religious, but simple and ingenuous, with a tinge of mysticism,—­not the mysticism that seeks the good in dreamy inaction, as in some of the Spanish authors, nor has it the obscure tinge of the transcendental English school.  The religion of Roumanille is active, not dogmatic; he incites to do, rather than discuss or dream the good.  There is a health, a vigor, an earnestness, in this spontaneous poesy of an idiom which six centuries ago was the language of courts, and now sings the song of toil.  Side by side with the over-cultured language of the Parisian, it seems so free and frank!  Where the one is hampered for fear of sinning, the other, buoyant and elastic, treads freely and fears not to be too ingenuous.

Roumanille’s poems have not been translated; it is hardly likely they ever will be,—­at least, the greater number.  They were not made for Paris.  They are not at ease in a French garb,—­nor, for that matter, in any other than their own diaphanous, sun-tinted, vowelly Provencal, unless they could find their expression in some folk-speech, as the Germans say, that could utter things of daily life without euphuistic windings, without fear of ridicule for things of home expressed in home-words.

As characterizing the nature and tendency of the new poetry, we subjoin a translation of “Li Crecho,” (The Infant Asylums,) of which M. Sainte-Beuve, of the French Academy, one whose judgment as literary critic could be little biased in favor of the naive graces of the original, said,—­“The piece is worthy of the ancient Troubadours.  The angel of the asylums and of little children in his celestial sadness could not be disavowed by the angels of Klopstock, nor by that of Alfred de Vigny.”

“Li Crecho” was recited by the author at the inauguration of the Infant Asylum of Avignon, the 20th of November, 1851, and forms part of the sheaf of poems entitled “Li Flour de Sauvi.”

I.

“Among the choirs of Seraphim, whom God has created to sing eternally, transported with love, ’Glory, glory to the Father!’—­among the joys of Paradise, one oftentimes, far from the happy singers, went thoughtful away.

“And his snow-white forehead inclined towards our world, as droops a flower that has no moisture in summer.  Day by day he grew more dreamy.  If sadness, when in God’s glory, could torment the heart, I should say that this fair angel was pining with sorrow.

“Of what did he dream thus, and in secret?  Why was he not of the feast?  Why, alone among angels, as one that had sinned, did he bow the head?”

II.

“Lo! he has just knelt at the feet of God.  What will he say?  What will he do?  To see and hear him, his brethren interrupt their song of praise.”

III.

“’When Jesus, thy child, wept,—­when he shivered with cold in the manger of Bethlehem,—­it was my smile that consoled him, my wings that sheltered him, with my warm breath did I comfort him.