s more than equivalent to her
improvised verses. The following day the same company assembled at her
house; and to elicit her sentiments, he turned the conversation upon
Italian literature, and provoked her natural vivacity, by affirming that
the English poets were much superior in energy and sensibility to those
of which Italy could boast.

"In the first place," said Corinne, "strangers are for the most part
acquainted only with our poets of the first rank--Dante, Petrarch,
Ariosto, Guarini, Tasso, and Metastasio; whilst we have several others,
such as Chiabrera, Guidi, Filicaja, Parini, without reckoning
Sannazarius, Politian, &c., who have written in Latin, with as much
taste as genius; and all unite in their verses the utmost beauty of
colouring and harmony; all, with more or less talent, adorn the wonders
of nature and art with the imagery of speech. Without doubt our poets
cannot pretend to that profound melancholy, that knowledge of the human
heart which characterise yours; but does not this kind of superiority
belong more properly to philosophical writers than to poets? The
brilliant melody of Italian is more suitable to the splendour of
external objects than to meditation; our language is better adapted to
paint fury than sadness, because sentiments which arise from deep
reflection demand more metaphysical expressions, whilst the desire of
vengeance animates the imagination to the exclusion of grief. Cesarotti
has produced the best and most elegant translation of Ossian extant; but
it seems in reading it that the words possess in themselves an air of
festivity that forms a contrast with the sombre ideas of the poem. We
cannot help being charmed with our sweet expressions,--_the limpid
stream, the smiling plain, the cooling shade_, the same as with the
murmur of the waves, and variety of colours. What more do you expect
from poetry? Why would you ask of the nightingale, the meaning of her
song? She can only answer you by resuming the strain, and you cannot
comprehend it without yielding to the impression which it produces. The
measure of verse, harmonious rhymes, and those rapid terminations
composed of two short syllables whose sounds glide in the manner that
their name (_Sdruccioli_) indicates, sometimes imitate the light steps
of a dance; at others, more sombre tones recall the fury of the tempest
and the clangour of arms. In fact, our poetry is a wonder of the
imagination--we must only seek it in the various