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LXIX.
To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind:
All are not fit with them to stir and toil,
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil
Of our infection, till too late and long
We may deplore and struggle with the coil,

In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong.

LXX.
There, in a moment, we may plunge our years
In fatal penitence, and in the blight
Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears,
And color things to come with hues of Night;
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight
To those that walk in darkness : on the sea,
The boldest steer but where their ports invite,

But there are wanderers o'er Eternity [be. Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall

With a fresh pinion; which I feel to spring, Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast

Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.

LXXIV.
And when, at length, the mind shall be all free
From what it hates in this degraded form,
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be
Existent happier in the fly and worm,
When elements to elements conform,
And dust is as it should be, shall I not
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?

The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each spot ?
Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?

LXXV. Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part Of me and of my soul, as I of them? Is not the love of these deep in my heart With a pure passion ? should I not contemn All objects, if compared with these ? and stem A tide of suffering, rather than forego Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm

Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare

not glow ?

1

LXXI.
Is it not better, then, to be alone,
And love Earth only for its earthly sake?
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake,
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make
A fair but froward infant her own care,
Kissing its cries away as these awake ;-

Is it not better thus our lives to wear,
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear?

LXXII. I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me; and to mo High mountains are a feeling," but the hum Of human cities torture : I can see Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee,

And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.

LXXVI. But this is not my theme; and I return To that which is immediate, and require Those who find contemplation in the uri, To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, A native of the land where I respire The clear air for a while-a passing guest, Where he became a being,—whose desire

Was to be glorious ; 'twas a foolish quest, The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest.

LXXIII. And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life: I look upon the peopled desert past, As on a place of agony and strife, Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, To act and suffer, but remount at last

LXXVII. Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, The apostle of affliction, be who threw Enchantment over passion, and from wo Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew How to make madness beautiful, and cast O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue*

Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they pass'd The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and

fast.

i The color of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a depth of tint which I have never seen equalled in water, salt or fresh, except in the Mediterranean and Archipelago.-(See Don Juan, c. XIV. st. 87, for a beautiful coinparison : ** There was no great disparity of years,

Thougla much in temper ; but they never clash'd :
They moved like stars united in their spheres,

Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters washid,
Where mingled and yet separate appears

The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd
Through the serene and placid glassy deep,

Which fain would lull its river child to sleep.") ? (“Mr. Hobhouse and myself are just returned from a journey of lakes and mountains. We have been to the Grindelwald, and the Jungfrau, and stood on the summit of the Wengen Alp; and seen torrents of 900 fcet in fall, and gla. ciers of all dimensions : we have heard shepherds' pipes, and avalanches, and looked on the clouds foaming up from the valleys below us like the spray of the ocean of hell. Chamouni, and that which it inherits, we saw a month ago; but, though Mont Blanc is higher, it is not equal in wildness to the Jungfrau, the Eighers, the Shreckhorn, and the Rose Glaciers."-B. Letters, Sept. 1816.]

3 ["I have traversed all Rousseau's ground with the • Heloise' before me, and am struck to a degree that I cannot express with the force and accuracy of his descriptions, and the beauty of their reality. Meillerie, Clarens, and Vevay, and the Château de Chillon, are places of which I shall sav little: because all I could say must fall short of the impressions they stamp."-B. Letters.]

" [" It is evident that the impassioned parts of Rousseau's romance had made a deep impression upon the feelings of the noble poet. The enthusiasm expressed by Lord Byron is no small tribute to the power possessed by Jean Jacques over the passions: and, to say truth, we needed some such evi. dence ; for, though almost ashamed to avow the truth.-still, like the barber of Midas, we must speak or die,--we have neverbeen able to feelthe interest or discover the merit ofihis far-famed performance. That there is much eloquence in the letters we readily admit: there lay Rousseau's sirength. But his lovers, the celebrated St. Preux and Julie, bare, from the ! earliest moment we have heard the tale, (which we well remember,) down to the present hour, totally failed to interest us. There might be soine constitutional hardness of heart; but like Lance's pebble-hearted cur, Crab, we remained dry eyed while all wept around us. And still, on resuming the !

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LXXXIII. But this will not endure, nor be endured! Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. They might have used it better, but, allured By their new vigor, sternly have they dealt On one another; pity ceased to melt With her once natural charities. But they, Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day; What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey ?

LXXXIV. What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear That which disfigures it; and they who war With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd,

bear Silence, but not submission : in his lair Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour Which shall atone for years; none need despair:

it cometh, and will come,-the power To punish or forgive-in one we shall be slower.

It came,

LXXVIII.
His love was passion's essence—as a tree

On tire by lightning; with ethereal flame í Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be

Tous, and enamor'd, were in him the same. But his was not the love of living dame, Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, Bat of ideal beauty, which became In him existence, and o'erflowing teems Akang his burning page, distemper'd though it seems.

LXXIX. This breathed itself to life in Julie, this Invested her with all that's wild and sweet; This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss! Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, From bers, who but with friendship his would meet; But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat; lo that absorbing sigh perchance more bless'd Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possess’d.

LXXX. His life was one long war with self-sought foes, Or friends by him self-banishd; for his mind Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose Far its own cruel sacrifice the kind, 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. Bat he was phrensied,—wherefore, who may

know? Since cause might be which skill could never find ; But he was phrensied by disease or wo To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show.

LXXXI.
For then he was inspired, and from him came,
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore,
These oracles which set the world in flame,
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more:
Did he not this for France? which lay before
Box'd to the inborn tyranny of years?
Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore,

Till be the voice of him and his compeers, Rased up to too much wrath, which follows o'ergrown fears?

LXXXII. They made themselves a fearful monument ! The wreck of old opinions—things which grew, Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent, And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. But good with ill they also overthrew, Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild Cpon the same foundation, and renew

Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refill’d, As heretofore, because ambition was self-willid.

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LXXXV.
Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To waft me from distraction; once I loved
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring,

Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should o'er have been so moved.

LXXXVI. It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darken’d Jura, whose capp'd heights appear Precipitously steep; and drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear

Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ;

LXXXVII.
He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil,

Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.

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Folume, eren now, we can see little in the loves of these their very force, to be inadequate to the delineation : a two tiresome pedants to interest our feelings for either of painting can give no sufficient idea of the ocean. them. To stile our opinion in language (see Burke's Re ? ("* Lord Byron's character of Rousseau is drawn with Bertions; much better than our own, we are unfortunate wat u regard this far-famed history of philosophical quence.

great force, great power of discrimination, and great elo

I know not that he says any thing which has not Plastry as an unfashioned, indelicate, sour, gloomy, been said before ;-but what he says issues, apparently, brownis medley of pedantry and lewdness ; of metaphy, from the recesses of his own mind. It is a little labored, taal preolations, blended with the coarsest sensuality.'" 1-802 WALTER SCOTT.)

which, possibly, inay be caused by the form of the stanza

into which it was necessary to throw it ; but it cannot be * This refers to the account in his “ Confessions" of his doubted that the poet felt a sympathy for the enthusiastic usion for the Comtesse d'Houdetot, (the mistress of St.

tenderness of Rousseau's genius, which he could not have Lambert, i and his long walk every morning, for the sake of

recognised with such extreme fervor, except from a conSaturde kiss which was the common salutation of French sciousness of having at least occasionally experienced simiSelalulance. Rousseau's description of his feelings on

lar emotions."-SIR E. BRYDGES.) bis occasion may be considered as the most passionate, 3 (During Lord Byron's stay in Switzerland, he took up

unpure, description and expression of love that ever his residence at the Campagne-Diodati, in the village of solled into words; which, after all, must be felt, from Coligny. It stands at the top of a rapidly descending vine

From peak to peak the rattling crags among
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,

And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

LXXXVIII.
Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven !
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of mon and empires,—'tis to be forgiven,
That in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o’erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for ye aro
A beauty and a mystery, and create

In us such love and reverence from afar,
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named them-

selves a star.

LXXXIX.
All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep,
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep:
All heaven and earth are still: From the high host
Of stars, to the lullid lake and mountain-coast,
All is concentred in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,

But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and defence.

XCIII.
And this is in the night :- Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,-
A portion of the tempest and of thee !"
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black,-and now, the glee

Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'or a young earthquake's
birth.

XCIV.
Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,
Love was the very root of the fond rage [parted :
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then de-

Itself expired, but leaving them an age
Of

years all winters,—war within themselves to wage.

XC.
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are least alone;
A truth, which through our being then doth melt,
And purifies from selt: it is a tone,
The soul and source of music, which makes known
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,

Binding all things with beauty ;-'twould disarm
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.

XCI.
Not vainly did the early Persian make
His altar the high places and the peak
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains,' and thus tako
A fit and unwall d temple, there to seek
The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak,
Upreard of human hands. Come, and compare
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air,
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray'r!

XCV.
Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,
The mightiest of the storms hath ta’en his stand:
For hero, not one, but many, make their play,
And Aling their thunderbolts from hand to hand,
Flashing and cast around: of all the band,
The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd
His lightnings,—as if he did understand,

That in such gaps as desolation work'd,
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein
lurk'd.

XCVI.
Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye!
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul
To make these felt and feeling, well may be
Things that have made me watchful; the far roll
Of your departing voices, is the knoll
Of what in me is sleepless,-if I rest."
But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal ?

Are ye like those within the human breast ?
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?

XCII.
The sky is changed !-and such a change! Oh night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark oyo in woman! Far along,

yard ; the windows commanding, one way, a noble view of again as far as Chillon, to revisit the little torrent from the the lake and of Geneva; the other, up the lake. Every hill behind it. The corporal who showed the wonders of evening, the poet embarked on the lake ; and to the feel Chillon was as drunk as Blucher, and (to my inind) as great ings created by these excursions we owe these delightful a man: he was deaf also ; and, thinking every one else sa, stanzas. Of his mode of passing a day, the following, from roared out the legends of the castle so fearfully, that llobhis Journal, is a pleasant specimen :

house got out of humor. However, we saw things, from “September 18. Called. Got up at five. Stopped at the gallows to the dungeons. Sunset reflected in the lake. Vevay two hours. View from the churchyard superb; Nine o'clock-going to bed. Have to get up at five lowithin it Ludlow (the regicide's) monument-black marble morrow,"] - long inscription, Latin, but simple. Near him Broughton See Appendix, Note (F.) (who read King Charles's sentence to Charles Stuart) is ? The thunder-storm to which these lines refer occurred buried, with a queer and rather canting inscription. Lud

on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have seen, among low's house shown. Walked down to the lake side ; ser the Acroceraunian mountains of Chimari, several more terVints, carriages, saddle-horses, -all set off, and left us rible, but none more beautiful. plantes , by some mistake. Hobhouse ran on before, and 3 [" This is one of the most beautiful passages of the poem. overtook them. Arrived at Clarens, Went to Chillon The · fierce and far delight' of a thunder-storn is here de through scenery worthy of I know not whom ; went over the scribed in verse almost as vivid as its lightnings. The live castle again

Met an English party in a carriage ; a lady in thunder leaping among the rattling crags -the voice of it fast asleep--fast asleep in the inost anti-narcotic spot in mountains, as if shouting to each other--the plastung of the the world. excellent! After a slight and short dinner, big rain---the gleaming of the wide lake, lighted like a phosvisited the Chateau de Clarens. Saw all worth seeing, and phoric sea--present a picture of sublime terror, yet of enthen descer to Bosquet de Julie,'&c., C.: ou joyme often attempted, but never so well, certainly never guide full of Rousseau, whom he is eternally confounding beiter, brought out in poetry."-Sir Walter Scorr.) with St. Preux, and mixing the man and the book. Went +(The Journal of his Swiss tour, which Lord Byron kept

XCVII.

Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood, Could I embody and unbosom now

The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar,
That which is most within me,- could I wreak But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood,
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude-
Sul, beart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak,
All that I would have sought, and all I seek,

CII.
Beur, know, feel, and yet breathe-into one word, A populous solitude of bees and birds,
And that one word were Lightning, I would speak; And fairy-form'd and many-color'd things,
But as it is, I live and die unheard,

Who worship him with notes inore sweet than words, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. Aud innocently open their glad wings,

Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs,
XCVIII.

And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend
The mom is up again, the dewy morn,

Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, Mingling, and made by Love, unto ono mighty end. And iring as if earth contain:d no tomb,– And glowing into day: we may resume

CIII. The inarch of our existence: and thus I,

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room And make his heart a spirit; he who knows And food for meditation, nor pass by

That tender mystery, will love the more, Vach, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly. For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes,

And the world's waste, have driven him far from
XCIX.

those,
Clareas! sweet Clarens,' birthplace of deep Love ! For 'tis his nature to advance or die ;
Tbine air is the young breath of passionate thought ; He stands not still, but or decays, or grows
Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above Into a boundless blessing, which may vie
The very Glaciers have his colors caught,

With the immortal lights, in its eternity!
And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought
By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks,

CIV. The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought 'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, la then a refuge from the worldly shocks,

Peopling it with affections ; but he found Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then It was the scene which passion must allot mocks.

To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the ground

Whero early Love his Psyche's zono unbound, C.

And hallow'd it with loveliness ; 'tis lone, Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne

And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone To which the steps are mountains; where the god Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have reard a Is a pervading life and light,-50 shown

throne. Not on those summits solely, nor alone la the still cave and forest; o'er the flower

CV. His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown Lausanne ! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes

His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name ;) Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, hour.

A path to perpetuity of fame:

They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim CI.

Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile All things are here of him; from the black pines, Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar

flame Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines

Of Heaven, again assaild, if Heaven the while Which slope his green path downward to the shore, On man and man's research could deigu do more Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore,

than smile.

for his sister.closes with the following mournful passage : scenery perfect. They exhibit a miraculous brilliancy and ** In the weather, for this tour, of thirteen days, I have been force of fancy; but the very fidelity causes a little constraint TETT forturiale-fortunate in a companion" (Mr. Hobhouse) and labor or language. The poet seems to have been so

i fortunate in our prospects, and exempt from even the engrossed by the attention to give vigor and fire to the imLittle feliç accidents and delays which often render journeys agery, that he both neglected and disdained to render himna lers wild country disappointing. I was disposed to be self more harmonious by diffuser words, which, while they pezsel. I am a lover of nature, and an admirer of beauty. | might have improved the effect upon the ear, might have Iran bear iatigue, and welcome privation, and have seen weakened the impression upon the mind. This inastery

€ of the noblest views in the world. But in all this, over new matter-this supply of powers equal not only to the recollection of bitterness, and more especially of recent an untouched subject, but that subject one of peculiar and aari more home desolation, which must accompany me unequalled grandeur and beauty-was sufficient to occupy Erven life, has preyed upon me here; and neither the the strongest poetical faculties, young as the author was,

ist of the shepherd, the crashing of the avalanche, nor the without adding to it all the practical skill of the artist. The current, the mountain, the glacier, the forest, nor the cloud, stanzas, too, on Voltaire and Gibbon are discriminative, have for one moment lightened the weight upon my heart, sagacious, and just. They are among the proofs of that por enabled me to lose my own wretched identity, in the very great variety of talent which this Canto of Lord Byron majesty, and the power, and the glory around, above, and exhibits.--Sir E. BrydGES.] Suanzas xcix. to cxv. are exquisite. They have every

2 See Appendix, Note [G.) thing which makes a poetical picture of local and particular s Voltaire and Gibbon.

bricath me.")

CVI.

Who glorify thy consecrated pages; The one was fire and fickleness, a child,

Thou wert the throne and grave of empires ; still, Most mutable in wishes, but in mind

The fount at which the panting mind assuages A wit as various,—gay, grave, sage, or wild, Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her till, Historian, bard, philosopher, combined ;

Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill He inultiplied himself among mankind, The Proteus of their talents: But his own

CXI. Breathed most in ridicule,—which, as the wind,

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme Blew where it listed, laying all things prone,

Renewid with no kind auspices :-to feel Now to o’erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.

We are not what we have been, and to deem

We are not what we should be,-and to steel
CVII.

The heart against itself; and to conceal,
The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,-
And hiving wisdom with each studious year,

Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal,In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought,

Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, Is a steru task of soul :-No matter,-it is taught. Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer;

CXII.
The lord of irony,—that master-spell,

And for these words, thus woven into song,
Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear,
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell,

It may be that they are a harmless wile, -
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well.

The coloring of the scenes which fleet along,

Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile
CVIII.

My breast, or that of others, for a while.
Yet, peace be with their ashes,—for by them,

Fame is the thirst of youth,—but I am not If merited, the penalty is paid ;

So young as to regard men's frown or smile,
It is not ours to judge, far less condemn;

As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;
The hour must come when such things shall be made I stood and stand alone,-remember'd or forgot.
Known unto all,--
-or hope and dread allay'd

CXIII.

. By slumber, on one pillow,-in the dust, Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay’d;

I have not loved the world, nor the world me;

I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd And when it shall revive, as is our trust,

To its idolatries a patient knee,'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just.

Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud

In worship of an echo; in the crowd
CIX.

They could not deem me one of such ; I stood
But let me quit man's works, again to read
His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend

Among them, but not of them; in a shroud (could,

Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still This page, which from my reveries I feed,

Had I not filed' my mind, which thus itself subdued. Until it seems prolonging without end. The clouds above me to the white Alps tend,

CXIV. And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er I have not loved the world, nor the world me, May be permitted, as my steps I bend

But let us part fair foes; I do believe, To their most great and growing region, where Though I have found them not, that there may be The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. Words which are things,-hopes which will not

deceive, СХ.

And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee,

Snares for the failing: I would also deem Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,

O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve ;Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, That two, or one, are almost what they seem, To the last halo of the chiefs and sages,

That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.*

1

“It it be thus,

poetical path to contentment and heart's-ease: that by which For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind."-MACBETH." They are attained is open to all classes of mankind, and lies 2 It is said by Rochefoucault, that there is always some within the inost limited range of intellect. To narrow our thing in the inisfortunes of men's best friends not displeasing wishes and desires within the scope of our powers of attainto them."

ment; to consider our misfortunes, however peculiar in 3(** It is not the temper and talents of the poet, but the their character, as our inevitable share in the patrimony of use to which he puts them, on which his happiness or misery Adam; to bridle those irritable feelings, which ungoverned is grounded. A powerful and unbridled imagination is the are sure to become governors; to shun that intensity of author and architect of its own disappointments. Its fasci galling and sell-wounding reflection which our poel has so nations, its exaggerated pictures of good and evil, and the forcibly described in his own burning language:mental distress to which they give rise, are the natural and

I have thought necessary evils attending on that quick susceptibility of feelng and fancy incident to the poetical temperament.

Too long and darkly, till my brain became, But the Giver of all talents, while he has qualified them

In its own eddy, boiling and o'erwrought, each with its separate and peculiar alloy, has endowed the

A whirling gulf of phantasy and flameowner with the power of purifying and refining them. But,

---to stoop, in short, to the realities of life; repent if we as if to moderate the arrogance of genius, it is justly and

have offended, and pardon if we have been trespassed wisely made requisite, that he must regulate and tame the

against; to look on the world less as our foe than as a fire of his fancy, and descend from the heights to which she

doubtful and capricious friend, whose applause we ought as exalts him, in order to obtain case of mind and tranquillity.

far as possible to deserve, but neither to court nor contemn The inaterials of happiness, that is, of such degree of happiness as is consistent with our present state, lie around us

---such seem the most obvious and certain means of keep

ing or regaining mental tranquulity. in profusion. But the man of talents must stoop to gather them, otherwise they would be beyond the reach of the

-Semita certe muss of society, for whose benefit, as well as for his, Tranquillæ per virtulem patet unica vitie.'"Providence has created them. There is no royal and no

Sir WALTER SCOTT.)

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