Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold?

Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd cold?
I know not, in sooth; but from yonder wall
There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball,
Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown,
That flank'd the sea-ward gate of the town;
Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell
The sullen words of the sentinel,

As his measured step on the stone below
Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro;

And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall
Hold o'er the dead their carnival,

Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb;
They were too busy to bark at him!

From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh,

As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh;

And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull, As it slipp'd through their jaws when their edge grew dull,

As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead,

When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed ; So well had they broken a lingering fast

With those who had fallen for that night's repast.

And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand, The foremost of these were the best of his band.

The scalps were in the wild dog's maw,

The hair was tangled round his jaw;

But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf,
There sat a vulture flapping a wolf,
Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away,
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey;
But he seized on his share of a steed that lay,
Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay!

Alp turned him from the sickening sight:
Never had shaken his nerves in fight;
But he better could brook to behold the dying,
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying,
Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain,
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain.
There is something of pride in the perilous hour,
Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower,

For Fame is there to say who bleeds,
And Honour's eye on daring deeds!

But when all is past, it is humbling to tread
O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead,

And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air,
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there;
All regarding man as their prey,

All rejoicing in his decay!

BYRON.

CHARACTER OF LA FONTAINE.

JEAN DE LA FONTAINE, remarkable for carrying to its highest and most amusing pitch the quality which the French happily call naïveté, that is to say, a certain fresh taste of the most natural and ingenuous feelings that are innate with us, was born at Chateau Thierry, July the 20th, (8th, O. S.) 1621. He was well educated, and at nineteen went among the Fathers of the Oratory, but left them shortly. His father, who was the forestkeeper of the district, put his son in his place; but he had as little taste for business as for polemicks, and quitted the forest ledger to converse with the birds. His discovery of the poetic faculty, however, was of a piece with the rest of his simple and off-hand character; for he did not find it out till his twenty-second year, when, upon accidentally hearing an ode of Malherbe's, he was seized with a transport which hurried him into the arms of the Muses. He chose the wildest and giddiest, but by no means the least knowing of the family, retaining, nevertheless, his personal character for extreme quietness and simplicity. Of this apparent contradiction, the pleasant phenomenon called La Fontaine was ever afterwards composed. He was a good scholar, could be critical with Quintilian, and romantically moral with Plato; but his favourite authors were the romancers and novelists of Italy, and such of his countrymen as had given way to their animal spirits before him, such as Rabelais and Marot. One of his

biographers has well said, that although averse to restraint of any kind, yet, to oblige his parents, he "suffered himself to be married." An anecdote of this marriage, and some other accounts of him, will display his character at once in the truest and most amusing light. His wife, while he was present with her, sufficed him both with her beauty and wit, and he used to consult her on what he wrote; but the duchess de Bouillon coming to Chateau Thierry, and Fontaine being introduced to and pleasing her, he was tempted by her society, and by the hope of seeing the Parisian wits, to go with her to the metropolis, where he made no more ado, but took up his abode like a bachelor. A pension was soon procured him. He was subsequently in the service of Henrietta, duchess of Orleans, the sister of our Charles the Second, and finally settled for twenty years in the house of madame de la Sabliere, who one day having greatly diminished her retinue, said she had retained but three animals on her establishment: her dog, her cat, and La Fontaine. It was the same lady, we believe, who, in allusion to the apparent insensibility with which he put forth the finest productions, called him the fable-bearing tree. In the mean while, (though we know not how long the practice continued,) he had by no means quarrelled with his wife, but used to go down in the country to her every September, the lady perhaps being well contented to pass the rest of her time, and that also, as she pleased. They were neither of them economical, and whenever he made a visit, he used to contrive to part with some piece of his family property in house or land, so that a handsome estate was well nigh consumed. Whether this or any other of his habits produced a rupture we cannot say; but we read of his being advised to reconcile himself to madame de la Fontaine, and of his going down in the country for that purpose. His friends were surprised to meet him speedily in town again, and upon asking him about his reconciliation, he said, with his usual air of simplicity and sincerity, that " he had been down to see his wife, but was told she was at

was.

church." La Fontaine had a son, who was taken under the patronage of the president Harlay. One day he met a youth at a house who pleased him so, that he observed to the company what a promising boy that He was told that it was his own son; upon which he replied, "Indeed! well, I'm very glad of it." This was not affected. It was only carrying to excess what has been observed in Goldsmith and others. We know a living author of whom it would not surprise us to hear the same thing. La Fontaine was seen one morning by madame de Bouillon on her way to Versailles, sitting under a tree. On her return in the evening, "there was La Fontaine," says his biographer, "in the same attitude, though the day had been cold, and much rain fallen." Racine once put a Bible into his hands. He happened to pitch upon the prophet Baruch, and his prayer for the Jews struck him so much, that he asked every body he met if they had read "one Baruch, who was a fine genius." During an illness, somebody recommended the New Testament. He read in it accordingly, and was much pleased with some passages; but there is Paul," said he, "he is not a temper to my liking." Sitting one day in company with Racine, Boileau, and some ecclesiastics, among whom was Dr. Boileau, the critic's brother, the talk fell upon St. Augustine, who was highly praised. After a profound silence, La Fontaine asked Dr. Boileau, with the greatest gravity, "whether he thought St. Augustine had more wit than Rabelais." The doctor, who appears to have had his brother's shrewdness, looked at him from head to foot, and said, "M. La Fontaine, one of your stockings is wrong side out." He was invited once to a dinner at a great house, in hopes of his contributing to the company's intellectual enjoyment. He took the invitation however at its word; and did so much justice to the dinner, that not a syllable could be got out of him. He even rose to go away when he had done eating, and upon being asked why he did so, said he had to attend a sitting of the Academy. "But it is not time," said they. "Just so," said the poet, "but

I always go soon." "But M. de la Fontaine," returned the guests, "the Academy is only over the way." “Ah, so it is," replied he; "true, I shall take the longest way then." He died on the 25th April, (13, O. S.) 1695. It is said that his nurse, observing the priest very earnest and minacious with him in his last moments, begged him not to be so harsh with her poor master, "who was more fool than knave;" adding, "that God would not have the heart to damn him." Some stories are told of his having consented, after a former illness, to repent of his writings, though he thought it rather an odd and hard proceeding. The accounts fall in well enough with his character; but if some orthodox French writers doubt them, they may be doubted by others. Among these, is the story of his being found with a hair shirt on when he died. It is true, in one of his dedications, he seems to think that people expect some apology from him, and he makes it; but he soon sets off again in his old manner; and excuses it by calling himself the "Butterfly of Parnassus." The excuse has been thought a bad one; but considering his natural goodness of heart, and the sort of irreprehensible ingenuousness and impulse with which he did every thing, it is perhaps deeper than it appears. There are bees about the sacred hill, and there are spiders also, who contrive to be tolerated. Why not give quarter to the butterfly? To quarrel with La Fontaine is to quarrel with the singing birds in the trees. We can easily conceive that his voluptuousness is of too animal a description; for to say the truth, without meaning to affect any thing, or to deny an acquaintance with his originals, we have not read that part of his works which is objected to. We are not fond enough of French, and not sufficiently attracted by stories, which we suppose too destitute of the sentimental part of passion. But such was the taste of his nation; and to judge by the rest of his writings, if there was any man who could tend to diminish guilt in pleasure, by the mere force of his goodnature, and by the absence of vicious intention, La Fontaine was he. It is pleasant to us to see even