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Ah! had they been of court or city breed,
Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size; And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts risé.
In black array
Thence musing onward to the sounding shore,
What time the lightning's fierce career began,
LV. Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all In sprightly dance the village youth were join'd, Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall, From the rude gambol far remote reclined, Soothed with the soft notes warbling in the wind. Ah then, all jollity seem'd noise and folly. To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refined,
Ah what is mirth but turbulence unholy, When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy! LVI. Is there a heart that musie cannot melt ? Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn! Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt Of solitude and melancholy born ? He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn. The sophist’s rope of cobwebs he shall twine ; Mope oʻer the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn,
And delve for life, in Mammon's dirty mine; Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton
And Edwin gain’d at last this fruit so rare;
pry. At last, though long by penury control'd, And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold.
LIX. Thus on the chill Lapponian's drearyland, For many a long month lost in snow profound, When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland, And in their northern cave the storms are bound ; From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, Torrents are hurld ; green hills emerge ; and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd;
Pure rills, through vales of verdure, warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o‘ére
I only wish to please the gentle mind,
Spring and autumn are hardly known to the Laplanders. About the time the sun enters Cancer, their fields, which a week before were covered with snow, appear on a sudden full of grass and Aowers Scheffer's History of Lapland, p. 16.
THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS.
BY JAMES BEATTIE, L. L. D)..
I. OF chance or change 0 let not man complain ; Else shall he never, never cease to wail : For, from th' imperial dome, to where the swain Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale, All feel th' assault of Fortune's fickle gale ; Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doom'd; Earthquakes have raised to heaven the humble vale,
And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entomb'd, And, where th' Atlantic rolls, wide continents have
Of candor, love, or sympathy divine,
* See Plato's Timcus,
face was innocent and gay, Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue, Sweet, wild, and artless all, as Edwin's infant song.
Though many a sound and sight of woe annoy,
And toss their giant arms amid the skies,