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After having, herself, in vain exerted

To him but the beasts' pity to infuse

On their issue, when bread she heard 'em refuse,
She a glass opened-no chance averted

Her desperate fall-they found her a corpse,

Mangled and smashed, the streets shocking bloodscene,
Which might 've been spared by a timely divorce.
Now learn, husbands, from her husband's remorse,
In your wife's distress with love t'intervene,
Lest on you, like him, entail bad Cain's curse !'

Notwithstanding that this unfortunate lady was under the dire necessity of precipitating herself from the window, our poet by no means discountenances matrimony, but expresses his contempt for the traducers of that blissful state in the following vehement terms:

'It is, forsooth, a due, fine quotation,

When, bloated ladies or fippish young men,
Seduced, seducers, dare throw derision
Upon the faithful's sacred connexion,

Sworn on the Altar, affirmed with the pen-
An oath, oft apt, now to profanation.'

A penchant towards the softer sex animates the following sonnet, descriptive of Ostend as seen by the poet, and shows a playfulness of expression not to be found in poets of our cold-blooded race:

'A fishermen's spot-as well of fashion,

Quaint, elegant, dull and yet much lively.
Once, about, noon, at the tide's progression.
Fair bathers, I there saw jut out tiny
Boxes'-o dear mayflies-and immersion

Undergo in silk costumes much tidy ;
Those motley nimphs long drew my attention,
As pale patients, Tourists, in busy
Merriment, thronged over the parterre

Wall of the Casino adjacent, stand

Shouting, when by the waves hid those appear
Soon afloat, their hair in a ruffled gear;

At night, still more romantic that white strand
By iris seas lashed to view, and to hear.'

Whether any of the 'motley nimphs' who then engaged his attention exercised any influence upon his destiny, we are unable to gather from the Meyerbeer's Record; but the purity of his emotions on beholding those dear mayflies' is evident from the following:

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'Love to be true love, must have a knowledge

Of what is required to embellish life;
For, brutes also love, but in the bondage

Of instinct, instead of a godly strife
For purer feelings-their love is savage.

Beware of those whose notions are: man, wife,
Alone love eachother, else 's dotage-
The dull youths may grow presently rife.

A soaring mind must as control our frame,
And not level it with a material state;
Apparent sentiment-mere strategem,
May one draw to it, the heart to satiate
Finding it a worm in lieu of a gem,

Best 's to forego-Love must nobilitate.'

Our poet is a cosmopolitan, and distributes his favours over the face of the globe in a manner somewhat confusing. He dedicates sonnets to Jerusalem, London, the Paris Exhibition, the Suez Canal, and Ostend. The latter we have laid before our readers; and as they will no doubt be curious to learn what impression our metropolis has made upon this master-mind, we give here in full his sonnet on

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From the foregoing quotations it will be seen that the poet has so thoroughly mastered our language as to render his graphic delineations in a style not to be approached even by a native of our sea-girt isle. But this is not his only attainment. He is, like Longfellow, a linguist of unusual capacity, and consequently we are favoured with translations from various languages; amongst others is one from the German, To My Mother,' which, the translator observes, is My Translation from Heine's Sonnet.' Whether this observation is made from a fear of the translation being appropriated by some envious poet, or simply to prevent its being confounded with those of Heine's other translators, we are not in a position to state; but we consider that in either case the assurance is somewhat superfluous. He begins thus:


'My custom is to raise my head much high;'

an assertion which we believe Heine would not feel inclined to gainsay. Our author is acquainted with the language of the gipsies, and consequently is enabled to give us The Psalm I. in the Gypsies tongue : a branch of the Hindostanee and Sanskrit.' This performance we shall not attempt to criticise; we can only contemplate it with admiration. To those who are not colloquially acquainted with that idiom, it may be interesting to know that

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The source from which our poet's linguistic knowledge is drawn is seen in the following votive offering, rather equivocally entitled:

'No Petty Antagonism. To
During my stay at Paris-my sick heart,

Rudely been tried by a domestic fate
Grievously I mourned in many lands' part-
Had no friends with, its pains to mitigate;
Oft slighted, forgot, as one did not rate

Letters-except of Exchange-'spite Print's art,
Libraries' address, clerks office' bought prate-
Enough, if serious, work to all impart-
No chance cheered me-till I met thee, good soul,
Devoted in purest philantropy:

Occupation to bid, tutors console.

Rejoice in Heaven-Dean of Philology,

Father to the linguist, as, thy kind call,
Force of speech and mind-cleared Difficulty.'


The reader will have observed that this sonnet is in the form of an acrostic, dedicated to the good soul' the Dean of Philology,' who had guided the author's steps through the bewildering labyrinth of languages, and whom he enjoins to rejoice in Heaven for having done his best to destroy the influence of the confusion of tongues'!


The foregoing pages will doubtless induce many of our readers to peruse the English sonnets on Shakespeare and Dante's centenary.' I have no hesitation in saying that during the last century no writer has so much enriched our language as the author of Meyerbeer's Record. I shall take leave of our author by subjoining his sublime dream of the future, in which he unites profundity of wisdom with fine poetic fancy :

'When Lesseps' great works will attain their end,

And through the Isthm be, long, steamed the passage
How marvellous would sound, once, a Message
From Europe, Africa, Asia, to blend

With Australia, America, and send

Israel, across that Pharao's visage,

With love, back to his Land, as the presage
Of his Scriptures: if, scattered, he'ld amend.
So then, a most glorious, most solemn Day,

Which, ne poverty, wealth, nor martyrdom,
Could waive from its believers yet away.
And by those times who shall e'er tell what may

Still spring from that Isthm, b'sides the Jews' kingdom
Restored-th' East repolished?-th'end to men's fray?'



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UNDER the mistletoe-bough :'

Not in the far-away British Isles, But here in the West it is glimmering now,An exile from home, of three thousand miles. And the leaves are as darkly fresh and green, And the berries as crisply waxen white, As they show to-night, in so many a scene, In old England's halls of light.

Quiet it hangs on the wall,

Or pendent droops from the chandelier, As if never a mischief or harm could fall

From its modest intrusion, there or here! And yet, how many a pulse it has fired,

How many a lip made nervously bold, When youthful revel went on, untired,

In the Christmas days of old!

The lover's heart might be low,

And the love of his lady very high, With no one her inmost heart to know,

Or the riddle to read of the haughty eye; But under the mistletoe fairly caught,

What maiden coyness or pride could dare To turn from the kisses sudden as thought, And ardent as waiting prayer?

C'est le premier pas qui coûte:

So they say in another far-away land;
And, the one kiss given, more follow, its fruit,
As the dullest can easily understand;
And then, of the end to come who knows,

Save the village-bells, and the welcome priest, And the sister-maidens, with cheeks like the rose, Who assist at the bridal feast?

Methinks, if the shamrock green

Is the leaf so dear to an Irish heart, To the mistletoe-berry's silver sheen

England's love has been owing no minor part;

And greenly its stiff-set leaves have twined
Round many a tenderest bridal-nest,
Since that saddest of tales all hearts enshrined
In the lay of the Old Oak Chest.'

What matter if centuries long

Have hidden a part of the mystery deep
That lay in the Druid's reëchoing song,

When it glisten'd in Stonehenge's mighty heap?
For enough still remains to make sure the truth,
That it symboll'd the great Perennial Good;
And they saw from its joints springing Endless Youth,
That the force of the ages withstood.

Little sprig from the Mother-land,

It is pleasant and cozy to have you here,
When the festive and lovely waiting stand

On the verge of their varying Christmas cheer.
Though we cannot transplant your pride of growth
Any more than the hawthorn wayward and coy,
You can give us still the old English troth,
And a thought of old English joy.

New York, U.S. December 1874.


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