SELECTIONS FROM THE ST PRIEST MSS. No II.

MISCELLANEOUS LITERATURE.

Portrait of Lise (late Baroness of Stael Holstein, when Mademoiselle Necker,)

by the Chevalier Charles Emmanuel de St Priest.
Par che n'egli occhi a vampi una facella.

Orlando Furioso. No one posesses more wit than Lise. may, however, be permitted to say, A ready conception; a retentive me that I think it susceptible. When she mory; a liveliness of repartee ; a just speaks of it herself, her expressions coup dæi, when she allows her atten- border somewhat on extravagance ; tion to be fixed on any object; a sen

but this is because her conceptions are timent of agreeable things; a facility not as yet to be confined within the in expressing them; information ; ac- narrow boundaries of what is real.complishments. She is mistress, in Her vague imagination creating in her short, of all which is calculated to fancy a chimerical being, the only please ; and this all is embellished by one which has sufficient pretensions to the natural charm of her expressions, please her, it is very natural that she when she describes the sensations she should arrogate to herself sentiments feels.

which are not within the scope of huToo much ardour, or, at least, too manity, to the end that she may be great a vivacity, sometimes carries her deserving of the phantom she 'embeyond the bounds which custom braces. Her talents are allied to her seems to have prescribed. But until gayety, and partake of its freedom. experience shall have given her a suf- Her physiognomy indicates attenficient command over herself, to en- tion; but this is deranged at intervals able her to be fully sensible of the uti- by the movement of her eyes : somelity and wisdom of the received notions times mild in their expression, and of what is fit and congruous, and shall often ardent; they are the mirror of have taught her to correct the work her soul. When' mention is made of of nature without spoiling it, these her father, they are animated to an transports, or, rather, these flights of uncommon degree. If he were nothe imagination, are not to be other- thing more than an ordinary indiviwise regarded than as we see, in a dual, she would betray her sensibiyoung poet, those inordinate sallies lity in speaking of him; but her heart which bid defiance to the rules of art, rises to the level of the reputation of without, however, overstepping them, this celebrated man. or claiming exceptions in their favour, The sensation which is felt by those but which announce the fire of genius, who listen to Lise for the first time is and are its scintillations.

astonishment. She subdues the selfRacine composed fine verses with love of others without wounding it facility : the rigid Boileau recommend- and it is not long before each finds, to ed to him to give them a still higher his surprise, that he is more deeply polish. The young poet, sensible of interested in the conquests of Lise the goodness of his friend's advice, than in his own. bestowed more pains on the composition of his pieces, and rendered them Chi vive amando il sa, senza ch'io'l scriva. chefs-d'auvres of harmony.

Orl. Furo. Such will be the operation of reason on Lise, when Lise shall have felt and

To LISE. judged: she will perfectionate the

Vouchsafe work of nature * ***** if art were to interfere it would be a profana

these humble lines to take, tion.

The sole return your poet e'er can make The heart of Lise ought not to Nor deem the labour poor, or tribute small occupy my thoughts: my profession 'Tis all he has, and thus he offers all! condemns me to be ignorant of it. I

HOOLE's Orlando.

• The Knights of Malta were enjoined a vow of celibacy.

THE RAPE OF PROSERPINE.

(SCENE-The Vale of Enna.)

PROSERPINE, VIRGINS.

Proser. Now come and sit around me, And I'll divide the flowers, and give to each What most becomes her beauty. What a vale Is this of Enna! Every thing that comes From the green earth, springs here more graciously, And the blue day, methinks, smiles lovelier now Than it was wont even in Sicily. My spirit mounts as triumphing, and my heart, In which the red blood hides, seems tumulted By some delicious passion. Look, above, Above: How nobly thro' the cloudless sky The great Apollo goes Jove's radiant sonMy father's son: and here, below, the bosom Of the green earth is almost hid by flowers. Who would be sad to-day! Come round, and cast Each one her odorous heap from out her lap Into one pile. Some we'll divide among us, And, for the rest, we'll fling them to the Hours ; So may Aurora's path become more fair, And we be blest in giving.

Here This rose (This one half-blown) shall be my Maia's portion, For that, like it, her blush is beautiful : And this deep violet, almost as blue As Pallas' eye, or thine, Lycimnia, I'll give to thee, for like thyself it wears Its sweetness, never obtruding. For this lily, Where can it hang but at Cyane's breast? And yet 'twill wither on so white a bed, If flowers have sense for envy :-It shall lie Amongst thy raven tresses, Cytheris, Like one star on the bosom of the night. The cowslip and the yellow primrose-they Are gone, my sad Leontia, to their graves, And April hath wept o'er them, and the voice Of March hath sung, even before their deaths, The dirge of those young children of the year. But here is heart's-ease for your woes. The honey-suckle flower I give to thee, And love it for my sake, my own Cyane : It hangs upon the stem it loves, as thou Hast clung to me thro' every joy and sorrow; It flourishes with its guardian's growth, as thou dost ; And if the woodman's axe should droop the tree, The woodbine too must perish.-Hark! what soundDo ye see aught?

And now,

CHORUS.

Behold, behold, Proserpina !
How hoary clouds from out the earth arise,
And wing their way towards the skies,
As they would veil the burning blush of day.
And, look, upon a rolling car,
Some fearful being from afar

Cans des: 4s de Dire Slang ke rua,
Adai szita sed
COLS ; ea: Son is fex doch stine,
Prace ng batas.
A hght that does the place around

SEXIGEOIS (CIEK.)
Tk be, "tis be: be cree to us
From the deaths of Tartarus.
For what of aril doch he raum
From his red ad gloomy bome,
In the centre of the world,
Where the sal deed are burled?
Mark hinn es be mora song,
Drawn by berses bleck and strong,
Such as sas belong to Night,
'Ere sbe tata he morning fight.
Now the chariot stops: the god
On our grassT world bath tod:
Like : Titan stappeth he,
Yet full of his divinity.
Od his migbry shouiders tie
Raven locks, and in his ere
A cruel beauty, such as Done

Of us may wisely looš upon.
Proser. He comes indeed. How like a god he looks !
Terribly lovely—Shall I shun his eye,
Which even bere looks brightly beautiful?
What a wild leopard glance he bas.-I am
Jove's daughter, and shall I then deign to fy?
I will not, yet methinks, I fear to stay.
Come, let us go, Cyane.

&

PLUTO enters.

Pluto. Stay, oh! stay. Proserpina, Proserpina, I come From my Tartarean kingdom to behold you. The brother of Love am 1. I come to say, Gently, beside the blue Sicilian stream, How much I love you, fair Proserpina. Think me not rude that thus at once I tell My passion. I disarm me of all power; And in the accents of a man I sue, Bowing before your beauty. Brightest maid ! Let mestill unpresuming-say I have Roamed thro' the earth, where many an eye hath smild In love upon me, tho' it knew me not ; But I have passed free from amongst them all, To gaze on you alone. I might have clasped Lovely and royal maids, and throned queens, Sea-nymphs, or fairy shapes that glide along Like light across the hills, or those that make Mysterious music in the desert woods, And shake the green leaves in the face of day, Or lend a voice to fountains or to caves, Or answering hush the river's sweet reproach Oh! I've escaped from all, to come and tell How much I love you, sweet Proserpina.

THE RAPE OF PROSERPINE.

(SCENE-The Vale of Enna.)

PROSERPINE, VIRGINI.

Proser. Now come and sit around me, And I'll divide the flowers, and give to each What most becomes her beauty. What a vale Is this of Enna ! Every thing that comes From the green earth, springs here more graciously, And the blue day, methinks, smiles lovelier now Than it was wont even in Sicily. My spirit mounts as triumphing, and my heart, In which the red blood hides, seems tumulted By some delicious passion. Look, above, Above: How nobly thro' the cloudless sky The great Apollo goes—Jove's radiant son My father's son: and here, below, the bosom Of the green earth is almost hid by flowers. Who would be sad to-day! Come round, and cast Each one her odorous heap from out her lap Into one pile. Some we'll divide among us, And, for the rest, we'll fling them to the Hours ; So may Aurora's path become more fair, And we be blest in giving.

Here-This rose (This one half-blown) shall be my Maia’s portion, For that, like it, her blush is beautiful : And this deep violet, almost as blue As Pallas' eye, or thine, Lycimnia, I'll give to thee, for like thyself it wears Its sweetness, never obtruding. For this lily, Where can it hang but at Cyane's breast? And yet 'twill wither on so white a bed, If flowers have sense for envy :-It shall lie Amongst thy raven tresses, Cytheris, Like one star on the bosom of the night. The cowslip and the yellow primrose--they Are gone, my sad Leontia, to their graves, And April hath wept o'er them, and the voice Of March hath sung, even before their deaths, The dirge of those young children of the year.But here is heart's-ease for your woes. The honey-suckle flower I give to thee, And love it for my sake, my own Cyane : It hangs upon the stem it loves, as thou Hast clung to me thro' every joy and sorrow; It flourishes with its guardian's growth, as thou dost; And if the woodman's axe should droop the tree, The woodbine too must perish.-Hark! what sound Do ye see aught?

And now,

CHORUS.

Behold, behold, Proserpina !
How hoary clouds from out the earth arise,
And wing their way towards the skies,
As they would veil the burning blush of day.
And, look, upon a rolling car,
Some fearful being from afar

Comes onward : As he moves along the ground,
A dull and subterranean sound
Companions him; and from his face doth shine,
Proclaiming him divine,
A light that darkens all the place around,

SEMICHOBUS. ( Cyane.)
'Tis he, 'tis he: he comes to us
From the depths of Tartarus.
For what of evil doth he roam
From his red and gloomy home,
In the centre of the world,
Where the sinful dead are hurled ?
Mark him as he moves along,
Drawn by horses black and strong,
Such as may belong to Night,
'Ere she takes her morning flight.
Now the chariot stops : the god
On our grassy world hath trod:
Like a Titan steppeth he,
Yet full of his divinity.
On his mighty shoulders lie
Raven locks, and in his eye
A cruel beauty, such as none

Of us may wisely look upon.
Proser. He comes indeed. How like a god he looks!
Terribly lovely-Shall I shun his eye,
Which even here looks brightly beautiful?
What a wild leopard glance he has.- I am
Jove's daughter, and shall I then deign to fly?
I will not, yet methinks, I fear to stay.
Come, let us go, Cyane.

PLUTO entars. Pinto. Stay, oh! stay, Proserpina, Proserpina, I came Prom my Tartzean kingdora to behold you. The brother of Love ara I. I come to, Gentis, beside the blue Selim streaza, How much I love you, faiz Proserpina. Think me not ride that this wa once I tell My passion. I disarm me si all pover; And in the sevents of a man I sze, Boving betore your beans. Brightest maid ! Let mesta na presunins-s7 I have Roanei care the arh, where shany an eye hark said in love upon me, tho it new me ook ; But I have passed free from amongst üem all, To zaze on yon zione I mint save diasped Lovely ad rorai maids, and thrones qnerne, Sea-armpas, or fairy shapes han que tiong, Like igar xriss ne m., or those that make Misterous auasie ia the desert wunden, Aad shake the reun saves in the Brez of day, Or jend a nice s naine or us cavas, Op mswering push the river's west, regrnach Ch: Pre essageri from ai, some and en How much i ove pon, swat Troserpina.