My breast now scarce can yield him food, The soldier on the lady gazed, And shook with awe;-his sword he raised, With tramp of strength, and battle-cry, Before that charge of pale despair, Were torn, and dashed, and driven; Between those double powers hemmed in, Amid them Mark was pierced, and fell, In other years that noble boy, Burke's book about the French Revolution is the greatest prose work, out of all sight-since when? Ay! name its equal. It is truth. But who of mortal kind, if not inspired directly from heaven, ever spoke the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, respecting any one era of this world's destiny, any one chapter in the history of the fate of man? Destiny! Fate! Dark words and dreadful yet may the Christian use them-for the mystery they denote is not cleared up by Revelation—and finite intelligence strives to take refuge from terrors unendurable and not to be overcome, in any creed that seems to afford any shelter, though it hears God himself driving it forth in thunder, or drawing it with "a still small voice" within the shadow of his love. That what was written to pass. 66 He as might be fulfilled! That is-decreed-announced-come Of all human agencies man may speak, so far as they can be known to him; how far that may be in the case of whole nations, let him think who has all his life-long been baffled in the attempt to know one individual -himself! Thomas Carlisle seems to care little for Edmund Burke, but Christopher North cares much for Thomas Carlisle. We must speak out ere long on "The French Revolution, a History in three volumes." sumes as facts, somewhat too scornfully, the ignorance and incapacity of all other historians, somewhat too haughtily his own knowledge and his own power. Many terrible truths he utters, but the terror assuredly lies not in their being new to this generation; while he paints pictures of many an ugly customer," as if they had been among his familiars, and he had been hand and glove with the men of blood. Nor murderer nor murdered comes amiss to this critic of pure reason. He understands intus et in cute each cut-throat as he tramps by on his vocation with tucked-up shirt-sleeves, and looks after him with a philosophic smile. Danton is one of his darlings, chiefly on account of his huge bulk, vast voice, hideous aspect, and prodigious tout ensemble; Mirabeau, whom he knows better, he is never weary of describing, by his physical qualities, and stands with open mouth and uplifted palms, “wondering, and of his wondering finds no end," at that black bushy fell of hair. Now here are two sets of stanzas, which we venture to prefer to all he has written about the same personages in his portentous prose-prose that may defy the world. The one set are simple, the other elaborate, but both effective; and our excellent Carlisle must admit that our New Contributor, and Christopher too, knows Louis XV., and what is more, Mirabeau, every whit as well as himself, without either of us making as much fuss about the matter as if we had found a mare's nest, with a brood of foals just chipping the shell. LOUIS XV. The King with all the kingly train had left his Pompadour behind, And forth he rode in Senart's wood the royal beasts of chase to find. That day by chance the monarch mused, and turning suddenly away, He struck alone into a path that far from crowds and courtiers lay. He saw the pale green shadows play upon the brown untrodden earth; He saw the birds around him flit as if he were of peasant birth; He saw the trees that know no king but him who bears a wood land axe; He thought not, but he looked about like one who still in thinking lacks. Then close to him a footstep fell, and glad of human sound was he, For truth to say he found himself but melancholy company; But that which he would ne'er have guessed, before him now most plainly came; The man upon his weary back a coffin bore of rudest frame. "Why, who art thou ?" exclaimed the King, "and what is that I see thee bear?" "I am a labourer in the wood, and 'tis a coffin for Pierre. Close by the royal hunting lodge you may have often seen him toil; But he will never work again, and I for him must dig the soil." The labourer ne'er had seen the King, and this he thought was but a man, Who made at first a moment's pause, and then anew his talk began ; "I think I do remember now,-he had a dark and glancing eye, And I have seen his sturdy arm with wondrous strokes the pick axe ply. "Pray tell me, friend, what accident can thus have killed our good Pierre?" "O! nothing more than usual, sir, he died of living upon air. 'Twas hunger killed the poor good man, who long on empty hopes relied; He could not pay Gabelle and tax and feed his children, so he died." The man stopped short, and then went on—' "It is, you know, a common story, Our children's food is eaten up by courtiers, mistresses, and glory." The King looked hard upon the man, and afterwards the coffin eyed, Then spurred to ask of Pompadour, how came it that the peasants died? MIRABEAU. Not oft before has peopled earth sent up so deep and wide a groan, As when the word swept over France-"The life of Mirabeau is flown!" From its one heart a nation wail'd, for well the startled sense divined A greater power had fled away than aught that now remain'd behind. The scathed and haggard face, and look so bright and strong with swordlike thought, Had been to many a million hearts the all between themselves and naught; And so they stood aghast and pale, as if they saw the azure sky Come shattering down, and show beyond the black and bare infinity. For he, while all men peer'd and gazed upon the future's empty space, Had strength to bid above the void the oracle unveil its face; And when his voice could rule no more, a thicker weight of darkness fell, And tombed in its sepulchral vault the wearied master of the spell. A myriad hands like shadows weak, or stiff and sharp as bestial claws, Had sought to steer the fluctuant mass that bore his country's life and laws; The rudder felt his giant hand, and quailed beneath the living grasp That now must drop the helm of Fate, nor pleasure's cup can madly clasp. France did not reck how fierce a storm of rending passion blind and grim Had ceased its audible uproar when death sank heavily on him; Nor heeded they the countless hours of toiling smoke and blast ing flame, That now by this one final hour were summ'd for him as guilt and shame. The wondrous life that flow'd so long a stream of all commixtures vile, Had seem'd for them in morning light with gold and crystal waves to smile. It roll'd with mighty breadth and sound a new creation through the land, Then sudden vanish'd into earth, and left a barren waste of sand. The world at first to them appeared aground, and lying shipwrecked there, And freedom's folded flag no more with dazzling sunburst filled the air; But 'tis in after years for men a sadder and a greater thing, king. O! wasted strength! O! light and calm, and better hopes so vainly given! Like rain upon the herbless sea poured down by too benignant heaven We see not stars like clouds betossed, and crash in aimless thunder peals, But man's large soul, the star supreme, in guideless whirl how oft it reels. The mountain hears the torrent dash, but rocks will not like water run; No eagle's talons rend away those eyes that joyous drink the sun; Yet man, by choice and purpose weak, upon his own devoted head Calls down the flash, as if its fires a crown of peaceful glory shed. Alas!-yet wherefore mourn? The law is holier than a sage's prayer; The godlike power bestowed on men demands of them a godlike care; And noblest gifts, if basely used, will sternliest avenge the wrong, And grind with slavish pangs the slave whom once they made divinely strong. The lamp that, 'mid the sacred cell, on heavenly forms its glory sheds, Untended dies, and in the gloom a poisonous vapour glimmering spreads. |