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The heavens and earth of every country saw.
Where'er the old inspiring Genii dwelt,
Aught that could rouse, expand, refine the soul,
Thither he went, and meditated there.
He touched his harp, and nations heard, entranced.
As some vast river of unfailing source,
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed,
And opened new fountains in the human heart.
Where fancy halted, weary in her flight,
In other men, his, fresh as morning, rose,
And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home
Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great,
Beneath their argument seemed struggling whiles ;
He, from above descending, stooped to touch
The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped, as though
It scarce deserved his verse. With nature's self
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will with all her glorious majesty.
He laid his hand upon the “ocean's mane,"
And played familiar with his hoary locks;
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Appennines,
And with the thunder talked, as friend to friend ;
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,
In sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing,
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seemed ;
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed.
Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his sisters were;
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and storms,
His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce
As equals deemed. All passions of all men,
The wild and tame, the gentle and severe;
All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane;
All creeds, all seasons, time, eternity;
All that was hated, and all that was dear;
All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man,
He tossed about, as tempest, withered leaves;
Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made.
With terror now he froze the cowering blood,
And now dissolved the heart in tenderness :
Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself;

But back into his soul retired, alone,
Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet.
So ocean from the plains, his waves had late
To desolation swept, retired in pride,
Exulting in the glory of his might,
And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought.

As some fierce comet of tremendous size, To which the stars did reverence as it passed, So he, through learning and through fancy, took His flights sublime, and on the loftiest top Of fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled and worn, As if he from the earth had laboured up; But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair He looked, which down from higher regions came, And perched it there, to see what lay beneath.

The nations gazed, and wondered much, and praised. Critics before him fell in humble plight, Confounded fell, and made debasing signs To catch his eye; and stretched and swelled themselves To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words Of admiration vast; and many, too, Many that aimed to imitate his flight, With weaker wing unearthly fluttering made, And gave abundant sport to after days.

Great man! the nations gazed, and wondered much, And praised; and many called his evil good. Wits wrote in favour of his wickedness; And kings to do him honour took delight. Thus, full of titles, flattery, honour, fame, Beyond desire, beyond ambition, full, He died-he died of what?-of wretchedness; Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump Of fame, drank early, deeply drank, drank draughts That common millions might have quenched; then died Of thirst, because there was no more to drink. His goddess, nature, wooed, embraced, enjoyed, Fell from his arms abhorred; his passions died; Died all but dreary, solitary pride;

And all his sympathies in being died.
As some ill-guided bark, well built and tall,
Which angry tides cast out on desert shore,
And then retiring, left it there to rot
And moulder in the winds and rains of heaven;
So he, cut from the sympathies of life,
And cast ashore from pleasure's boisterous surge,
A wandering, weary, worn, and wretched thing,
Scorched, and desolate, and blasted soul,
A gloomy wilderness of dying thought,
Repined, and groaned, and withered from the earth.
His groanings filled the land his numbers filled ;
And yet he seemed ashamed to groan. Poor man !
Ashamed to ask, and yet he needed help.

Pollok.

RICHMOND ENCOURAGING HIS SOLDIERS.
Thus far into the bowels of the land
Have we march'd on without impediment.
Richard, the bloody and devouring chief,
Whose ravenous appetite has spoil'd your fields,
Laid this rich country waste, and rudely cropp'd
Its ripen'd hopes of fair posterity,
Is now even in the centre of the isle.
Thrice is he arm'd who hath his quarrel just;
And he but naked, tho'lock'd up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted :
The very weight of Richard's guilt shall crush him.
Then let us on, my friends, and boldly face him.
In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man,
As mild behaviour and humanity;
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Let us be tigers, in our fierce deportment.
For me, the ransom of my bold attempt,
Shall be this body on the earth's cold face;
But if we thrive, the glory of the action,
The meanest soldier here shall share his part of.
Advance your standards, draw your willing swords,
Sound drums and trumpets, boldly and cheerfully;
The words “ St. George, Richmond, and Victory!

Shakspeare.

THE BUTTERFLY ON MONT BLANC. When Messrs. Hawes and Fellowes ascended Mont Blanc, in July, 1827, they observed a butterfly near the summit. Mr. C.

Shewel saw two crimson moths at nearly the same elevation. Who would have thought, upon this icy cliff,

Where never ibex bounded,

Nor foot of chamois sounded Where scarce the soaring hippogryff

Would venture, unless truly

To this exalted Thule
He carried the thoughts of a metaphysician,
Or theory of an electrician-

Who would have thought of seeing thee,

Softest of summer's progeny?
What art thou seeking? What hast thou lost?
That before the throne of eternal frost

Thou comest to spread the crimson wing,

Thou pretty fluttering thing? Art thou too fine for the world below ? So soon hast thou lived out thy joy and thy spring ?

And hast thou sworn

To dwell forlorn,
An anchorite in a cave of snow,

Or palmer lonely wandering?
Or didst thou fancy, as many have done,
That because the hill-top is nearest the sun,

The sun loves better the thawless ice,
That does nothing but say that he is bright,
And dissect, like a prism, his braided light,

Than the gardens of bloom and the groves of spice ? Didst thou think that the bright one his mystery shrouds In a comfortless mantle of sleet-driving clouds ?

Alas! he never loved this place;

It bears no token of his grace,
But many a scar of the tempest's lash,
And singed mark of the sulphurous flash.
'Tis better to dwell amid corn-fields and flowers,

Or even the weeds of this world of ours,
Than to leave the green vale and the sunny slope,
And seek the cold cliff with a desperate hope.

Flutter he-flutter he-high as he will,
A butterfly is but a butterfly still.

And 'tis better for us to remain where we are,
In the lowly valley of duty and care,
Than lonely to stray to the heights above,
Where there's nothing to do, and nothing to love.

HOHENLINDEN.
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery!
By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh’d,

To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,

Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.
"Tis morn-but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun,
Where furious frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens-On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave;
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!-
Few, few shall part where many meet,-
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. Campbell.

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