the grand year of sacred redemption. Glorions in a harvest of laurels, splendid in dazzling rays, blessed among years shalt thou be, in the voice of ev'ry age.

3.

Human reason, thy forerunner, with hasty strides, is seeking the same end; even in Austria she is secretly wandering, and in Russia she opens to herself a road; and while flashing her eternal torch, as she passes along, she thus continually repeats, Arise! arise! ye languid mortals, I am the dawn of thy new day.

4.

At these words, which the echo repeats, Gaul (already roused), Helvetia, Brabant, and Sarmatia, forming a large circle around, vie with each other in patriotic valour; and such words are like winds from the south, fanning the raging flashes of an awful conflagration, while the excited people, agitated by new fury, become even flames themselves.

5.

From the summit of the snowy Alps, to the top of the flaming Etna, she gigantically passes, and repasses; and thus she speaks to Italy: Bind on thy helmet, lay down thy mitre, O ancient mistress of the world! Rouse thee! rouse thee, from thy deep sleep, for I am the dawn of thy new day.

6.

That hyperborean bird of prey, the enemy, who fixes his double beak in thy breast, whose hunger is never satiated, but even by nourishment increases; who destroys thee, devours thee, tears thee, whilst thou wilt not shake off thy fatal sloth? nor sever the twin heads, by a noble impulse of hallow'd fury?

7.

Splendid torches of brilliant examples from a distance glance at thee, and thou, of what art thou thinking? why dost thou delay when Fortune would second thy daring? he who scourges thee with a rod of iron, sneeringly laughs at thy distress, and exclaims in the malignancy of his soul, He who suffers deserves to suffer.

8.

Where now (it is said) are the descendants of the Scipios and the Bruti? Behold them there! is the reply, among that herd of beaten slaves.-Has Italy no other heroes to show, than those of broken stones? Such are the inquiries deridingly made to each other, even to the very coward, who makes cowards of thee.

9.

Swallow again, ye proud mockers, the poison which has tainted your lips, for in that One who conquer'd you all, has Italy shown you her children! That tremendous giant of war! Hast thou forgotten that he was born her offspring? and hat the great soul who dazzled the world was a spark of the Italian sun?

10.

His power against the attacks of his enemies was as a solid rock against the winds; and as a cedar raises itself above the wild forest-plants, so was he exalted above the common race of kings. To his own hand in the book of fate, both peace and war were consign'd, and those tyrants who now oppress the land stood then all trembling at his feet.

11.

His vivid light is set, and they have risen from their depths profound, as the shadows arise again upon the earth when the sun disappears from the world.-Ye dark shadows of a northern night! in the land of sun condensed! Ye shades of darkness vanish! disappear! I am the dawn of thy new day.

12.

Thus said (still flashing her torch) the forerunner of the day of peace; and the agitated flame seem'd almost consciously to redouble its splendour, while the shades thus driven before it, in eager contact, appear'd wandering around, and at the announcement of an approaching day, Italy shakes off her unworthy torpor.

13.

To arms! cries the warlike Sabaudia !-To arms! cries the bold Liguria! and Insubria, Emilia, Etruria, at these words, all brandish their steels; from the heights of the snowy Alps, to the top of the flaming Etna, all swear to tear the bird of prey from its nest.

14.

Ye monsters who have shed human blood! who have punish'd even thoughts and desires; e'en now from the vial of God's wrath, does the smoke of that blood arise, and the pale vapours of exhalation form silently into a cloud, in whose bosom thunder-bolts are forging, but I know not on whom they will fall.

15.

Thou birth-place supreme of the fine arts, thou country of genius divine, thou trodden-down garden of Saturn! thy fate will soon be changed. Ye brothers who languish in bonds! your chains shall soon be broken! Ye brothers who suffer the yoke! that yoke ye shall tread under foot!

16.

Sound forth, O my genius inspired! that the Eternal has made thee his prophet, that the year of glorious redemption, for Italy, now spreads her wings! But if indolent Italy sleeps, if she still adds delay to the work,.... Here the voice of the exiled bard, with a heart-rending sigh, expired.

MOONLIGHT.

A METRICAL BALLAD.

By Incognita.

'Twas the dead of the night when Agatha stole
From beneath her mother's eye;

And she paused not to mark the light clouds roll
O'er the queen of the midnight sky.

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