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Presenting to his view an ample tome,
Wherein is writ, (in characters how true!)
That an unyielding spirit doth become

Man, when the many, govern'd by the few, Give to their masters praise that to their God is due.


Yes, the fresh air that penetrates around

Bids us think nobly; mountains, too, sublime
The soul; the free-wing'd things that here abound
Tell us that passive virtue is a crime,

When tyrants would destroy the work of time!
Gaze on! thy feelings here will teach thee more
Than doubtful legends, or than lying rhyme;
Gaze on, and Heaven's magnificence adore!
Does not thine heart exult now to its very core?


But, gloomy Calvin, how couldst thou prevail With thy dark doctrines, and ascetic pride, Where the ripe harvest smiles along the vale, Where glows the vintage near Lake Leman's tide, And all was mirth and cheerfulness beside?

Why didst thou not to northern regions hie,

Or in some dreary wilderness abide?

Why spread thy faith where Heav'n and earth deny The truths of thy heart-withering creed of destiny!



Yet Genius, eagle-eyed, has dared to raise
The torch of truth on high, and here his few,
His favour'd sons look'd with unblench'd gaze,


On its eternal brightness; those who knew
The dignity of man, and prized it too.
Alas! to her, whose philosophic mind

Show'd more than manly strength, a long adieu! What, though her thoughts were somewhat o'er-refined, She yet was Freedom's daughter-Pride of womankind!


Sweet wanderer! art thou not happy now,
Climbing the mountain steep with fairy feet,
Thy cheeks carnation'd with health's vivid glow,
Not flushing with the ball-room's sickly heat?
Is not thy simple rural feast more sweet
Than gorgeous suppers? and the lovely things.
That court thy steps, companions far more meet
For Nature's child, than those poor fashionlings

Who taint a woman's heart, then pierce it with their stings?


Thou might'st a model to Canova be

For young Diana, with thy steps of lightness;
And none of living sculptors, none save he,
Could image forth thy look of angel brightness.

His Psyche's scarce excels thy bosom's whiteness!
Such as thou art, all-beauteous, and all-fair,
Oh, may'st thou never trust the world's politeness,
But always breathe with joy as pure an air,

Fresh as is yon wild-flower, that shuns the sun's full glare.


Had man no other duties, he might live
In yonder vale; his second Paradise,
Enjoying all that pure content can give ;
And while he lives, be, without learning, wise,
Winning by silent prayer his heavenly prize.
But this must never be: who would forsake
His post, though thick beset by enemies?

No! rather let him be the more awake,

Give back his foemen blows that he is forced to take.


It is the lot of all to be reviled,

And who can hope to 'scape that general lot!
Not I: the traitor-friend, who lately smiled
And cringed before me, now remembers not
Past favours; what, are benefits forgot?
Ay more, ingratitude will cant, and hate,
Hate, with his ready sponge, will quickly blot
Out from the memory's tablet, sign or date

Of friendship there; and then hypocrisy will prate!


No matter; tares will grow up with the wheat; And none but knaves deem all mankind the same. Though in society there be deceit,

Yet there prevails the love of honest fame; Still on her altars Friendship's holy flame Burns undiminished-misanthropes may rail, And sceptics smile, yet many could I name Whose honest zeal was never known to fail, Even in the hour of need, but then did most prevail.



The true friend's heart as yonder lake is calm
Pure as yon snows, but firm as mountain rocks:
His voice is as the cheerful morn, a balm

To the hurt mind that's felt the world's rude shocks;
His looks as shining as the sun's bright locks:
This high-soul'd being fearlessly will shield
A falling brother from the scorner's mocks.
Oh! when the book of life shall be unseal'd,
How gladly shall his name by Angels be reveal'd!


Evils there are; but many self-created

In this our busy world: why should we grieve
And murmur at our destiny, when fated
To be alone? why should we learn to weave

The web of thought too finely, to deceive

Ourselves, not others? still, where'er thou art,
In cities, or in villages, relieve

The poor man's wants, thou wilt perform thy part Well on the stage of life, and blunt e'en Envy's dart!


Adieu, sweet country! Of Helvetia's wrongs, Even in my childhood, have I thought, and wept, When the war-cry was heard, where late the songs Of Innocence spread mirth around, where slept, The child securely; where the goat-herd kept His flocks untroubled: then the spoiler came, Treading in innocent blood where'er he stept, Hell's horrid offspring-Anarchy his name, Affecting Freedom's voice fair Freedom's cause to shame.


Had France no Washingtons, Timoleons, then,
To point the way to Virtue's temple? Read

The latest records of Corinna's *


And Gallia's woes will make thy bosom bleed.

The plant she nourish'd was a poisonous weed;
Her friends were foes, none prized the golden mean;
Each wild lawgiver had his separate creed;

All spoke in vain, the soldier rush'd between :

Th' imperial consul's pomp then closed the eventful scene.

* Madame de Staël.

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