ALPHONSE MARIE LOUIS DE LAMARTINE.

ALPHONSE MARIE LOUIS DE LAMARTINE, a French poet, historian, and statesman, born near Mâcon, Oct. 21, 1790; died in Paris, March 1, 1869. He was sent to the college at Belley, where he remained until his nineteenth year. In 1811 he went to Italy, where he spent two years. When Napoleon was sent to Elba,

Lamartine returned to France and entered the service of Louis XVIII. On the return of Napoleon he took refuge in Switzerland. In 1818-1819 he traveled in Savoy, Switzerland, and Italy, writing poetry, of which his first volume, "Méditations Poétiques," was published in 1820. He now entered the diplomatic service. In 1823 he published "Nouvelles Méditations."

After the accession of Louis Philippe he traveled in Turkey, Egypt, and Syria. During his absence he was elected to the Chamber of Deputies. He was reëlected in 1837.

The Revolution of 1848 gave him a foremost place. He was made Minister of Foreign Affairs, was elected for the Constitutional Assembly and was chosen one of the five members of the Executive Committee, but he held the reins of government for four months only.

The remainder of his life was spent in literary labor. In 1860 he supervised an edition of his works in forty-one volumes. Among them are "Harmonies Poétiques et Religieuses" (1830); "Souvenirs, Impressions, Pensées et Paysages pendant un Voyage en Orient" (1835); "Jocelyn, Journal trouvé chez un Curé de Village" (1836); "La Chute d'un Ange" (1838); "Recueillements Poétiques" (1839); "Histoire des Girondins" (1847); "History of the Revolution of 1848," and "Histories of Turkey and Russia." The entire list of his writings, in prose and verse, is very long.

THE CEDARS OF LEBANON.

EAGLES, that wheel above our crests,
Say to the storms that round us blow,
They cannot harm our gnarlèd breasts,
Firm-rooted as we are below.
Their utmost efforts we defy.
They lift the sea-waves to the sky;
But when they wrestle with our arms,

Nervous and gaunt, or lift our hair,
Balanced within its cradle fair
The tiniest bird has no alarms.

Sons of the rock, no mortal hand
Here planted us: God-sown we grew.
We are the diadem green and grand
On Eden's summit that He threw.
When waters in a deluge rose,
Our hollow flanks could well inclose
Awhile the whole of Adam's race;
And children of the Patriarch
Within our forest built the Ark
Of Covenant, foreshadowing Grace.
We saw the tribes as captives led,
We saw them back return anon;
As rafters have our branches dead
Covered the porch of Solomon ;
And later, when the Word made man
Came down in God's salvation-plan

To pay for sin the ransom-price,

The beams that form'd the Cross we gave:
These, red in blood of power to save,
Were altars of that Sacrifice.

In memory of such great events,
Men come to worship our remains;
Kneel down in prayer within our tents,
And kiss our old trunks' weather-stains.
The saint, the poet, and the sage,
Hear and shall hear from age to age

Sounds in our foliage like the voice

Of many waters; in these shades

Their burning words are forged like blades,
While their uplifted souls rejoice.

TO MY LAMP.

HAIL! sole companion of my lonely toil,
Dear witness once of dearer loves of mine!
My happiness is fled, -thy store of oil

Still with clear light doth shine!

Thou dost recall the bright days of my life,
When in Pompeii's streets I roamed along,
Evoking memories of her brilliant strife,
Half tearful, half in song.

The sun was finishing his mighty round;

I was alone among a buried host;
And in the dust my idle glances found
The name of some poor ghost.

And there I saw thee, 'neath the ashes piled;
And near thee, almost buried with the rest,
The impress left there by some lovely child,
The outline of a breast.

Perhaps by thy light did the virgin go
To pray within the fane, now desolate,
For happiness that she should never know, -
Love, ne'er to be her fate!

Within the tomb her perished beauty lies:

Youth, maiden modesty, the dawning love.
A mother's tender glance could scarce surprise,
Fled to the heavens above!

She vanished like the lightning's sudden gleam,
As one wave by another swiftly borne;
Or as the last hope of some wretch's dream,
When he awakes at morn!

Beauty is not the idol of the best!

I was a fool before her feet to lie,
Forgetting that, a stranger like the rest,
She too must fade and die.

What matter, then, whether she smile or frown?
My soul would seek the worship that is sure!
It needs a god to triumph, be cast down,
And, after all, endure!

Yes, I would tear myself from vain desires,
From all that perishes and is forgot;
And I would seek, to start my altar fires,
A hope that dieth not!

The resting eagle is an eagle still:

Though 'neath his mighty wing he hides his head,
He sees his prey, he strikes it, takes his fill,.
Perchance you thought him dead?

I pity those who thought one ivy-crowned,
Child of the lyre, born but to touch the string.
Would die inglorious, — yield the golden round,
Live like a banished king.

Never shall weariness make me abjure

The gifts once prized, and cherished still the same. My dreams shall summon back the enchantress pure, And whisper her dear name.

Her eyes shall watch over my soul at last;

And when, dear lamp, shall come that mournful night,
When weeping friends behold me fading fast,
Thy flame shall burn more bright!

That flame has often filled my wondering thought;
The sacred emblem of our transient breath,
Mysterious power, to man's dull uses brought,
Sister of life and death!

A breath creates it, at a breath it dies;
It blots in one brief day a city's name;
Like fate ignored, or held a peerless prize
Like beauty or like fame.

See how it leaps up with a quick desire!
A spirit from on high, to earth no friend;
It takes its flight as human souls aspire,
To seek the unknown end!

All nature slowly to this end is drawn!

'Tis but a sleep, the so-called death of men: The fly shall have its day, the flower its dawn; Our clay shall wake again.

Do we the secrets of all nature know?

The sounds of night that on the horizon fail, The passing cloud that lays the flowers low, The will-o'-the-wisp of the vale?

Know we the secret of the nesting dove?

The cradle whence the tomb has snatched its prey? What is the mystery of grief, or love,

Or night that follows day?

Have not the murmuring winds a voice, a mood?
Is not the leaf a book we cannot read?
The stream that brings us harvest or a flood,
Has not it too its screed?

Let us not strive the kindly veils to raise

Till all that we should see, life's end shall show:

Better know not than into mysteries gaze!

Better believe than know!

Farewell, my lamp! Blessings upon thy flame!
While I believe and hope, watch thou o'er me!
If ever prideful doubt my soul should claim,
May I go out with thee!

ODE TO THE LAKE OF B—.

THUS sailing, sailing on forevermore,

Still borne along, to winds and waves a prey,
Can we not, on life's sea without a shore,
Cast anchor for a day?

Dear lake! one little year has scarcely flown,
And near thy waves she longed once more to see,
Behold I sit alone upon this stone,

Where once she sat with me.

As now, thy restless waves were moaning through
The creviced rocks, where they their death did meet;
And flecks of foam from off thy billows blew

Over my dear one's feet.

One night we rode in silence, — dost recall
That night? When under all the starry sky
Was heard alone the beat of oars that fall
In cadenced harmony.

When suddenly, upon the startled ear

Accents unknown to earth melodious break; And with these mournful words, a voice most dear Charms all the listening lake:

"O Time, pause in thy flight! and you, propitious hours, Pause on your rapid ways!

Let us enjoy the springtime of our powers,
The fairest of all days!

"So many wretched souls would speed your flight,
Urge on the lingering suns,

Take with their days the canker and the blight;
Forget the happy ones!

"But all in vain I try to stay its course:
Time slips away and flies.

I say to night, Pass slowly! and the dawn
Breaks on my startled eyes.

"Let us love, then, and love forevermore!
Enjoy life while we may;