At some future time, we shall, perhaps, be told who was the beautiful English girl, whose retiring charms won the heart of Hyppolito Pindemonte, when he was here some years ago. His Canzone on her is, in Italy, considered as his masterpiece,[167] and even compared to some of Petrarch's. There are indeed few things in the compass of Italian poetry more sweet in expression, more true to feeling, than the lines in which Pindemonte, describing the blooming youth, the serene and quiet grace of this fair girl, disclaims the idea of even wishing to disturb the heavenly calm of her pure heart by a passion such as agitates his own. Il men di che puo Donna esser cortese Ver chi l'ha di se stesso assai piu cara, Da te, vergine pura, io non vorrei. This was being very peculiarly disinterested.--We may also learn, at some future time, who was the sweet Elvire, to whom Alphonse de Lamartine has promised immortality, and not promised more than he has the power to bestow. He is one of the few French poets, who have created a real and a strong interest out of their own country. He has vanquished, by the mere force of genius and sentiment, all the difficulties and deficiencies of the language in which he wrote, and has given to its limited poetical vocabulary a charm unknown before. He thus addresses Elvire in one of the _Meditations Poetiques_. Vois, d'un oeil de pitie, la vulgaire jeunesse Brillante de beaute, s'enivrant de plaisir; Quand elle aura tari sa coupe enchanteresse, Que restera-t-il d'elle? a peine un souvenir: Le tombeau qui l'attend l'engloutit tout entiere, Un silence eternel succede a ses amours; Mais les siecles auront passe sur ta poussiere, Elvire!--et tu vivras toujours! * * * * * Over some of the heroines of modern poetry, the tomb has recently closed; and the flowers scattered there, could not be disturbed without awakening a pang in the bosoms of those who survive. They sleep, but only for a while: they shall rise again--the grave shall yield them up, "even in the loveliest looks they wore," for a poet's love has redeemed them from death and from oblivion! Methinks I see them even now with the prophetic eye of fancy, go floating over the ocean of time, in the light of their beauty and their fame, like Galatea and her nymphs triumphing upon the waters! Others, perhaps, (the widow of Burns, and the widow of Monti, for instance,) are declining into wintry age: sorrow and thought have quenched the native beauty on their cheek, and furrowed the once polished brow; yet crowned by poetry with eternal youth and unfading charms, they will go down to posterity among the Lauras, the Geraldines, the Sacharissas of other days;--Nature herself shall feel decrepitude, And, palsy-smitten, shake her starry brows, ere these grow old and die!