Many but not all of the poems in Mrs. Ellet's volume, likewise, have been printed before--appearing, within the last two years, in different periodicals. The whole number of pieces now published is fifty-seven. Of these thirty-nine are original. The rest are translations from the French of Alphonse de Lamartine and Beranger--from the Spanish of Quevedo and Yriarte--from the Italian of Ugo Foscolo, Alfieri, Fulvio Testi, Pindemonte, and Saverio Bettinelli,--and from the German of Schiller. As evidences of the lady's acquaintance with the modern languages, these translations are very creditable to her. Where we have had opportunities of testing the fidelity of her versions by reference to the originals, we have always found reason to be satisfied with her performances. A too scrupulous adherence to the text is certainly not one of her faults--nor can we yet justly call her, in regard to the spirit of her authors, a latitudinarian. We wish, however, to say that, in fully developing the meaning of her originals, she has too frequently neglected their _poetical characters_. Let us refer to the lady's translation of the _Swallows_. We have no hesitation in saying, that not the slightest conception of Pierre Jean de Beranger, can be obtained by the perusal of the lines at page 112, of the volume now before us. Bring me, I pray--an exile sad-- Some token of that valley bright, Where in my sheltered childhood glad, The future was a dream of light. Beside the gentle stream, where swell Its waves beneath the lilac tree, Ye saw the cot I love so well-- And speak ye of that home to me? We have no fault to find with these verses in themselves--as specimens of the _manner_ of the French _chansonnier_, we have no patience with them. What we have quoted, is the second stanza of the song. Our remarks, here, with some little modification, would apply to the _Sepulchres_ of Foscolo, especially to the passage commencing Yes--Pindemonte! The aspiring soul is fired to lofty deeds By great men's monuments, &c. They would apply, also, with somewhat less force, to Lamartine's _Loss of the Anio_, in the original of which by the way, we cannot perceive the lines answering to Mrs. E's verses All that obscures thy sovereign majesty Degrades our glory in degrading thee. Quevedo's Sonnet _Rome in Ruins_, we happen to have by us at this moment. The translation in this instance is faultless, and combines, happily, a close approximation to the meaning of the original, with its quaint air and pompous rhythm. The Sonnet itself is a plagiarism entire, from Girolamo Preti. The opening lines of Quevedo, Pilgrim! in vain thou seekest in Rome for Rome! Alas! the Queen of nations is no more! Dust are her towers, that proudly frowned of yore, And her stern hills themselves have built their tomb, are little else than the Roma in Roma non è In se stessa cadeo morta e sepolta, &c.