Give thee, with all the generous zeal EXTRACT VIII. Les Charmettes. A Visit to the House where Rousseau lived with Madame de Warens.-Their Ménage.-Its Grossness.-Claude Anet. -Reverence with which the Spot is now visited Absurdity of this blind Derotion to Fame.-Feelings excited by the Beauty and Seclusion of the Scene. -Disturbed by its Associations with Rousseau's History.-Impostures of Men of Genius. Their Power of mimicking all the best Feelings, Love, Independence, etc. STRANGE power of Genius, that can throw O'er all that's vicious, weak, and low, Such magic lights, such rainbow dyes, As dazzle even the steadiest eyes! "Tis too absurd-'tis weakness, shame, For attributes, his noblest, firstNot with that base idolatry, Which sanctifies his last and worst. I 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 dwelt This reverence, whatsoe'er it be, have I fear, I feel, I have it not, For here, at this still hour, to me The charms of this delightful spotIts calm seclusion from the throng, From all the heart would fain forget Of Genius can no more disguise, Than the sun's beams can do away The filth of fens o'er which they playThis scene, which would have filled my heart With thoughts of all that happiest Of Love, where self hath only part, Our sympathies with human woe, The moonlight of the morning's joy!All this my heart could dwell on here, But for those hateful memories near, Those sordid truths, that cross the track Of each sweet thought, and drive them back Full into all the mire, and strife, With Fancy's flame (and it was his, If ever given to mortal) showed What an impostor Genius isHow 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 wakesHow 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 sodWhat 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 They, who can thus describe and move, Some Maman's or Theresa's arms! How all, in short, that makes 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 the 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 his 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 cursed, That hath no heart for its foundation, Be all, at once, that's brightest-worstSublimest-meanest in creation! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF VARIOUS DATES. LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. P-R-V-L. IN the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard, Oh! proud was the meed his integrity won, And generous indeed were the tears that we shed, When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done, And, though wronged by him living, bewailed him when dead. Even now, if one harsher emotion intrude, "Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier stateHad known what he was, and, content to be good, Had ne'er for our ruin aspired to be great. So, left through their own little orbit to move, His years might have rolled inoffensive away; His children might still have been blessed with his love, And England would ne'er have been cursed with his sway. LINES ON THE DEATH OF SH-R-D-N. Principibus placuisse viris.-Hor. YES, grief will have way-but the fast-falling tear Whose vanity flew round him only while fed By the odour his fame in its summer-time gave; The relics of him who died-friendless and lorn! How proud they can press to the funeral array Of one whom they shunned in his sickness and sorrow! Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to-morrow! Though this would make Europe's whole opulence mine ;- When the pittance, which shame had wrung from thee at last, Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all! And could call up its sunshine, or bring down its showers 'Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fly's light, Played round every subject, and shone as it played— "Whose eloquence-brightening whatever it tried, Yes-such was the man, and so wretched his fate ;-- The sum was two hundred pounds-offered when Sh-r-d-n could no longer take any sustenance, and declined for him by his friends. 2 Naturalists have observed that, upon dis secting an elk, there were found in its head some large flies, with its brain almost eaten away by them.-History of Poland. LINES WRITTEN ON HEARING THAT THE AUSTRIANS HAD ENTERED NAPLES. Carbone Notati! Ay-down to the dust with them, slaves as they are- Be sucked out by tyrants, or stagnate in chains! On, on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales, From each slave-mart of Europe, and poison their shore! Let their fate be a mock-word-let men of all lands And deep and more deep as the iron is driven, To think-as the damned haply think of that heaven They had once in their reach-that they might have been free! Shame, shame, when there was not a bosom, whose heat That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat, And send all its prayers with your liberty's start When the world stood in hope-when a spirit, that breathed When around you, the shades of your mighty in fame, And their words and their warnings-like tongues of bright flame Good God! that in such a proud moment of life, Worth the history of ages-when, had you but hurled One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world— That then-oh disgrace upon manhood! even then, 1t is strange-it is dreadful ;-shout, tyranny, shout, |