The radiant slaves of pride and art.
Oh! can _they_ prize my simple song,
The soft low breathings of the, heart?
Take back the lute, its tuneful string
Is moisten'd by a sorrowing tear,
To-night, I may not, cannot sing
The friends that love me are not here!


_Ibid_.

* * * * *

THE LATE MADAME DE GENLIS.

The following smart account of the late Madame de Genlis, is translated
from that very piquant French paper the Figaro of the 4th January:--

She nearly died the day she came into the world; a mere chance saved
her; and the noble lady lived eighty-five years. What a misfortune, not
only for the Ducrest and the Genlis, if the clumsy Bailiff who sat down
in the arm-chair where the infant prodigy had been left by the careless
nurse, had crushed under the ample and heavy developement of his various
femoral muscles, the hope of French literature! The concussion would
have despoiled us of a hundred volumes, and Heaven can witness what
volumes! History in romances; morality in proverbs; and religion in
comedies. This is what the world of letters would have lost,--society
would have lost a very different thing.

Such a nose as never was possessed before; a nose modelled by Love