'MELANGE IN ENGLISH AND FRENCH.
M. MARIN DE LA VOYE'S Melange is in truth a literary curiosity. The author is a native of France ; and lie tells us, that a very few years ago, he could not be understood in England without an in- terpreter. At present he is peritus utriusque ling rue ; and writes poetry, or verse at least, with as much apparent ease in English as . in French,—and not merely verse, but blank verse. His ambition to compose blank verse, lie says, arose out of the ridicule attached in the minds of some of his Mends to the idea of a Frenchman's even attempting to write blank verse in English. The author's success is indeed remarkable : both the versification and the ideas of the different poems in this Melange are equal if not superior to the productions of the run of our poet minores. An example may satisfy the curiosity of our readers : we judge the author not only to be a man of talent, but of esprit.
The following passage is taken from the poem called "Sunrise."
Crime is a coward that a shadow frights; It hates the day, and only breathes in nights Of darkest hue 'Twill cross the torrent surge, But shrink at human voice ; and, like.a.dirge, It hears in hollow caves the howling blast Telling its doom ; detects the footsteps fast Of horrid death in every leaf that falls Bustling upon the grolind. The shrieking calls
Of owls, are groans that gurgle through the blood Of murdered groans
or idiot cries, in flood Suppressed, of cherub slain.—O, wretched state ! Long days of dread !—Yet men will bear the weight With seeming preference, and live and die, By choice, sad monuments of misery !
Hark ! how the busy hum of nature swells! Nor pine, nor bush, nor lowly weed, but tells, With smiling looks, the presence of the morn— Pervading glance of God ! exhaustless horn Of Mercy's gifts, that pours from shore to shore, On all alike, the treasures of its store.
Borne on the wind, sonorous, hear that bell— It chimes for matin prayer. Each silent cell, Soon populate, will pour its share of praise, And then the cloister vaults their voice will raise To rend the peaceful vale with holy lays.
Now, now ! the exulting peal, harmonious, breaks And moves the pile, and walls and turrets shakes! Ay, louder still the chorus grows : the sheep, Attentive, cease to browse ; and, buried deep In seeming reverie, the lambs are still, While shepherds feel within a pious thrill That warms their souls, and kneel beside the hill.
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