Malheur au mortel qu'on renomme! Buffon, dès que rompant ses voiles, De ces palais remplis d'étoils Du sein brillant de l'empyrée Tu verras la France éplorée Moi, sur cette rive déserte La nature est veuve et muette; N'a plus d'elle que des regrets. Ombre divine et tutélaire; Je la suspends à tes cyprès. There is something in these verses superior to mere harmọny; they abound in elevation, and with fine thoughts, brilliantly expressed. The ode was set to music by Miss Beaumenil, and it is not surprising that Buffon shed tears of tenderness, when Madame Genlis sang to this great philosopher the last two strophes; such, however, is the charm of fine poetry, that it requires no additional aid from music. God will bless you, said the old marquis de la Fare to Rousseau, because you compose excellent verses. At a later period, he would have paid the same compliment to Lebrun. Unhappily, however, it is not always on good poets that Heaven bestows its benedictions, and seldom, indeed, does it permit the Muses to meddle with the pursestrings, or to interfere in adjusting the balance of good and evil. J. Rousseau, persecuted for a long time, died at length in a foreign land, an exile from that country which now vaunts of its having given him birth. It is true, Lebrun did not experience this misfortune; but we know that his first wife, the object of his adoration, abandoned him, and that an escroc sérénissime, pillaged the shattered remnants of his fortune. The gods, we firmly believe, select the most miserable grinders of rhyme, for the objects of their favour-at least most of our acquaintance in that branch of literature, are in very flourishing circumstances. If the author whom we are here considering, was once little known, it would be necessary to multiply quotations, and advancing no remark without proof, to carry conviction to the most incredulous mind; but the well established reputation of Lebrun, render such exertion unnecessary. We need, therefore, only say, that having attempted, in succession, every species of ode, he succeeded in all. Mr. Guingené does not hesitate to affirm, that his muse is infinitely more various than that of Jean Rousseau; nor will this assertion appear so extravagant, when we advert to the nature of the latter's odes; they are generally grave, austere, and sublime; yet it would be an act of injustice not to remark, that when his subject permits, he is full of pleasantry, grace and ease-witness the ode to a widow, addressed to M. d'Ussé, &c. But to view this subject in its proper light, we ought to consider Rousseau as the author of "psalms" and "cantates." Thence we may collect a just idea of the variety of his talent. Lebrun himself has said, of those who accuse this illustrious poet of monotony, "They see in his works nothing but the truly sublime, which is little susceptible of a playful style. The masculine strength which he then exerts, prevents their discerning the various touching, tender beauties, that are scattered through more than one of his volumes. Do they not remember that exquisitely pathetic piece, of which our tears so often spoke the eulogium?" J'ai vu mes tristes journées La clarté dont je jouis, Et dans cette nuit funeste Je cherchais en vain le reste De mes jours évanouis A chef d'œuvre of French poetry-which for its sublimity, its noble, harmonious style, is equal to any ode in our recollection, not excepting even the celebrated cantate of Circe, "where," says La Harpe, "the transport of the poet recalls to our mind that which animated the fiery steeds of Neptune, who, in three strides, accomplished a tour from one extremity of the globe to another." It is more especially in the cantates, that Rousseau, diversifying his subject with great art, displays the flexibility of his genius. To make use again of Lebrun's testimony, "the mild breath of zephyrs is not more soothing, nor the heavenly ambrosia more delicious-a river of milk and honey, could not flow with more sweetness and serenity, than the verses of Diana, of Adonis, and of Amimone." Such is the poet to whom Lebrun is placed second, in lyric and epigrammatic praise. Let him be satisfied. The second volume of this collection, comprises Lebrun's Epistles, les veillés du Parnasse left unfinished, and all the fragments which the editor could collect of the poem de la Nature. This last effusion of the Muse, had originally a more simple title, Les Avantages de la Campagne. The author's design was to prove that "a country life tends to the increase of our wisdom, makes liberty more determined, genius more sublime, and love more tender." This subject was one that would have called forth the full exertion of his talents; and it is to be regretted, that a work he valued so much, and on which he founded the most sanguine anticipations of future glory, should never have been finished; the fragments which remain, serve very much to augment our regret. Amongst the Epistles, every person of taste, will recognise with pleasure that addressed to a friend," on false and genuine humour;" in which the writer adds example to precept. This is the style of good old times. Many a poet of the present day, has arrived at the pinnacle of distinction, all of whose quartos united, would not weigh with this single epistle forming, as it does, so inconsiderable a portion of the treasure to be found in Lebrun's volumes. We have now reached that division of our poet's works, which the editor considers most amusing and agreeable-we mean the epigrams. In a momentary ebullition of spleen or good humour, there are few men who cannot indite an epigram; but to compose, leisurely, a whole volume of them, requires not only considerable talent, but a species of talent rare and peculiar. Mr. Guingené has not given to the world all those found among the papers of Lebrun, but has confined himself to a judicious selection of six hundred and thirty-six. The reader will, it is hoped, feel no disposition to carp at this abridgment. "Every thing has been omitted, aimed at persons now living, every thing elicited by political controversy during the revolution, and, in short, whatever seemed unworthy the company of its fellows." With such judicious principles of exclusion, we can hardly complain; and must therefore make the most of the stinted portion meted out to us Ce ne sont que les bonnes gens says Lebrun. According to this mode of estimating worth, our author should be a paragon of perfection, since his epigrams are not less numerous than excellent. In that concise and biting tournure which delights us in the verses of Lebrun, he is inimitable. Unlike the generality of writers, whose witty conceptions often lose their effect, by being cramped into awkward rhymes, his phraseology generally adds very much to the thought. Epigrams against the academy and academicians, against fools and philosophers, women, and in short, the whole world, were the inexhaustible topics with which he charmed the lovers of wit and malignity. They are all so good, that we would willingly extract the whole of them; but this being impossible, we must confine ourselves to the selection of a fewgiving the post of honour to the academy. This curious body, has long been regarded as a subject quite stale and hackneyed, till the ingenuity of Lebrun contrived to strike out new points of ridicule. Innumerable are the epigrams it has furnished him. Jadis le P'inde grec comptait dans son empire Un Apollon, et neuf doctes beautés, Qui, sous le nom de Muse, inspirèrent sa lyre; D'Apollons soi-disant trente au moins sont comptés, On the creation of the Institute, Lebrun was nominated a member, but it is a piece of justice to say that he did not renounce his privilege of ridiculing it.— Tous ces beaux esprits qu'on assemble Et l'on rebâille à l'Institut." We know that he did not yawn less, at the meetings of the society, and that he took very little interest in its proceedings. In the year 11, the whole institution underwent a new organiza. tion, and Lebrun being now, in turn, one of the forty whom he had so much hissed before, yawned still more than ever. Our readers, will call to mind, perhaps, the sneering distich which he uttered on the adjournment of a sitting dedicated to the famous Dictionary. On fait, défait, refait ce beau dictionnaire, Qui, toujours fort bien fait, reste toujours à faire. And on another occasion he gave the following epigram: Aux quarante. Dans vos fauteuils honorifiques Dormez aussi, beaux endormeurs. Bravez les malignes clamcurs. Qu'importent que des Frérons braillent, Et vous montrent toujours les dents; |