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And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home,
Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great,
Beneath their argument seemed struggling; whilst
He, from above descending, stooped to touch
The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped, as though
It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will with all her glorious majesty.
He laid his hand upon "the ocean's mane,"
And played familiar with his hoary locks;
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Appennines,
And with the thunder talked as friend to friend;
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,
In sportive twist,-the lightning's fiery wing,
Which, the footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seemed;
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed.
Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds his sisters were;
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and storms
His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce
As equals deemed. All passions of all men,
The wild and tame, the gentle and severe;
All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane;
All creeds, all seasons, time, eternity;
All that was hated, and all that was dear;

All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man,—
He tossed about, as tempest-withered leaves;
Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made.
With terror now he froze the cowering blood,
And now dissolved the heart in tenderness;
Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself;
But back into his soul retired, alone,
Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet.
So Ocean, from the plains his waves had late

To desolation swept, retired in pride,
Exulting in the glory of his might,
And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought.
As some fierce comet of tremendous size,
To which the stars did reverence as it passed,
So he, through learning and through fancy, took
His flights sublime, and on the loftiest top

Of Fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled and worn,
As if he from the earth had labored up,

But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair

He looked, which down from higher regions came,
And perched it there, to see what lay beneath.

The nations gazed, and wondered much and praised. Critics before him fell in humble plight;

Confounded fell; and made debasing signs

To catch his eye; and stretched and swelled themselves
To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words
Of admiration vast; and many too,
Many that aimed to imitate his flight,
With weaker wing, unearthly fluttering made,
And gave abundant sport to after days.

Great man! the nations gazed and wondered much, And praised; and many called his evil good.

Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness;
And kings to do him honor took delight.
Thus full of titles, flattery, honor, fame;
Beyond desire, beyond ambition, full-
He died-he died of what-of wretchedness;
Drank every joy, heard every trump

Of fame; drank deeply, deeply drank; drank draughts
That common millions might have quenched, then died
Of thirst because there was no more to drink.
His goddess nature, wooed, embraced, enjoyed,
Fell from his arms abhorred; his passions died,
Died all but dreary, solitary pride.

-Robert Pollock.

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To the Duke of Wellington.--The Warden of the Cinque Ports.

A

MIST was driving down the British Channel,

The day was just begun,

And through the window panes, and floor and panel,
Streamed the red autumn sun.

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon,
And the white sails of ships,

And from the frowning rampart, the black cannon
Hailed it with feverish lips.

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe and Dover

Were all alert that day,

To see the French war steamers speeding over
When the fog cleared away.

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,
Their cannon, through the night,

Holding their breath, had watched in grim defiance
The sea-coast opposite;

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THE

Napoleon.

HERE sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men,
Whose spirit antithetically mixed

One moment of the mightiest, and again
On little objects with like firmness fixed,
Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt,
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been;
For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek'st
Even now to reassume the imperial mien,
And shake again the world, the thunderer of the scene;

Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou!
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now
That thou art nothing, save the jest of fame,

Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert
A god unto thyself; nor less the same
To the astounded kingdoms all inert,
Who deemed thee for a time whate'er thou didst
assert.

O more or less than man-in high or low,
Battling with nations, flying from the field;
Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield:
An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild,
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor
However deeply in men's spirit skilled,

Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, Nor learn that tempted fate will leave the loftiest star.

Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide

With that untaught innate philosophy,
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.

When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,

To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled With a sedate and all enduring eye

When fortune fled her spoiled and favorite child, He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled. Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them Ambition steeled thee on too far to show That just habitual scorn which could contemn Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to feel, not so To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, And spurn the instruments thou wert to use

Till they were turned unto thine overthrow; 'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose;

So hath it proved to thee, and all such lots who choose.

If, like a tower upon a headlong rock,

Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone,

Such scorn of man had helped to brave the shock; But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne,

Their admiration thy best weapon shone;
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown)
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men;

For sceptered cynics earth were far too wide a den.

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,

And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire And motion of the soul which will not dwell In its own narrow being, but aspire

Beyond the fitting medium of desire;
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire

Of aught but rest; a fever at the core, Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.

This makes the madman who have made men mad

By their contagion! Conquerors and Kings, Founders of sects and systems, to whom add Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, And are themselves the fools to those they fool; Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings

Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule.

Their breath is agitation, and their life
A storm whereon they ride to sink at last,
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife,
That should their days, surviving perils past,
Melt to calm twilight, they feel o'ercast
With sorrow and supineness, and so die;
E'en as a flame, unfed, which runs to waste
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.

He who ascends to mountain tops shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind Must look down on the hate of those below. Though high above the sun of glory glow, And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, Round him on icy rocks, and loudly blow Contending tempests on his naked head, And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. -Lord Byron.

Emmet's Epitaph.

[Robert Emmet, the celebrated Irish revolutionist, at his trial for high treason, which resulted in his conviction and execution, September 20, 1803, made an eloquent and pathetic defence, concluding with these words. "Let there be no inscription upon my tomb. Let no man write my epitaph. Let my character and my motives repose in security and peace till other times and other men can do them justice. Then shall my character be vindicated; then may my epitaph be written. I have done." It was immediately upon reading this speech that the following lines were written:]

ET no man write my epitaph; let my grave

"LE

Be uninscribed, and let my memory rest Till other times are come, and other men, Who then may do me justice."

Emmet, no!

No withering curse hath dried my spirit up, That I should now be silent-that my soul Should from the stirring inspiration shrink,

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