Publisher: Forgotten Books (September 27, 2015)
Excerpt from The Poetical Works of Robert Southey, Vol. 9 of 10: Collected by Himself
“Would you believe it?” says a friend of the translator’s, from whose letter I transcribe what follows; “this was his answer verbatim: ‘Nimporte, écrirez toujours; brodez, brodezla un pen; que ce soit vrai on non ce ne fait rien; qui prendra la peine de s’informer?” Accordingly a Notice sur M. Southey was composed, not exactly in conformity with the publisher’s notions of biography, but from such materials as could be collected from magazines and other equally unauthentic sources.
In one of these versions a notable mistake occurs, occasioned by the French pronunciation of an English word. The whole passage indeed, in both versions, may he regarded as curiously exemplifying the difference between French and English poetry.
“The lamps and tapers now grew pale,
And through the eastern windows slanting fell
The roseate ray of morn. Within those walls
Returning day restored no cheerful sounds
Or joyous motions of awakening life;
But in the stream of light the speckled motes
As if in mimicry of insect play,
Floated with mazy movement. Sloping down
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