The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1869-03-22

Byron pronounced that poem one of the finest
In the language aud Goethe said be did not
know but that 1t was the most characteristic
and Impressive ode he had ever read. Henri
Taine thinks that ''its author was great poet,
not only knowing how TO produce a grand effect
by the simp plest OF means but al % perfect mas
ter in word@paintngn Strangely enough how
ever, the author of this remarkable poem, which
has lost none OF its popularity since it was first
published, in his subsequent productions, which
were not very numerous, fell so much short of
the egitlmate expectations to which ''The
Burial of Sir John Moore had given rise that,
for the sake OF his poetical fame, it was re
GREETED by many of the most competent critics
that Wolfe should have written anything but
this great and powerful poem. Sergeant Tall
fourd said, in regard to this subject: -''Had the
author of The Burial of Sir Johu Moore writ
ten oihing but these admirable lines, who
would have suspected his poverty of imagiua-
ton? As 1t was, his succeeding failures be-
trayed the secret, and showed that his mspra.
tion was accidental, and not the result of natu-
raj temperament-a fash OF fancy ouly-not the
steady blaze ofgenius.n And another critic said:
'Wolfe's first shot struck the very centre of the
ring; the others could rot be found.D
Under these circumstances it Is certainly
somewhat singular that the critics should never
have suspected Wolfe of plagiarism, but con
tented themselves with believing that he had for
once a brief at of inspiration, and not another
afterwards. It's true similar instances are mol
wanting in English and American literature.
SIR Egerton Bridges was a poet OF this class;
had he written nothing but his exquisite sonnet,
echo and Silence" which Wordsworth and
Southey so loudly praised, he would have taken
high rank as poet and 1T would have been
matter OF sincere regret that his Muse should
have been so grudging of her favOrs, But his
subsequent efforts were unequal TO the aforesaid
sonnet; they broke the charm he had raised,
and showed that he was indebted to Fortune
for his success, not to his genius. He courted
the Muse all his life long most patiently and
laboriously, but she never. smiled on HIM
again. Similar instances Of the chance inspra.
tion of an hour are Pomfret's 'Cholce,' Wood
worth, the American poets, old Oaken
Bucket Keys Starspangled Banner etc.
But in regard to WoltesIpoem, we believe we
the fact that 1t is not an original production,
We beg our readers to compare carefully The
Burial of Sir John Moore which we append
here, with the following French and German
poems, and they will find striking similarity
between them-so striking, indeed, that no one
will undertake to deny for moment that they
must be traDslatons, and, moreover, almost
literal transations OF each other. The German
poem, which the editor Of that excellent and
reliable German periodical, the L9psic Europa,
quotes on page 392 of his periodical for 1861
mo. lO), dates from the second half of the
seventeenth century, and was written in honor
OF the famous Swedish hero, General Torstenson,
who fell at the siege of Dantsic at the moment
when his men, having been repulsed by the
garrison, prepared to return to the Swedish
men. of war.
The French poem. M ie son du tarn5our-nt
la qndrcbe t1Enebre was written in commemora-
ton of a gallant Breton officer, Colonel de
Beaumanoir, who was shot, in l749, at the siege
OF Pondicherry. His comrades were likewise
compelled to re embark so hurriedly, that they
scarcely had time to bury his remains at the
foot of baston. The poem IS to be found in
Laly Tollendars memoirs for the Rehabilita-
tion OF my Father"
Not drum was heard, nor funeral note
AS his cOrse to the rRmparts we hurried;
Not soldier discharg'd farewell shot
Der the grave where our hero was buried
We buried him darkly at dead OF night,
The turf with our bay0netS turning,
By the struggling moon beams misty light,
And our lanterns dimIy burning.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the tace ofthe dead,
And we bitterly thought on the morrow.
No useless coffin confined his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him;
| But he lay warrior taking his rest,
| With his martial cloak around him,
We thought, as we heap'd his narrow bed
And Emooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o or
his head,
And we far away on the bIllow
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And DER his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where q Briton has laid him,
But half our heavy task was done,
When the clO0k told the hour for retiring:
And We heard by the distant and random gun,
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his frame fresh and CORY;
We carV'd nota line, we rais'd not stone,
But we left him alone in his glory.