ON ROUSSEAU. "Tis too absurd-'tis weakness, shame, For attributes, his noblest, first,- I Which sanctifies his last and worst. may be cold-may want that glow In treading where the great have dwelt— I fear, I feel I have it not, The charms of this delightful spot- Tranquil and tame as they were once In Eden, ere the startling words Of Man disturbed their orisons!- 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- Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet; Our sympathies with human wo, "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 And vanities of that man's life, Who, more than all that e'er have glowed What an imposter Genius is- As crawls along the sullying sod; 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 How all, in short, that make the boast And, while with Freedom on their lips, They may, themselves, be slaves as low 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 Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes All this rushed with his blood-Shall he expire |