From his green sod upspringing as to heaven,
(His tuneful bill o'erflowing with a song
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 tho' the die were cast,
He sat him down to weep and wept till dawn;
Then rose to go, a wanderer thro' the world.
'Tis not a tale that every hour brings with it.
Yet at a City-gate, from time to time,
Much may be seen, much learnt; and most at thine,
LONDON-thy hive the 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,
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