DAY glimmered in the east, and the white Moon Hung like a vapour in the cloudless sky,

Yet visible, when on my way I went,

Glad to be gone; a pilgrim from the North,

Now more and more attracted as I drew

Nearer and nearer.

Ere the artisan

Had from his window leant, drowsy, half-clad,

To snuff the morn, or the caged lark poured forth,

From his green sod upspringing as to heaven, (His tuneful bill o'erflowing with a song

B

Old in the days of HOMER, and his wings
With transport quivering) on my way I went,
Thy gates, GENEVA, swinging heavily,
Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut;
As on that Sabbath-eve when He arrived,*
Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee,
Such virtue dwells in those small syllables,
Inscribed to consecrate the narrow street,
His birth-place,-when, but one short step too late,
In his despair, as though the die were cast,
He sat him down to weep, and wept till dawn;
Then rose to go, a wanderer through the world.

'Tis not a tale that every hour brings with it. Yet at a City-gate, from time to time,

Much may be learnt; nor, London, least at thine,
Thy hive the busiest, greatest of them all,
Gathering, enlarging still. Let us stand by,
And note who passes. Here comes one, a Youth,
Glowing with pride, the pride of conscious power,
A CHATTERTON-in thought admired, caressed,

* J. J. ROUSSEAU. J'arrive essoufflé, tout en nage; le cœur me bat; je vois de loin les soldats à leur poste; j'accours, je crie d'une voix étouffée. Il étoit trop tard.'-Les Confessions, 1. i.

And crowned like PETRARCH in the Capitol;
Ere long to die, to fall by his own hand,
And fester with the vilest. Here come two,
Less feverish, less exalted-soon to part,

A GARRICK and a JOHNSON; Wealth and Fame
Awaiting one, even at the gate; Neglect
And Want the other. But what multitudes,
Urged by the love of change, and, like myself,
Adventurous, careless of to-morrow's fare,
Press on-though but a rill entering the sea,
Entering and lost! Our task would never end.
Day glimmered and I went, a gentle breeze
Ruffling the LEMAN Lake. Wave after wave,
If such they might be called, dashed as in sport,
Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach
Making wild music, and far westward caught
The sun-beam-where, alone and as entranced,
Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff
Lay with his circular and dotted line

On the bright waters. When the heart of man
Is light with hope, all things are sure to please;
And soon a passage-boat swept gaily by,
Laden with peasant-girls and fruits and flowers,
And many a chanticleer and partlet caged