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Come to Lethe's wavy shore,

Tell them they shall mourn no more. Thine their hearts, their altars thine; Must they, Dian--must they pine?

XV.

LIKE some wanton filly sporting,
Maid of Thrace, thou fly'st my courting.
Wanton filly! tell me why

Thou trip'st away, with scornful eye,
And seem'st to think my doating heart
Is novice in the bridling art?
Believe me, girl, it is not so;

Thou'lt find this skilful hand can throw
The reins around that tender form,
However wild, however warm.
Yes-trust me I can tame thy force,
And turn and wind thee in the course.
Though, wasting now thy careless hours,
Thou sport amid the herbs and flowers,
Soon shalt thou feel the rein's control,
And tremble at the wish'd-for goal!

LXVI.

To thee, the Queen of nymphs divine,
Fairest of all that fairest shine;
To thee, who rul'st with darts of fire
This world of mortals, young Desire!
And oh! thou nuptial Power, to thee
Who bear'st of life the guardian key,
Breathing my soul in fervent praise,
And weaving wild my votive lays,
For thee, O Queen! I wake the lyre,
For thee, thou blushing young Desire,
And oh! for thee, thou nuptial Power,
Come, and illume this genial hour.

Look on thy bride, too happy boy,
And while thy lambent glance of joy
Plays over all her blushing charms,
Delay not, snatch her to thine arms,
Before the lovely, trembling prey,
Like a young birdling, wing away!
Turn, Stratocles, too happy youth,
Dear to the queen of amorous truth,
And dear to her, whose yielding zone
Will soon resign her all thine own.
Turn to Myrilla, turn thine eye,
Breathe to Myrilla, breathe thy sigh.
To those bewitching beauties turn;
For thee they blush, for thee they burn.

Not more the rose, the queen of flowers,
Outblushes all the bloom of bowers,
Than she unrivall'd grace discloses,
The sweetest rose, where all are roses.
Oh! may the sun, benignant, shed
His blandest influence o'er thy bed;
And foster there an infant tree,

To bloom like her, and tower like thee!

LXVII

RICH in bliss, I proudly scorn
The wealth of Amalthea's horn;
Nor should I ask to call the throne
Of the Tartessian prince my own;
To totter through his train of years,
The victim of declining fears
One little hour of joy to ma
Is worth dull eternity!

LXVIII.

Now Neptune's month our sky deforms,
The angry night-cloud teems with storms;
And savage winds, infuriate driven,
Fly howling in the face of heaven

Now, now, my friends, the gathering gloom
With roseate rays of wine illume:
And while our wreaths of parsley spread
Their fadeless foliage round our head,
Let's hymn th' almighty power of wine,
And shed libations on his shrine!

LXIX.

THEY Wove the lotus band to deck
And fan with pensile wreath each neck;
And every guest, to shade his head,
Three little fragrant chaplets spread;
And one was of th' Egyptian leaf,
The rest were roses, fair and brief:
While from a golden vase profound,
To all on flowery beds around,
A Hebe, of celestial shape,

Pour'd the rich droppings of the grape!

LXX.

A BROKEN cake, with honey sweet,
Is all my spare and simple treat:
And while a generous bowl I crown
To float my little banquet down,
I take the soft, the amorous lyre,
And sing of love's delicious fire:
In mirthful measures warm and free,
I sing, dear maid, and sing for thee!

LXXI.

WITH twenty chords my lyre is hung,
And while I wake them all for thee,
Thou, O maiden, wild and young,
Disport'st in airy levity.

The nursling fawn, that in some shade
It's antler'd mother leaves behind,
Is not more wantonly afraid,
More timid of the rustling wind!

LXXII.

FARE thee well, perfidious maid,
My soul, too long on earth delay'd,
Delay'd, perfidious girl, by thee,
Is on the wing for liberty.

I fly to seek a kindlier sphere,
Since thou hast ceas'd to love me here

LXXIII.

AWHILE I bloom'd, a happy flower, Till Love approach'd one fatal hour And made my tender branches feel The wounds of his avenging steel. Then lost I fell, like some poor willow That falls across the wintry billow!

LXXIV

MONARCH Love, resistless boy,
With whom the rosy Queen of Joy
And nymphs, whose eyes have Heaven's hus
Disporting tread the mountain-dew;
Propitious, oh! receive my sighs,
Which, glowing with entreaty, rise,
That thou wilt whisper to the breast
Of her I love thy soft behest;
And counsel her to learn from thee,
That lesson thou hast taught to me.
Ah! if my heart no flattery tell,
Thou'lt own I'vs 'earn'd that lesson well!

LXXV.

SPIRIT of Love, whose locks unroll'd, Stream on the breeze like floating gold;

Come, within a fragrant cloud

Blushing with light, thy votary shroud;
And, on those wings that sparkling play,
Waft, oh, waft me hence away
Love! my soul is full of thee,
Alive to all thy luxury.

But she, the nymph for whom I glow,
The lovely Lesbian mocks my woe;
Smiles at the chill and hoary hues,
That time upon my forehead strews.
Alas! I fear she keeps her charms,
In store for younger, happier arms!

LXXVI.

HITHER, gentle muse of mine,
Come and teach thy votary old
Many a golden hymn divine,

For the nymph with vest of gold.

Pretty nymyh, of tender age,

Fair thy silky locks unfold; Listen to a hoary sage,

Sweetest maid with vest of gold!

LXXVII.

WOULD that I were a tuneful lyre,
Of burnish'd ivory fair,
Which, in thy Dionysian choir,
Some blooming boy should bear!

Would that I were a golden vase,

That some bright nymph might hold My spotless frame, with blushing grace, Herself as pure as gold!

LXXVIII.

WHEN Cupid sees how thickly now,
The snows of Time fall o'er my brow,
Upon his wing of golden light,
He passes with an eaglet's flight,
And flitting onward seems to say,
"Fare thee well, thou'st had thy day!"

CUPID, whose lamp has lent the ray,
That lights our life's meandering way,
That God, within this bosom stealing,
Hath waken'd a strange, mingled feeling,
Which pleases, though so sadly teasing,
And teases, though so sweetly pleasing!

I know thou lov'st a brimming measure,
And art a kindly, cordial host;
But let me fill and drink at pleasure-
Thus I enjoy the goblet most.

I FEAR that love disturbs my rest,
Yet feel not love's impassion'd care,
I think there's madness in my breast,

Yet cannot find that madness there!

FROM dread Leucadia's frowning steep,
I'll plunge into the whitening deep:
And there lie cold, to death resign'd,
Since Love intoxicates my mind!

MIx me, child, a cup divine,
Crystal water, ruby wine:
Weave the frontlet, richly flushing,
O'er my wintry temples blushing.
Mix the brimmer-Love and I
Shall no more the contest try.
Here upon this holy bowl,
I surrender all my soul!

AMONG the Epigrams of the Anthologia, are found some panegyrics on Anacreon, which I had translated, and origi nally intended as a sort of Coronis to this work. But I found upon consideration, that they wanted variety; and that a frequent recurrence, in them, of the same thought would render a collection of such poems uninteresting. I shall take the liberty, however, of subjoining a few, se lected from the number, that I may not appear to have totally neglected those ancient tributes to the fame of Anacreon. The four epigrams which I give are imputed to Antipater Sidonius. They are rendered, perhaps, with too much freedom; but designing originally a translation of all that are extant on the subject, I endeavoured to enliven their uniformity by sometimes indulging in the liberties o paraphrase.

AROUND the tomb, oh, bard divine!

Where soft thy hallow'd brow reposes,
Long may the deathless ivy twine,
And summer spread her waste of roses!
And there shall many a fount distil,
And many a rill refresh the flowers;
But wine shall be each purple rill,

And every fount be milky showers.
Thus, shade of him, whom nature taught
To tune his lyre and soul to pleasure,
Who gave to love his tenderest thought,
Who gave to love his fondest measure,-

Thus, after death, if shades can feel,

Thou may'st, from odours round thee streaming.
A pulse of past enjoyment steal,

And live again in blissful dreaming!

HERE sleeps Anacreon, in this ivied shade;
Here mute in death the Teian swan is laid.
Cold, cold that heart, which while on earth it dwelt
All the sweet frenzy of love's passion felt.
And yet, oh Bard! thou art not mute in death,
Still do we catch thy lyre's luxurious breath;
And still thy songs of soft Bathylla bloom,
Green as the ivy round thy mould'ring tomb.
Nor yet has death obscur'd thy fire of love,
For still it lights thee through the Elysian grove;
Where dreams are thine, that bless th' elect alone,
And Venus calls thee even in death her own'

Он stranger! if Anacreon's shell
Has ever taught thy heart to swell
With passion's throb or pleasure's sigh
In pity turn, as wand'ring nigh,
And drop thy goblet's richest tear
In tenderest libation here!
So shall my sleeping ashes thrill
With visions of enjoyment still.
Not even in death can I resign
The festal joys that once were mine,
When Harmony pursu'd my ways,
And Bacchus wanton'd to my lays.
Oh! if delight could charm no more,
If all the goblet's bliss were o'er,
When fate had once our doom decreed,
Then dying would be death indeed;
Nor could I think, unblest by wine.
Divinity itself divine!

Ar length thy golden hours have wing'd their flight,
And drowsy death that eyelid steepeth;

Thy harp, that whisper'd through each lingering night,
Now mutely in oblivion sleepeth !

She too, for whom that harp profusely shed
The purest nectar of its numbers,

She, the young spring of thy desires, hath fled,
And with her blest Anacreon slumbers!

Farewell! thou had'st a pulse for every dart

That mighty Love could scatter from his quiver,

And each new beauty found in thee a heart,

Which thou, with all thy heart and soul, didst give har i

REMARKS ON ANACREON. THERE is but little known with certainty of the life of Anacreon. Chameleor. Heracleotes, who wrote upon the subject, has been lost in the general wreck of ancient literature. The editors of the poet have ollect d the few trifling anecdotes which are scattered through the extant authors of antiquity, and, supplying the deficiency of materials Dy fictions of their own imagination, have arranged, what they call, a life of Anacreon. These specious fabrications are intended to indulge that interest which we naturally feel in the biography of illustrious men; but it is rather a dangerous kind of illusion, as it confounds the umits of history and romance, and is too often supported by unfaithful citation.

Our poet was born in the city of Téos, in the delicious region of lonia, and the time of his birth appears to have been in the sixth century before Christ. He flourished at that remarkable period, when, under the polished tyrants Hipparchus and Polycrates, Athens and Samos were become the rival asylums of genius. There is nothing certain known about his family, and those who pretend to discover in Plato that he was a descendant of the monarch Codrus, show much more of zeal than of either accuracy or judgment.

The disposition and talents of Anacreon recommended him to the monarch of Samos, and he was formed to be the friend of such a prince as Polycrates. Susceptible only to the pleasures, he felt not the corruptions of the court; and, while Pythagoras fled from the tyrant, Anacreon was celebrating his praises on the lyre. We are told too by Maximus Tyrius, that, by the influence of his amatory songs, he softened the mind of Polycrates into a spirit of benevolence towards his subjects.

The amours of the poet, and the rivalship of the tyrant, I shall pass over in silence; and there are are few, I presume, who will regret the emission of most of those anecdotes, which the industry of some editors has not only promulged, but discussed. Whatever is repugnant to modesty and virtue is considered in ethical science, by a supposition very favourable to humanity, as impossible; and this amiable persuasion should be much more strongly entertainel, where the transgres sion wars with nature as well as virtue. But why are we not allowed to indulge in the presumption? Why are we officiously reminded that there have been really such instances of depravity?

Hipparchus, who now maintained at Athens the power which his father Pisistratus had usurped, was one of those princes who may be said to have polished the fetters of their subjects. He was the first, according to Plato, who edite the poems of Homer, and commanded them to be sung by the rhapsodists at the celebration of the Panathe næa. From his court, which was a sort of galaxy of genius, Anacreon could not long be absent. Hipparchus sent a barge for him; the poet readily embraced the invitation, and the Muses and the Loves were wafted with him to Athens.

The manner of Anacreon's death was singular. We are told that in the eighty-fifth year of his age he was choked by a grape-stone; and, however we may smile at their enthusiastic partiality, who see in this easy and characteristic death a peculiar indulgence of Heaven, we cannot help admiring that his fate should have been so emblematic of his disposition. Cælius Calcagninus alludes to this catastrophe in the following epitaph on our poet :

Those lips, then, hallow'd sage, which pour'd along
A music sweet as any cygnet's song,
The grape hath clos'd for ever!

Here let the ivy kiss the poet's tomb,
Here let the rose he lov'd with laurels bloom,
In bands that ne'er shall sever.

But far be thou, oh! far, unholy vine,

By whom the favourite minstrel of the Nine
Lost his sweet vital breath;

Thy God himself now blushes to confess,
Once hallow'd vine! he feels he loves the less,

Since poor Anacreon's death.

it has been supposed by some writers that Anacreon and Sappho were contemporaries; and the very thought of an intercourse between persons so congenial, both in warmth of passion and delicacy of genius, gives such play to the imagination, that the mind loves to indulge in it. But the vision dissolves before historical truth; and Chamaleon and Hermesianax, who are the source of the supposition, are con. sidered as having merely indulged in a poetical anachronism.

To infer the moral dispositions of a poet from the tone of sentiment which pervades his works, is sometimes a very fallacious analogy; but the soul of Anacreon speaks so unequivocally through his odes, that we may safely consult them as the faithful mirrors of his heart. We find him there the elegant voluptuary, diffusing the seductive charm of sentiment over passions and propensities at which rigid morality must frown. His heart, devoted to indolence, seems to have thought that there was wealth enough in happiness, but seldom happiness in mee wealth. The cheerfulness, indeed, with which he brightens his old age is interesting and endearing: like his own rose, he is fragrant even in decay. But the most peculiar feature of his mind is that love of simplicity, which he attributes to himself so feelingly, and which breathes characteristically throughout all that he has su ag. In truth, if we omit those few vices in our estimate which religion, at that time, not only connived at, but consecrated, we shall be inclined to say that the disposition of our poet was amiable; that his morality was relaxed, but not abandoned; and that Virtue with her zone loosened, may be an apt emblem of the character of Anacreon.

Of his person and physiognomy time has preserved such uncertain memorials, that it were better, perhaps, to leave the pencil to fancy; and few can read the Odes of Anacreon without imagining to themselves the form of the animated old bard, crowned with roses, and singing cheerfully to his lyre.

After the very enthusiastic eulogiums bestowed both by ancients and moderns upon the poems of Anacreon, we need not be diffident in xpressing our raptures at their beauty, nor hesitate to pronounce hem the most polished remains of antiquity. They are, indeed, all eauty, all encheatment. He steals us so insensibly along with him,

that we sympathise even in his excesses. In his amatory odes there is a delicacy of compliment not to be found in any other ancient poet Love at that period was rather an unrefined emotion: and the inter course of the sexes was animated more by passion than by sentiment. They knew not those little tendernesses which form the spiritual pert of affection; their expression of feeling was therefore rude and unva ried, and the poetry of love deprived it of its most captivating graces. Anacreon, however, attained some ideas of this purer gallantry: and the same delicacy of mn which led him to this refinement, prevented him also from yielding to the freedom of language, which has sullied the pages of all the other poets. His descriptions are warm; but the warmth is in the ideas, not the words He is sportive without being wanton, and ardent without being licentious. His poetic inventions always most brilliantly displayed in those allegorical fictions which so many have endeavoured to imitate, though all have confessed them to be inimitable. Simplicity is the distinguishing feature of these odes, and they interest by their innocence, as much as they fascinate by their beauty. They may be said, indeed, to be the very infants of the Muses, and to lisp in numbers.

I shall not be accused of enthusiastic partiality by those who have read and felt the original; but to others, I am conscious, this should not be the language of a translator, whose faint reflection of such beau ties can but ill justify his admiration of them.

In the age of Anacreon music and poetry were inseparable. These kindred talents were for a long time associated, and the poet always sung his own compositions to the lyre. It is probable that they were not set to any regular air, but rather a kind of musical recitation, which was varied according to the fancy and feelings of the moment The poems of Anacreon were sung at banquets as late as the time of Aulus Gellius, who tells us that he heard one of the odes performed at a birth-day entertainment.

The singular beauty of our poet's style, and the apparent facility perhaps, of his metre have attracted, as I have already remarked, r crowd of imitators. Some of these have succeeded with wonderful fe licity, as may be discerned in the few odes which are attributed to writers of a later period. But none of his imitators have been half so dangerous to his fame as those Greek ecclesiastics of the early ages, who, being conscious of their own inferiority to their great prototypes, determined on removing all possibility of comparison, and, under a semblance of moral zeal, deprived the world of some of the most exquisite treasures of ancient times. The works of Sappho and Alcaus were among those flowers of Grecian literature which thus fell be neath the rude hand of ecclesiastical presumption. It is true they pre tended that this sacrifice of genius was hallowed by the interests of religion; but I have already assigned the most probable motive: and if Gregorius Nazianzenus had not written Anacreontics, we might now perhaps have the works of the Teian unmutilated, and be empowered to say exultingly with Horace,

Nec si quid oli kad Jawska Delevit ætas.

The zeal by which these bishops professed to be actuated, gave birth more innocently indeed, to an absurd species of parody, as repugnal to piety as it is to taste, where the poet of voluptuousness was made a preacher of the gospel, and his muse, like the Venus in armour at L cedæmon, was arrayed in all the severities of priestly instruction Such was the "Anacreon Recantatns," by Carolus de Aquino, a Je suit, published 1701, which consisted of a series of palinodes to the several songs of our poet. Such, too, was the Christian Anacreon of Patriganus, another Jesuit, who preposterously transferred to a most sacred subject all that the Grecian poet had dedicated to festivity and love. His metre has frequently been adopted by the modern Latin poets, and Scaliger, Taubman, Barthius, and others, have shown that it is by no means uncongenial with that language. The Anacreonties of Ses liger, however, scarcely deserve the name; as they glitter all over with conceits, and though often elegant, are always laboured. The beautiful fitions of Angerianus preserve more happily than any others the delicate turn of those allegorical fables, which, passing so frequently through the mediums of version and imitation, have gene rally lost their finest rays in the transmission. Many of the Italian poets have indulged their fancies upon the subjects, and in the manner of Anacreon. Bernardo Tasso first introduced the metre, which war afterwards polished and enriched by Chabriera and others.

To judge by the references of Degen, the German language abounds in Anacreontic imitations; and Hagedorn is one among many who have assumed him as a model. La Farre, Chaulieu, and the other light poets of France, have also professed to cultivate the muse of Téos; but they have attained all her negligence with little of the sim ple grace that embellishes it. In the delicate bard of Schiras we find the kindred spirit of Anacreon: some of his gazelles or songs possess all the character of our poet.

We come now to a retrospect of the editions of Anacreon. To Henry Stephens we are indebted for having first recovered his remains from the obscurity in which, so singularly, they had for many ages reposed. He found the seventh ode, as we are told, on the cover of an old book, and communicated it to Victorius, who mentions the circum stance in his "Various Reading." Stephen was then very young, and this discovery was considered by some critics of that day as a lite rary imposition. In 1554, however, he gave Anacreon to the world, accompanied with annotations and a Latin version of the greater part of the odes. The learned still hesitated to receive them as the relics of the Teian bard, and suspected them to be the fabrication of some monks of the sixteenth century. This was an idea from which the classic muse recoiled; and the Vatican manuscript, consulted by Sca liger and Salmasins, confirmed the antiquity of the poems. A very inaccurate copy of this MS. was taken by Isaac Vossins, and this is the authority which Barnes has followed in his collation. Accordingly he misrepresents almost as often as he quotes; and the subsequent d tors, relying upon his authority, have spoken of the manuscript with not less confidence than ignorance. The literary world, however, has at length been gratified with this curions memorial of the poet, by the industry of the Abbé Spaletti, who published at Rome, in 1781, a fac simile of those pages of the Vatican manuscript which contained the odes of Anacreon.

RHYMES ON THE ROAD,

EXTRACTED FROM THE JOURNAL OF A TRAVELLING MEMBER OF

THE POCO.CURANTE SOCIETY.

THE greater part of the following Rhymes were written or composed in an old caleche, for the purpose of beguiling the ennui of solitary travelling; and as verses, made by a gentleman in his sleep, have been lately called "a psychological curiosity," it is to be hoped that verses, composed by a gentleman to keep himself awake, may be honoured with some appellation equally Greek.

INTRODUCTORY RHYMES.

Different Attitudes in which Authors compose.-Bayes, Henry Stephens, Herodotus, &c.-Writing in Bed-in the Fields.-Plato and Sir Ri chard Blackmore.-Fiddling with Gloves and Twigs.-Madame de Stael-Rhyming on the Road, in an old Caleche.

WHAT various attitudes, and ways,

And tricks, we authors have in writing!
While some write sitting, some, like BAYES,
Usually stand, while they're inditing.
Poets there are, who wear the floor out,
Measuring a line at every stride;

While some, like HENRY STEPHENS, pour out
Rhymes by the dozen, while they ride.
HERODOTUS Wrote most in bed;

And RICHERAND, a French physician,
Declares the clock-work of the head

Goes best in that reclin'd position.

If you consult MONTAIGNE and PLINY on
The subject, 'tis their joint opinion
That Thought its richest harvest yields
Abroad, among the woods and fields;
That Bards, who deal in small retail,

At home may, at their counters, stop;
But that the grove, the hill, the vale,
Are Poesy's true wholesale shop.
And, verily, I think they're right-
For, many a time, on summer eves,
Just at that closing hour of light,

When, like an Eastern Prince, who leaves
For distant war his Haram bow'rs,
The Sun bids farewell to the flow'rs,

Whose heads are sunk, whose tears are flowing
Mid all the glory of his going!-
Ev'n I have felt, beneath those beams,

When wand'ring through the fields alone,
Thoughts, fancies, intellectual gleams,
Which, far too bright to be my own,
Seem'd lent me by the Sunny Pow'r,
That was abroad at that still hour.

If thus I've felt, how must they feel,
The few, whom genuine Genius warms;
Upon whose souls he stamps his seal,

Graven with Beauty's countless forms;-
The few upon this earth, who seem
Born to give truth to PLATO's dream,
Since in their thoughts, as in a glass,

Shadows of heavenly things appear,
Reflections of bright shapes that pass

Through other worlds, above our sphere!

But this reminds me I digress ;

For PLATO, too, produc'd, 'tis said, (As one, indeed, might almost guess,) His glorious visions all in bed.

'Twas in his carriage the sublime

Sir RICHARD BLACKMORE Used to rhyne;

And (if the wits don't do him wrong)
"Twixt death and epics pass'd his time,
Scribbling and killing all day long-
Like Phoebus in his car, at ease,

Now warbling forth a lofty song,
Now murd'ring the young Niobes.
There was a hero 'mong the Danes,
Who wrote, we're told, 'mid all the pains
And horrors of exenteration,

Nine charming odes, which, if you'll look,
You'll find preserv'd, with a translation,
By BARTHOLINUS in his book.

In short, 'twere endless to recite

The various modes in which men write.

Some wits are only in the mind,

When beaux and belles are round them prating,
Some, when they dress for dinner, find
Their muse and valet bcth in waiting;
And manage, at the self-same time,
To adjust a neckcloth and a rhyme.

Some bards there are who cannot scribble
Without a glove, to tear or nibble;
Or a small twig to whisk about—

As if the hidden founts of Fancy,
Like wells of old, were thus found out
By mystic tricks of rhabdomancy.
Such was the little feathery wand,t
That, held for ever in the hand
Of her, who won and wore the crown
Of female genius in this age,
Seem'd the conductor, that drew down
Those words of lightning to her page.
As for myself-to come, at last,

To the odd way in which I write-
Having employ'd these few months past
Chiefly in travelling, day and night,
I've got into the easy mode,
Of rhyming thus along the road-
Making a way-bill of my pages,
Counting my stanzas by my stages-
Twixt lays and re-lays no time lost-
In short, in two words, writing post.

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Anxious to reach that splendid view,
Before the day-beams quite withcrew;
And feeling as all feel, on first

Approaching scenes, where, they are told,
Buch glories on their eyes will burst,
As youthful bards in dreams behold.

Twas distant yet, and, as I ran,

Full often was my wistful gaze
Turn'd to the sun, who now began

To call in all his out-post rays,
And form a denser march of light,
Such as beseems a hero's flight.
Oh, how I wish'd for JOSHUA's pow'r,
To stay the brightness of that hour!
But no-the sun still less became,

Diminish'd to a speck, as splendid
And small as were those tongues of flame,
That on the Apostles' heads descended!

Twas at this instant-while there glow'd
This last, intensest gleam of light-
Suddenly, through the opening road,
The valley burst upon my sight!
That glorious valley, with its Lake,
And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling,
Mighty, and pure, and fit to make

The ram arts of a Godhead's dwelling.

I stood entranc'd-as Rabbins say

This whole assembled, gazing world Will stand, upon that awful day,

When the Ark's Light, aloft unfurl'd, Among the opening clouds shall shine, Divinity's own radiant sign!

Mighty MONT BLANC, thou wert to me, That minute, with thy brow in ceaven, As sure a sign of Deity

As e'er to mortal gaze was given. Nor ever, were I destin'd yet

To live my life twice o'er again,

Can I the deep-felt awe forget,

The dream, the trance that rapt me then!

'Twas all that consciousness of pow'r
And life, beyond this mortal hour;-
Those mountings of the soul within
At thoughts of Heav'n-as birds begin
By instinct in the cage to rise,

When near their time for change of skies;-
That proud assurance of our claim

To rank among the Sons of Light,
Mingled with shame-oh bitter shame!-
At having risk'd that splendid right,
For aught that earth through all its range
Of glories, offers in exchange!
'Twas all this, at that instant brought,
Like breaking sunshine, o'er my thought-
'Twas all this, kindled to a glow

Of sacred zeal, which, could it shine
Thus purely ever, man might grow,
Ev'n upon earth a thing divine,
And be, once more, the creature made
To walk unstain'd the Elysian shade!
No, never shall I lose the trace
Of what I've felt in this bright place,
And, should my spirit's hope grow weak,
Should I, oh God, e'er doubt thy pow'r,
This mighty scene again I'll seek,

At the same calm and glowing hour,
And here, at the sublimest shrine
That Nature ever rear'd to Thee,
Rekindle all that hope divine,
And feel my immortality!

In the year 1792, when the forces of Berne, Sardinia, and France laid siege to Geneva, and when, after a demonstration of heroism and self-devotion, which promised to rival the feats of their ancestors in 1602 against Savoy, the Genevans, either panic struck or betrayed, to

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YES-if there yet live some of hose,
Who, when this small Republic rose,
Quick as a startled hive of bees,
Against her leaguering enemies-*
When, as the Royal Satrap shook

His well-known fetters at her gates,
Ev'n wives and mothers arm'd, and took
Their stations by their sons and mates;
And on these walls there stood—yet, no,
Shame to the traitors-would have stood
As firm a band as e'er let flow

At Freedom's base their sacred blood;
If those yet live, who, on that night,
When all were watching, girt for fight,
Stole, like the creeping of a pest,

From rank to rank, from breast to breast,
Filling the weak, the old with fears,
Turning the heroine's zeal to tears,-
Betraying Honour to that brink,

Where, one step more, and he must sink-
And quenching hopes, which, though the last,
Like meteors on a drowning mast,
Would yet have led to death more bright,
Than life e'er look'd in all its light!
Till soon, too soon, distrust, alarms

Throughout the embattled thousands ran,
And the high spirit, late in arms,
The zeal, that might have work'd such charms,
Fell, like a broken talisman-
Their gates, that they had sworn should be
The gates of Death, that very dawn,
Gave passage widely, bloodlessly,

To the proud foe-nor sword was urawi,
Nor ev'n one martyr'd body cast
To stain their footsteps, as they pass'd;
But, of the many sworn at night
To do or die, some fled the sight,
Some stood to look, with sullen frown,

While some, in impotent despair,
Broke their bright armour and lay down,
Weeping, upon the fragments there!-
If those, I say, who brought that shame,
That blast upon GENEVA's name,
Be living still-though crime so dark
Shall hang up, fix'd and unforgiv'n,

In History's page, the eternal mark

For Scorn to pierce-so help me, Heav'r.

I wish the traitorous slaves no worse,
No deeper, deadlier disaster,

From all earth's ills no fouler curse
Than to have **

their master!

EXTRACT III.

Genera

Fancy and Truth.-Hippomenes and Atalanta.-Mont Blanc-Closak
EVEN here, in this region of wonders, I find
That light-footed Fancy leaves truth far hehind;
Or, at least, like Hippomenes, turns her astray
By the golden illusions he flings in her way.
What a glory it seem'd the first ev'ning I gaz'd
MONT BLANC, like a vision, then suddenly rais'd
On the wreck of the sunset-and all his array

Of high-towering Alps, touch'd still with a light
Far holier, purer than that of the Day,

As if nearness to Heaven had made them so oright' Then the dying, at last, of these splendours away From peak after peak, till they left but a cay, One roseate ray, that, too precious to fly,

O'er the Mighty of Mountains still glowingly hung,

the surprise of all Europe, opened their gates to the besiegers, and ab mitted without a struggle to the extinction of their liberties-539 account of this Revolution in Coxe's Switzerland.

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