ART. VIII.-Paris in 1815. A Poem. 8vo. pp. 75. London. 1817. THIS is the work of a powerful and poetic imagination; but the style and expression are of very unequal merit. Occasionally uncouth, and frequently obscure, they nevertheless are often, perhaps we might say generally, suitable to the ardent inspirations which they are destined to convey. The subject of the poem is a desultory walk through Paris, in which the author observes, with very little regularity, but with great force, on the different objects which present themselves. It is evident that he visited Paris already well imbued with the local history of the town, and more particularly with that of those most interesting events which for five-and-twenty years have rendered that capital equally the object of horror and curiosity. The bias of the author's mind, both in religion and politics, is strongly adverse to the revolution and the revolutionists, and when he enters the scenes on which so many atrocious crimes have been committed, his descriptions are tinged with the deep and mellow colours of an enthusiasm against which no reader, we think, can easily defend himself. Approaching from Mont Martre, the first object that strikes our poetical traveller is the British flag which, from that remarkable eminence, floated over the haughty capital of France.—The hurried fortifications raised here by Buonaparte, symbols of What terror on the boastful land has been, are well delineated; but the stanzas, which describe the feelings of the British army when they first scaled Mont Martre, and glutted their eyes with the view of conquered PARIS, appear to us to be of a still higher strain: IX. 'War has its mighty moments:-Heart of Man! Prouder than through those gallant bosoms ran X. For this, had bled their battle round the world; And some, the blue Atlantic stemming far; And And some, a matchless band, from swarthy Spain- But all their plains to their last conquering plain Were sport, and all their trophies to this trophy vain.'-p. 5, 6. Before we proceed, we must take the opportunity of stating, once for all, that the author is sometimes extremely negligent in the construction of his Alexandrines. It requires more management than he is entitled to demand, on the part of his readers, to modulate the closing lines of the two stanzas just quoted (and there are many others ejusdem farinæ) into any thing like verse. This is a fault which no authority can sanction, and which, therefore, like the errors of Hamlet's strolling players, should be reformed all-together. On entering Paris, the author changes his metre, (on which we shall say a word hereafter,) and gives the following striking picture of the first impressions created by a sight so new to his eyes. 'The barrier's reach'd-out reels the drowsy guard; A scowl-a question-and the gate's unbarr'd. And this is Paris! The postilion's thong Rings round a desert, as we bound along Winds o'er the shrinking head the dangerous strait : Through the dark dimness of the Faubourg day; In vain the wearied eyeball strains to scale That squalid height, half hovel and half jail: Projections sudden, black, and angular, Streak'd with what once was gore, deep rent with shot, Grim loneliness!—and yet some wasted form Will start upon the sight, a human worm Clung to the chapel's wall-the lank throat bare, Or, from the portal of the old hotel, Gleams on his post the victor-sentinel,— Briton or German,-shooting round his ken, From its dark depth,—a lion from his den!'—pp. 12, 13. If, as we suspect, this passage should remind our readers of Mr. Crabbe, the following description of the lodging of one of Buonaparte's last-stake ruffians, the fédérés whom he attempted to arm in 1814, less in his own defence than for the overthrow of all order, will press the resemblance more strongly upon them. ' Heavy 1 'Heavy that chamber's air; the sunbeams fall Through the time-crusted casement scarcely shown When faction revell'd, mobs kept thrones in awe, And the red pike at once was King and Law.'—p. 16. We regret that our limits do not permit us to give the whole of But pause! what pile athwart the crowded way Below, dogs, monkies, bears, the jangling swell; Prisons, nay graves, have here their foppery.'—pp. 19, 20. He then proceeds to a more detailed description of those dreadful nights; it is all good, particularly the account of that most awful awful scene in which a priest ascended a kind of pulpit in the prison, and gave the last admonitions of piety and the last consolations of religion to the mixed and melancholy crowds of fellow sufferers who knelt before him :-but we must limit ourselves to such passages as may be most easily disconnected from the context. The following incident in that dreadful tragedy is not more powerfully given than the rest, but it is an insulated episode which will lose nothing by being quoted alone. After sketching, with the hand of a master, the bloody and drunken tribunal of that night, (drunk with wine as well as blood,) he goes on ، And now, a prisoner stood before them, wan In crimson clots, waved sabres at his side. Of one not unprepared to live or die. His judges wavered, whispered, seemed to feel He named his king!—a burst of scoff and sneer Pour'd down, that even the slumberers sprang to hear; Sprang visages already seal'd for doom; Red from their work without, in rush'd a crowd, He gazed above,—the torch's downward flame Flash'd o'er his cheek ;-'twas red,-it might be shame, He kiss'd his cross, and turn'd him to the door An instant, and they heard his murderers' roar!'-pp. 24, 25. The dreadful continuance of these scenes, and the long line of victims immolated, are thus beautifully described: The evening fell,-in bloody mists the sun Rush'd glaring down; nor yet the work was done; 'Twas 'Twas midnight;-still the gusty torches blazed Moved onward, it was added to the pile !—p. 26. From this heart-touching subject, the poet turns to the royal procession to Notre Dame in 1815; and here again his description of the objects that move before his eyes is exquisitely tinged with the colour of the thoughts that pass through his memory, and of the feelings that arise in his heart. When the Mousquetaires who had accompanied the king to Ghent (and who have been therefore, we believe, since disbanded) appeared in the procession, the applauses of the crowd (mob as it was) rent the air. 6 'Twas the heart's shout-the vilest of the vile The fatal night of the departure of this gallant band from Paris, and the melancholy festivity in which at Ghent they renewed the pledges of their devotion, are finely imagined, and (with the exception of the last line) forcibly expressed. XXXII. 'It was a dreary hour; that deep midnight, Which saw those warriors to their chargers spring, And, sadly gathering by the torch's light, Draw up their squadrons to receive their king: 'And when, thro' many a league of chase and toil, 'I love not war; too oft the mere, mad game The |