Malczewski, was born in Podolia, the soutbern district of Poland, but in what year, I am unable to say. He died in 1828. The following is the plot, of his "Maria." A proud old Palatine betroths his son to the daughter of a friend; and as is usual in such cases, forgets to ascertain previously the mind of the young Count. The son falls in love with the daughter of a noble of inferior rank, between whom and his own father a hereditary hatred exists. The father of Maria, seeing that his daughter's happiness is at stake, reluctantly overcomes his ancient enmity, and allows a marriage to take place between the young couple; which, though concealed for a length of time, is finally discovered by the old Palatine. He hides his burn. ing anger under the mask of approbation, and invites Maria to his castle. His son is then despatched on an errand, to a place at some distance from the cas tle, and on his return finds that his wife is murdered. He deserts his home and is never heard of more. In one passage of the poem, when describing Hungarian manners, he says:-- The right red wine at the festal board, Flowed free as the blood in the veins of the lord. And in describing Maria, he says:— Though young, the winds of earthly pain, Within her beaming eye no more Conflicting war of thought we see ;— The flame that burned from lamp of love, And shone so happily on me, Now beams not, shows not e'en one spark, Though with its smoke her brow is dark. Among the Poles who emigrated to this country, after the termination of their disastrous struggle for liberty, was one by the name of Iakaboski. He obtained a situation as teacher in a highly respectable family, where he was much esteemed for the good. ness of his heart, and the brightness of his mind. He soon heard that a relative of his, a brother of the great Malczewski, was a general of artillery in the Mexican army. He went in pursuit, and found him; but the haughty manners of his proud relative, hurt the high spirit of the boy, for he was little else, and he returned in sadness to the United States. Before he reached the place from whence he set out, he died of a broken heart. Besides his fugitive pieces, he wrote a small work in English, called "The Remembrances of a Polish Exile." The fol lowing ode to Napoleon, for which I am indebted to an eminent Polish pianist of this city, was written by him, on ship-board, off Gibraltar. It has never before appeared in print, either in Polish or English. | Great as thou wert, Napoleon! thou lost but little blood To add unto the wreath, That placed in Fame's high towering dome, Shall never yield to death. Like some volcano on the plain, Sad with glory too was't thou, E'en fate did wait upon thy smile E'en as the ocean wave on wave, Fights 'gainst the rocks its waters lave, And vainly makes its surges roll, So did those base and paltry things, Europe's hereditary kings, Fight 'gainst thy adamantine soul. And e'en when exiled o'er the sea No spell on earth could e'er resemble, The following beautiful ode, is from the pen of Goszczynski, who is at present residing in Paris. Had I the royal eagle's wing, How soon Podolia's air I'd breathe, And rest beneath that sunny sky Where all my thoughts and wishes wreathe. "Tis there I first beheld the light, There passed my happiest, earliest years; "Tis there my fathers ashes lay, Sunned with my smiles, dewed with my tears. Oh! were I but the regal bird, I'd fly to where my steps once trod, And where my hopes are buried up :Then change me to an eagle, God! Oh! would I were a brilliant star, Whose light illumes Podolia's groves, That I might gaze throughout the night, On her, the girl my spirit loves. Then from the silvery clouds, I'd send Unto her eye-lids visions bright, As those soft rays Diana beams Upon the lakes in summer's night. To watch with eyes unseen, her steps, Why dream the thought, my bursting soul? Exiled to far and foreign land, Ne'er shall I see my home again. Accursed am I yon eagle soars, The star of night rolls glittering on, My home is far, my soul is chained, Tears flow around me-Hope is gone! Perhaps the greatest poets are at present livingNiemciewicz, Leonard Chodzko, Goszczynski, Korzeniowski, and last, although the greatest-Mickiewicz. Niemciewicz, the oldest Polish poet, now living, resides at present in Paris. He is the author of "Spiewy Historyczne;" a life of Sigismund III., two or three novels, one of which, "John of Tenczyn," has attained some celebrity, and several fugitive pieces. Besides these, he has translated much of Pope's works into Polish, and is at present engaged upon a life of Kosciusko. This old, but indomitable patriot was exiled for the third time, in 1831; having been engaged in three insurrections. Korzeniowski, author of "Dramatic Essays," was the first who introduced blank verse into the Polish language. Care holdeth no longer his empire o'er man, But deep in oblivion's abyss hath been hurled. Majestic, the moon riseth up in the sky, With her maidens of honor, the stars, in her train, Goszczyenski is the author of "The Castle of Ka- The earth is in solitude gloomy arrayed, niow," and several fugitive pieces. But, leaving these minor poets, let us turn to "The Bard of Sarmatia," the great Mickiewicz. He was born about the commencement of the present century, in Lithuania, a north-eastern district of Poland, and formerly a powerful kingdom. It is to his writings that the Russians attribute, in a great measure, the insurrection of 1830, and, accordingly, we find his name among the list of proscribed exiles. Though he wielded his pen, he did not his sword, in the great cause of Polish nationality, as he was in Italy during the continuance of the struggle. His poems are, be. side Wallenrode," his masterpiece, "Ancestors," "Grazyna," "Faris," an oriental poem; and a book of sonnets. The following song is from "Ancestors." 46 She is fair as a spirit of light, That floats in the ether on high, And her eye beams as kindly and bright, Which one harmony weds the same. The Faris" of this author is replete with fanciful and striking images. His hero reclines in the barren waste And silence profound reigns o'er hamlet and plain. Such a season as this, once could light up my soul, Ana forgetting the troubles and cares of the earth, My mind on the wings of conception would fly, And give to a thousand imaginings birth. I hovered in joy, o'er the gay land of dreams, There, fiery and bold as the eagle of Jove, My young spirit roved through the paths of the sky, I gave to the wind all devices of love, Smiled at languishing simpers, and laughed at a But love stole within my cold heart, and there placed I loved her I thought that the world was but her- To-day, e'en the ghost of my once blessed bliss, Has sank in the earth, and departed from view, And the flowers of love, to which wishes gave birth, Have my sighs for their air, and my tears for their dew. For another hath plucked the red rose from the stem, And the beautiful flower in his bosom will bloom, A LITTLE While ago, and thy sunny smile was bright, | A little while ago, yet how alter'd dost thou seem, And the glances of thy deep blue eye pour'd forth a flood of light, I scarce can trace within thine eye, one glance of sunny beam; And thy voice like swells of music that we love to Thy voice, thine ever welcome voice, hath lost its linger near, Fell in rich cadences of joy upon our listening ear. A little while ago, and we stood beneath the stars, cars; The breezes from the balmy south played gambols with our hair, And buds of every sunny hue flung odors on the air. A little while ago, and our life was gay and young, And our hearts were like the rivulet that sings the woods among, And we drew a hope from every thing, as bees draws sweets from flowers, And many a happy home we made, amid springs earliest bowers. gayest tone, And yet methinks its gentle sound hath even sweeter grown. A little while ago, and thy dark locks loved to cling of spring, But now among thy clustering curls, some silver threads appear, Those tell tale couriers of time, why do they linger here. A little while ago, and our thoughts were freely given To each, as to the summer flowers, the blessed-dews of heaven. And still, altho' no longer young, our bosoms warmest glow, Flows on the same as erst it did, a little while ago. THE MAN OF MANY HOPES. BY DOUGLAS JERROLD, ENGLAND. CHAPTER I. It is recorded in the family archives of the Trumps, that at a very early age, our hero Titus gave striking promise of that faculty which, in his mature days, made him a proverb to all who knew him. A sheepstealer of considerable celebrity—a luckless Jason— was about to pay the penalty of his unlawful love for other people's mutton; in hard, worldly phrase, was sentenced to be hanged. Many sheep had of late been missed, and the judge of the assize had, with considerable distress of mind, expressed his determination to make an example for the benefit of society. Gubbins was to be strangled, not for his proper crime alone, but for "an example" to society. Dame Trumps, the grandmother of little Titus, took the most laudable pains to impress upon the child a religious horror of the wickedness of Gubbins, dwelling very minutely on the awful ceremony to take place the next morning; and marshalling to the fancy of the bewildered infant, the sheriff, the parson, the javelin men, the hangman, the constables, all the actors in the social tragedy; Titus looking sadder and sadder as the procession lengthened. There was silence, and the dame had renewed her darning, when little Titus jumped from his stool at his grandam's feet, and clapping his hands, leapt and laughed to the astonishment of the old lady. "You wicked child! what will become of you? don't I tell you that to-morrow morning, the people at the prison are ordered to take Gubbins out and hang him-eh?" cried grandmother. "Yes, I know-I know," said Titus, "only, perhaps, grandmother," and the boy smiled and rubbed his little hands, " perhaps❞— unfortunate-whether it was to him a fatal weakness, or a prosperous strength, the reader, if he will attend the adventures of our "Man of Many Hopes," may, for himself, determine. Titus Trumps, inheriting a small patrimony from his deceased father, and having endowed himself with great hopes of an improved income from a maternal maiden aunt, had never addressed himself to any calling. A mere trade was vulgar, and the more to be eschewed as he had assured himself of the property of his sire's sister: she was a prudent, thrifty woman, and every day must add to her wealth. That the amount of her property was not known, was, in the mind of Trumps, an assurance of its immensity. She dwelt in a small comfortable cottage, where Titus was wont to be a frequent visitor. Indeed, his unchecked flow of spirits made him a general favorite and Miss Virginia Trumps did not deserve the reproach, too frequently and too hastily bestowed upon ungathered maidens. She was a happy, equable soul, with a face for a smile, nay, with lungs for laughter. Titus sat one day at tea with his aunt, when, to her surprise, he advanced the following insinuation. Now, I dare say, aunt, you-you have somewhere, another tea-pot besides that?" "To be sure, Tithy," said Miss Trumps, "why, what put that in your head ?" "I mean, aunt-ha! ha!-perhaps, a rich, curious tea-pot, eh?" and Trumps rubbed his hands, and looked laughingly at the spinster. "Well, I declare! was there ever such a boy!"and the old maid laughed in concert. "I was sure you had, aunt-ha! ha!-certain of it-a rich tea-pot, eh? too rich for every day, eh ?"— "Perhaps " exclaimed Mrs. Trumps, "perhaps and Titus twinkled his eyes, and rubbed his hands what?" "Perhaps they may forget it," said the boy, and the hope had no sooner flashed upon him, than it grew into a certainty. This little story of the nursery we had omitted, did it not, in an especial manner, mark the development of that peculiarity which clung to Titus to his last hour. With Titus there was neither past nor present; he lived in the future. Nothing about him was real; he dwelt in a world of shadows: the tangible good was always that to come. His life had no yesterday, no to-day-it was a life made entirely of to-morrows. Whether the temperament of Titus be happy or with glee. "To be sure every day, indeed ?—your dear uncle Robert, that was carried up the country by the black princess, and never heard of again"— "Who knows!" interrupted Trumps, touched by his deceiver, hope-"who knows? Perhaps, I've a cousin king some where-eh, who knows?" "Didn't he bring me a tea-pot from Canton ?" said Miss Trumps, unmindful of the possible honor accruing to her from a regal nephew. “And you have hoarded it up-you wouldn't take any money for it?" cried Titus. "Not its weight in gold," exclaimed Miss Trumps with considerable emphasis; and the heart of Titus side! in such weather-impossible," cried the lady, leapt at the avowal. on learning the proposal of the coachman. The reader may, with the maiden aunt, feel some surprise at the interest taken by Titus in tea-pots. Let us explain. Titus had only that morning read an account of the death of an old solitary woman. who, though passing as very poor among her neighbors, had left, with other hoarded wealth, a large teapot filled with guineas. Miss Trumps was about the age of the deceased woman-like her she lived alone -was very saving, seldom stirred out, and was, indeed, in the opinion of Titus,—an opinion confirm ed after a scrutinising view of his beloved aunt—the very woman to hoard guineas in a tea pot. The significant manner with which his aunt declared the utensil to be worth its weight in gold, convinced Titus beyond all chilling doubt, that it was brim-full of that precious metal. In fact, the thing spoke for itself-indeed, she had owned it: the tea-pot was worth "its weight in gold!" Long before Titus had taken his leave, his hopes had conjured up the largest tea-pot ever manufactured in China, and had calculated the greatest number of guineas that could, by possibility, be laid in it. Titus Trumps was in his two-and-twentieth year, when, full of hope, he sat in a London coach on his way to the metropolis. He had no friends, no acquaintance dwelling there, but he never doubted that he should immediately obtain those desirable advantages. He already saw himself in a circle of the most amiable, the most obliging people. How many men had walked to London with only a staff-had slept on the road by hay-stacks-had eaten cresses and dry bread, and had entered the capital of the world with blisters at their soles, and not a farthing in their pockets, and had afterwards become golden merchants; yea, had, in their day, been aldermen and mayors, knights and baronets, to boot,-and dying, had left alms-houses for the helpless and the aged! Leaning back in the coach, Titus, with half-closed eyes, already saw himself at court-already felt the royal sword upon his shoulder-already beheld, as in a vision, his female pensioners in white caps and aprons-his old, old men, in decent gray! Such were the hopes of Titus Trumps, when the coach suddenly stopt to change horses. A man ran from a neighboring house to the dismounted coachman. "Inside place, coachman ?" said the man. "Full," said the laconic coachman. "One out." "Oh! she can't go out in this rain," said the man. It poured a deluge. 66 Stay behind, then," said the accommodating driver. "But you don't know who she is"-here the stranger half-whispered confidentially to the coach man, Trumps distinctly hearing the important com munication. "She's daughter of General Wolfe." The coachman scratched his head at the intelligence, glanced inside the coach to assure himself that it was full, then cast his eye up at the box, and observed" Wrap her up-plenty of coats." 'Sorry for it-time's up," said the driver, and he mounted the box. "Stop-stop," cried Trumps, thrusting himself half out of the coach window-and now smiling on the lady, and now looking from side to side for the coachman and guard, both of whom he requested, in a most peremptory manner, to attend to him." Stopstop-here, guard-I'll get out-I'll"-and Trumps, opening the door, jumped out from the coach. "Miss Wolfe can have my place," said Titus, bowing to the lady, greatly confused by the unexpected gallantry of the young and handsome passenger,-for Titus was a smart-looking fellow-the coachman and the guard exchanging looks of wonder, rather than admiration, at the generosity of the inside gentleman. Better get in, Miss," said the guard, assisting the young lady, who, with the meekness of the sex, suffered herself to be overcome. "A lovely girl, that," said Titus Trumps, when mounted beside the coachman, who was wet and dripping as an otter. "Very fairish, sir," replied the driver. "A little wet, isn't it?" he then observed, with a malicious smile at the situation of Titus. "I-I don't think it will last," answered the sanguine Trumps. No, sir; I shouldn't think it would go beyond the month," was the satirical comment. Then, after a pause" Few gentlemen, sir, as would turn themselves inside out, this weather. Shouldn't wonder, sir, if the ladies give you a medal. It is wet, isn't it?" asked the coachman, a stream pouring from the rim of his hat between the neck and neckcloth of Titus. "It can't last," said Trumps, suppressing a shiver. "A very beautiful girl-I may say, an angel." 64 "Everybody to their taste, sir. To be sure, if she isn't quite an angel at present, why, you know, it's her own fault if she isn't by-and-by. Very wet, sir?" "It's going off," cried Trumps. "Yes, sir; you may say the tide's running very fast down,-better put that coat about your legs, sir," said the benevolent coachman. "Thank you thank you. No, it can't last long," said Titus, the rain falling in sheets. Trumps made no answer; his thoughts were far At this instant the lady appeared, a damsel follow- away from the querist-and his feelings were weaing her with a couple of fragile band-boxes. "Out-ther-proof. The daughter of General Wolfe! He |