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ON ROUSSEAU.

"Tis too absurd-'tis weakness, shame,
This low prostration before Fame-
This casting down, beneath the car
Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are,
Life's purest, holiest decencies,
To be careered o'er, as they please.
No,-let triumphant Genius have
All that his loftiest wish can crave.
If he be worshipped, let it be

For attributes, his noblest, first,-
Not with that base idolatry,

I

Which sanctifies his last and worst.

may

be cold-may want that glow
Of high romance, which bards should know
That holy homage, which is felt

In treading where the great have dwelt—
This reverence, whatso'er it be,

I fear, I feel I have it not,
For here, at this still hour, to me

The charms of this delightful spot-
Its calm seclusion from the throng,
From all the heart would fain forget-
This narrow valley, and the song
Of its small murmuring rivulet—
The flitting, to and fro, of birds,

Tranquil and tame as they were once

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In Eden, ere the startling words

Of Man disturbed their orisons!-
Those little, shadowy paths, that wind
Up the hill side, with fruit-trees lined,
And lighted only by the breaks
The gay wind in the foliage makes,
Or vistas, here and there, that ope

Through weeping-willows, like the snatches Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope

Even through the shade of sadness catches! All this, which—would I once but lose The memory of those vulgar ties, Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues Of Genius can no more disguise, Than the sun's beam can do away The filth of fens o'er which they play,This scene, which would have filled my heart With thoughts of all that happiest isOf Love, where self hath only part,

As echoing back another's bliss-
Of solitude, secure and sweet,

Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet;
Which, while it shelters, never chills

Our sympathies with human wo,
But keeps them, like sequestered rills,
Purer and fresher in their flow-
Of happy days, that share their beams

"Twixt quiet mirth and wise employOf tranquil nights, that give, in dreams,

The moonlight of the morning's joy!All this my heart could well on here, But for those hateful memories near,"

MOORE

Those sordid truths, that cross the track

Of each sweet thought, and drive them back
Full into all the mire, and strife,

And vanities of that man's life,

Who, more than all that e'er have glowed
With Fancy's flame (and it was his,
If ever given to mortal) showed

What an imposter Genius is-
How, with that strong mimetic art,
Which is its life and soul, it takes
All shapes of thought, all hues of heart,
Nor feels, itself, one throb it wakes:-
How like a gem its light may smile
O'er the dark path, by mortals trod,
Itself as mean a worm, the while,

As crawls along the sullying sod;
What sensibility may fall

From its false lip, what plans to bless, While home, friends, kindred, country, all, Lie waste beneath its selfishness.

How, with the pencil hardly dry

From colouring up such scenes of love And beauty, as make young hearts sigh,

And dream, and think through heaven they rove, They, who can thus describe and move,

The very workers of these charms,

Nor seek, nor ask a heaven, above
Some Maman's or Theresa's arms!

How all, in short, that make the boast
Of their false tongues, they want the most;

And, while with Freedom on their lips,
Sounding her timbrels, to set free
This bright world, labouring in th' eclipse
Of priestcraft and of slavery,

They may, themselves, be slaves as low
As ever Lord or Patron made,
To blossom in his smile, or grow,

Like stunted brushwood in the shade!

Out on the craft,-I'd rather be

One of those hinds, that round me tread, With just enough of sense to see

The noon-day sun that's o'er my head, Than thus, with high-built genius curst, That hath no heart for its foundation, Be all, at once, that's brightest—worstSublimest-meanest in creation!

BYRON.

THE DYING GLADIATOR.

I see before me the Gladiator lie:

He leans upon his hand-his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low-
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him he is gone,

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother-he, their sire
Butchered to make a Roman holiday-

All this rushed with his blood-Shall he expire
And unrevenged?-Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!

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